Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,28
Martinsson and Hansson?”
“I think Martinsson went to get something to eat,” said Nyberg sourly. “Who the hell has time for food?”
“We can arrange to get you something,” said Wallander. “Where’s Hansson?”
“He was going to speak to the prosecutors’ office. And I don’t want anything.”
Wallander walked back to the house. After he hung up his soaked jacket and pulled off his boots he realised he was hungry. He went to the kitchen and turned on the light. He remembered how they had sat in Salomonsson’s kitchen drinking coffee. Now Salomonsson was dead. Compared with the old farmer’s kitchen, this was another world. Shiny copper pots hung on the walls. An open grill with a smoke hood attached to an old oven chimney stood in the middle of the room. He opened the refrigerator and took out a piece of cheese and a beer. He found some crispbread in one of the cupboards, and sat down at the kitchen table and ate, his mind empty. By the time Svedberg came in the front door he had finished.
“Nyberg said you wanted to talk to me?”
“How’d it go with the tarpaulins?”
“We’re still trying to cover up the sand as best we can. Martinsson called the weather office and asked how long the rain was going to last. It’s supposed to keep raining all night. Then we’ll have a few hours’ break before the next storm arrives. That one’s expected to be a real summer gale.”
A puddle had formed on the kitchen floor around Svedberg’s boots. But Wallander didn’t feel like asking him to take them off. They were unlikely to find the clue to Wetterstedt’s death in his kitchen.
Svedberg sat down and dried off his hair with a handkerchief.
“I vaguely remember that you once told me you were interested in the history of the American Indians,” Wallander began. “Or am I wrong?”
Svedberg gave him a puzzled look.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’ve read a lot about American Indians. I never liked watching movies that didn’t tell the truth about them. I corresponded with an expert named Uncas. He won a prize on a TV show once. I think that was before I was born. But he taught me a lot.”
“I assume you’re wondering why I ask,” Wallander went on.
“Actually, no,” said Svedberg. “Wetterstedt was scalped, after all.”
Wallander looked at him intently.
“Was he?”
“If scalping is an art, then in this case it was done almost perfectly. A cut with a sharp knife across the forehead. Then some cuts up by the temples. To get a firm grip.”
“He died from a blow to the spine,” said Wallander. “Just below the shoulder blades.”
Svedberg shrugged.
“Native American warriors struck at the head,” he said. “It’s hard to hit the spine. You have to hold the axe at an angle. It’s particularly hard, of course, if the person you’re trying to kill is in motion.”
“What if he’s standing still?”
“In any case, it’s not very warrior-like,” said Svedberg. “In fact, it’s not like an American Indian to kill someone from behind. Or to kill anyone at all, for that matter.”
Wallander rested his head in his hands.
“Why are you asking about this?” said Svedberg. “It’s hardly likely that an American Indian murdered Wetterstedt.”
“Who would take his scalp?” asked Wallander.
“A madman,” said Svedberg. “Anyone who does something like this has to be nuts. We must catch him as fast as possible.”
“I know,” said Wallander.
Svedberg stood up and left. Wallander got a mop and cleaned the floor. Then he went in to see Höglund in the study.
“Your father didn’t sound too happy,” she said. “But I think the main thing that was bothering him was that you hadn’t called earlier.”
“He’s right about that,” said Wallander. “What have you found?”
“Surprisingly little,” she said. “On the surface nothing seems to have been stolen. No cabinets are broken open. I think he must have had a housekeeper to keep this big place clean.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Two reasons. First, you can see the difference in the way a man and a woman clean. Don’t ask me how. That’s just the way it is.”
“And the second reason?”
“There’s a note in his diary that says ‘charwoman’ and then a time. The note comes up twice a month.”
“Did he really write ‘charwoman’?”
“A fine old contemptuous word.”
“When was she here last?”
“Last Thursday.”
“That explains why everything seems so clean and tidy.”
Wallander sank down into a chair in front of the desk.
“How did it look down there?” she asked.
“An axe blow severed the spine. He died instantly. The killer cut off his scalp.”