Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,149
muttering had stopped.
“What the hell is going on?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “I can’t break this door open with the crowbar.”
“We’re going to have the security company here in about 15 minutes.”
Wallander thought hard. He didn’t know what was on the other side, except that it was at least one person, maybe more. He was feeling sick. He knew that he had to get the door open.
“Give me your revolver,” he said.
Sjösten took it out of his pocket.
“Get back from the door,” Wallander shouted as loud as he could. “I’m going to shoot it open.”
He looked at the lock, took a step back, cocked the gun, and fired. The blast was deafening. He shot again, then once more. The ricochets hit the far wall in the hall. He handed the revolver back to Sjösten and kicked open the door, his ears ringing.
The room was large. It had no windows. There were a number of beds and a partition enclosing a toilet. A refrigerator, glasses, cups, some thermoses. Huddled together in a corner of the room, obviously terrified, were four young girls clutching one another. Two of them reminded Wallander of the girl he had seen from 20 metres away in Salomonsson’s rape field. For a brief moment, with his ears ringing, Wallander thought he could see it all before him, one event after another, how it all fitted together and how everything suddenly made sense. But in reality he saw nothing at all. There was just a feeling rushing straight through him, like a train going through a tunnel at high speed, leaving behind only a light shaking of the ground.
“What the hell is going on?” Sjösten asked.
“We have to get some back-up from Helsingborg,” Wallander said. “As fast as we can.”
He knelt down, and Sjösten did the same. Wallander tried to talk to the frightened girls in English. But they didn’t seem to understand the language, or at least not the way he spoke it. Some of them couldn’t be much older than Dolores María Santana.
“Do you know any Spanish?” he asked Sjösten. “I don’t know a word.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Do you know Spanish or not?”
“I can’t speak Spanish! Shit! I know a few words. What do you want me to say?”
“Anything! Just tell them to be calm.”
“Should I say I’m a policeman?”
“No! Whatever you do, don’t say that!”
“Buenas dias,” Sjösten said hesitantly.
“Smile,” Wallander said. “Can’t you see how scared they are?”
“I’m doing the best I can,” complained Sjösten.
“Say it again,” said Wallander. “Friendly this time.”
“Buenas dias,” Sjösten repeated.
One of the girls answered. Her voice was unsteady. Wallander felt as if he was now getting the answer he’d been looking for, ever since that day when the girl stood in the field and stared at him with her terrified eyes.
At the same moment they heard a sound behind them in the house, perhaps a door opening. The girls heard it too, and huddled together again.
“It must be the security guards,” Sjösten said. “We’d better go and meet them. Otherwise they’ll wonder what’s going on here and start making a fuss.”
Wallander gestured to the girls to stay put. Then the two of them went back down the narrow hall, this time with Sjösten in the lead.
It almost cost him his life. When they stepped into the open room, several shots rang out. They came in such rapid succession that they must have been fired from a semi-automatic weapon. The first bullet slammed into Sjösten’s left shoulder, smashing his collarbone. He was thrown backwards by the impact and rammed into Wallander. The second, third and maybe fourth shots landed somewhere above their heads.
“Don’t shoot! Police!” Wallander shouted.
Whoever was shooting fired off another burst. Sjösten was hit again, this time in the right ear. Wallander threw himself behind one of the walls. He pulled Sjösten with him, who screamed and passed out. Wallander found Sjösten’s revolver and fired it into the room. He knew there must only be two or three shots left.
There was no answer. He waited with his heart pounding, revolver raised and ready to shoot. Then he heard the sound of a car starting. He let Sjösten go and crouching low, ran over to a window. He saw the back end of a black Mercedes disappearing down the farm road, vanishing into the beech woods. He went back to Sjösten, who was bleeding and unconscious. He found a pulse. It was fast. This was good. Better than too slow. Still holding the revolver in