Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,21

her at all.”

“Take a look at her,” Wallander said encouragingly. But he knew she wasn’t the one.

He got a cup of coffee and went to his room. The folder on the car thefts was still lying on the floor. He’d better turn the case over to Svedberg now. He hoped no serious crimes would be committed before he started his holiday.

Later that afternoon they met in the conference room. Nyberg was back from the farm, where he had finished his search. It was a short meeting. Hansson had excused himself because he had to read an urgent memo from national headquarters.

“Let’s be brief,” said Wallander. “Tomorrow we’ll go over all the cases that can’t wait.”

He turned to Nyberg, sitting at the end of the table.

“How’d it go with the dog?” he asked.

“He didn’t find a thing,” Nyberg replied. “If there was ever anything to give him a scent, it was covered up by the odour of petrol.”

Wallander thought for a moment.

“You found five melted petrol containers,” he said. “That means that she must have come to Salomonsson’s field in some sort of vehicle. She couldn’t have carried all that petrol by herself. Unless she walked there several times. There’s one more possibility, of course. That she didn’t come alone. But that doesn’t seem reasonable, to say the least. Who would help a young girl commit suicide?”

“We could try to trace the petrol containers,” said Nyberg dubiously. “But is it really necessary?”

“As long as we don’t know who she was, we have to trace her by any leads we have,” Wallander replied. “She must have come from somewhere, somehow.”

“Did anyone look in Salomonsson’s barn?” asked Höglund. “Maybe the petrol containers came from there.”

Wallander nodded.

“Someone had better drive out there and check,” he said.

Höglund volunteered.

“We’ll have to wait for Martinsson’s results,” Wallander said, winding up the meeting. “And the pathologists’ work in Malmö. They’re going to give us an exact age tomorrow.”

“And the gold medallion?” asked Svedberg.

“We’ll wait until we have some idea of what the letters on it might mean,” said Wallander.

He suddenly realised something he had completely overlooked earlier. Behind the dead girl there were other people. Who would mourn her. Who would forever see her running like a living flare in their heads, in a totally different way from him. The fire would stay with them like scars. It would gradually fade away from him like nightmare.

They went their separate ways. Svedberg went with Wallander to get the papers on the car thefts. Wallander gave him a brief run-down. When they were done, Svedberg didn’t get up, and Wallander sensed that there was something he wanted to talk about.

“We ought to get together and talk,” said Svedberg hesitantly. “About what’s going on.”

“You’re thinking about the cuts? And security companies taking over the custody of suspects?”

Svedberg nodded glumly. “What use are new uniforms if we can’t do our jobs?”

“I don’t really think it’ll help to talk about it,” Wallander said warily. “We have a union that’s paid to take care of these matters.”

“We ought to protest, at least,” said Svedberg. “We ought to talk to people on the street about what’s going to happen.”

“People have their own troubles,” replied Wallander, and at the same time it occurred to him that Svedberg was quite right. The public was prepared to bend over backwards to save their police stations.

Svedberg stood up. “That’s about it,” he said.

“Set up a meeting,” Wallander said. “I promise I’ll come. But wait until summer’s over.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Svedberg and left the room with the files under his arm.

It was late afternoon. Through the window Wallander could see that it was about to rain. He decided to have a pizza before he drove out to see his father in Löderup. On the way out he stopped in on Martinsson.

“Don’t stay there too long,” he said.

“I haven’t found anything yet,” said Martinsson.

“See you tomorrow.”

Wallander went out to his car, which was already spattered with raindrops. He was just about to drive away when Martinsson ran out waving his arms. We’ve got her, he thought, and felt a knot in his stomach. He rolled down the window.

“Did you find her?” he asked.

“No,” said Martinsson.

Wallander realised something serious had happened. He got out of the car.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Someone phoned in,” said Martinsson. “A body has been found on the beach out past Sandskogen.”

Damn, thought Wallander. Not now. Not that.

“It sounds like a murder,” Martinsson went on. “It was a man that called. He was unusually lucid, even