Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,11
was. Since Salomonsson didn’t seem to understand the question, maybe didn’t even hear it, he dashed past him into the house. He was assailed by the acrid smell of the unwashed old man. In the hall he found the telephone. He dialled 90–000, and the operator said later that Wallander had sounded quite calm when he described what had happened and asked for a full team to be sent out.
The flames from the field were shining through the windows like floodlights lighting up the summer evening. He called Martinsson at home, talking first with his daughter and then his wife before Martinsson was called in from the back yard. As succinctly as possible he described what had happened and asked Martinsson to call Hansson and Höglund too. Then he went out to the kitchen and washed his face under the tap. When he came back outside, Salomonsson was still rooted to the same spot, as if mesmerised. A car arrived with some of his closest neighbours in it. But Wallander shouted to them to stay back, not allowing them to approach Salomonsson. In the distance he heard sirens from the fire engines, which almost always arrived first. Soon afterwards, two squad cars of uniformed officers and an ambulance arrived. Peter Edler was directing the firefighting, a man in whom Wallander had total confidence.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“I’ll explain later,” said Wallander. “But don’t stamp around in the field. There’s a body out there.”
“The house isn’t threatened,” said Edler. “We’ll work on containing the fire.”
Edler turned to Salomonsson and asked how wide the tractor paths and the ditches between the fields were. One of the ambulance crew came over. Wallander had met him before but couldn’t remember his name.
“Is anyone hurt?” he asked.
Wallander shook his head.
“One person dead,” he replied. “She’s lying out in the field.”
“Then we’ll need a hearse,” said the ambulance driver. “What happened?”
Wallander didn’t feel like answering. Instead he turned to Norén, who was the officer he knew best.
“There’s a dead woman in the field,” he said. “Until the fire is put out we can’t do anything but block it off.”
Norén nodded.
“Was it an accident?” he asked.
“More like a suicide,” said Wallander.
A few minutes later, as Martinsson arrived, Norén handed him a paper cup of coffee. He stared at his hand and wondered why it wasn’t shaking. Hansson and Ann-Britt Höglund arrived in Hansson’s car, and he told his colleagues what had happened.
Again and again he used the same phrase: She burned like a flare.
“This is just terrible,” said Höglund.
“It was worse than you can imagine,” said Wallander. “Not to be able to do anything. I hope none of you ever has to experience anything like this.”
Silently they watched the firefighters work. A large group of bystanders had gathered, but the police kept them back.
“What did she look like?” asked Martinsson. “Did you see her?”
Wallander nodded.
“Someone ought to talk to the old man,” he said. “His name is Salomonsson.”
Hansson took Salomonsson into his kitchen. Höglund went over and talked to Peter Edler. The fire had begun to die down. When she returned she told them it would be all over shortly.
“Rape burns fast,” she said. “And the field is wet. It rained yesterday.”
“She was young,” said Wallander, “with black hair and dark skin. She was dressed in a yellow windcheater. I think she had jeans on. I don’t know about her feet. And she was frightened.”
“What of?” asked Martinsson.
Wallander thought a moment.
“She was frightened of me,” he replied. “I’m not absolutely sure, but I think she was even more terrified when I called out that I was a policeman and told her to stop. But beyond that, I have no idea.”
“She understood everything you said?”
“She understood the word ‘police’ at least. I’m certain of that.”
All that remained of the fire was a thick pall of smoke.
“There was no-one else out there in the field?” asked Höglund. “You’re sure she was alone?”
“No,” said Wallander. “I’m not sure at all. But I didn’t see anyone but her.”
They stood in silence. Who was she? Wallander asked himself. Where did she come from? Why did she set herself on fire? If she wanted to die, why did she choose to torture herself?
Hansson came back from the house, where he had been talking with Salomonsson.
“We should do what they do in the States,” he said. “We should have menthol to smear under our noses. Damn, the smell in there. Old men shouldn’t be allowed to outlive their wives.”