Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,34

to look for cleaning work. I found the job in the paper.”

“How often did you go to his house?”

“Twice a month. Every other Thursday.”

Wallander made a note.

“Always on Thursdays?”

“Always.”

“Did you have your own keys?”

“No. He never would have given them to me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“When I was in the house he watched every step I took. It was incredibly nerve-wracking. But he paid well.”

“Did you ever come across anything odd?”

“Such as?”

“Was there ever anyone else there?”

“No, never.”

“He didn’t have people to dinner?”

“Not that I know of. There were never any dishes waiting for me when I came.”

Wallander paused for a moment before continuing.

“How would you describe him as a person?”

Her reply was swift and firm.

“He was the type you’d call arrogant.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He patronised me. To him I was nothing more than a cleaning woman. Despite the fact that he once belonged to the party that supposedly represented our cause. The cleaning women’s cause.”

“Did you know that he referred to you as a charwoman in his diary?”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

“But you stayed on with him?”

“I told you, he paid well.”

“Try to remember your last visit. You were there last week?”

“Everything was as usual. He was just the way he always was.”

“Over the past three years, then, nothing out of the ordinary happened?”

She hesitated before she answered. He was immediately on the alert.

“There was one time last year,” she began tentatively. “In November. I don’t know why, but I forgot what day it was. I went there on a Friday morning instead of Thursday. As I arrived, a big black car drove out of the garage. The kind with windows you can’t see through. Then I rang the bell at the front door as I always do. It took a long time before he came to open the door. When he saw me he was furious. He slammed the door. I thought I was going to get the sack. But when I came back the next time he said nothing about it, just pretended that nothing had happened.”

Wallander waited for her to go on.

“Was that all?”

“Yes.”

“A big black car leaving his house?”

“That’s right.”

Wallander knew that he wouldn’t get any further. He finished his coffee and stood up.

“If you remember anything else that might be helpful to the enquiry, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me,” he said as he left.

He drove back to Ystad.

A big black car had visited Wetterstedt’s house. Who was in the car? A strong wind began to blow, and the rain started again.

CHAPTER 9

By the time Wallander returned to Wetterstedt’s house, Nyberg and his crew had moved back inside. They had carted off tons of sand without finding what they were looking for. When it started raining again, Nyberg immediately decided to lay out the tarpaulins. They couldn’t carry on until the weather improved. Wallander returned to the house feeling that what Sara Björklund had said about showing up on the wrong day and the big black car meant they had knocked a small hole in Wetterstedt’s shell. She had seen something that no-one was supposed to see. Wallander couldn’t interpret Wetterstedt’s rage in any other way, or the fact that he didn’t fire her and never spoke of it again. The anger and the silence were two sides of the same temperament.

Nyberg was in Wetterstedt’s living-room drinking coffee from an old thermos that reminded Wallander of the 1950s. He was sitting on a newspaper to protect the chair.

“We haven’t found the murder site yet,” said Nyberg “And now there’s no point in looking because of the rain.”

“I hope the tarpaulins are securely fastened,” Wallander said. “It’s blowing harder all the time.”

“They won’t move,” said Nyberg.

“I thought I’d finish going through his desk,” said Wallander.

“Hansson called. He has spoken to Wetterstedt’s children.”

“It took him this long?” said Wallander. “I thought he’d done that a while ago.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” said Nyberg. “I’m just telling you what he said.”

Wallander went into the study and sat down at the desk. He adjusted the lamp so that it cast its light in as big a circle as possible. Then he pulled out one of the drawers in the left-hand cabinet. In it lay a copy of this year’s tax return. Wallander placed it on the desk. He could see that Wetterstedt had declared an income of almost 1,000,000 kronor, and that the income came primarily from Wetterstedt’s private pension plan and share dividends. A summary from the securities register centre revealed