Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,35

that Wetterstedt held shares in traditional Swedish heavy industry; Ericsson, Asea Brown Boveri, Volvo, and Rottneros. Apart from this income, Wetterstedt had reported an honorarium from the foreign ministry and royalties from Tidens publishing company. Under the entry “Net Worth” he had declared 5,000,000 kronor. Wallander memorised this figure.

He put the tax return back. The next drawer contained something that looked like a photo album. Here are the family pictures Ann-Britt was missing, he thought. But he leafed through the pages with growing astonishment: old-fashioned pornographic pictures, some of them quite sophisticated. Wallander noted that some of the pages fell open more easily than others. Wetterstedt had a preference for young models. Martinsson walked in. Wallander nodded and pointed to the open album.

“Some people collect stamps,” said Martinsson, “others evidently collect pictures like this.”

Wallander closed the album and put it back in the desk drawer.

“A lawyer named Sjögren called from Malmö,” said Martinsson. “He said he had Wetterstedt’s will. There are rather large assets in the estate. I asked him whether there were any unexpected beneficiaries. But everything goes to the direct heirs. Wetterstedt had also set up a foundation to distribute scholarships to young law students. But he put the money into it long ago and paid tax on it.”

“So, we know that Gustaf Wetterstedt was a wealthy man. But wasn’t he born the son of a poor docker?”

“Svedberg is working on his background,” said Martinsson. “I gather he’s found an old party secretary with a good memory who had a lot to say about Wetterstedt. But I wanted to have a word about the girl who committed suicide.”

“Did you find out who she was?”

“No. But through the computer I’ve found more than 2,000 possibilities for what the letter combination might mean. It was a pretty long print-out.”

“We’ll have to put it out on Interpol,” said Wallander after a pause. “And what’s the new one called? Europol?”

“That’s right.”

“Send out a query with her description. Tomorrow we’ll take a photo of the medallion. Even if everything else is getting pushed aside in the wake of Wetterstedt’s death, we have to try and get that picture in the papers.”

“I had a jeweller look at it,” said Martinsson. “He said it was solid gold.”

“Surely somebody is missing her,” said Wallander. “It’s rare for someone to have no relatives at all.”

Martinsson yawned and asked whether Wallander needed any help.

“Not tonight,” he said, and Martinsson left the house. Wallander spent another hour going through the desk. Then he turned off the lamp and sat there in the dark. Who was Gustaf Wetterstedt? The picture he had of him was still unclear.

An idea came to him. He looked up a name in the telephone book. He dialled the number and got an answer almost at once. He explained who it was and asked whether he could come over. Then he hung up. He found Nyberg upstairs and told him he’d be back later that evening.

The wind and the rain lashed at him as he ran to his car. He drove into town, to a block of flats near Österport School. He rang the bell and the door was opened. When he reached the third floor Lars Magnusson was waiting for him in his stockinged feet. Beautiful piano music was playing.

“Long time no see,” said Magnusson as they shook hands.

“You’re right,” said Wallander. “It must be more than five years.”

Long ago Magnusson had been a journalist. After a number of years at the Express he had tired of city life and returned to his roots in Ystad. He and Wallander met because their wives became friends. The two men discovered that they shared an interest in opera. It wasn’t until many years later, after he and Mona had divorced, that Wallander found out Magnusson was an alcoholic. But when the truth finally did come out, it came out with a vengeance. By chance, Wallander had been at the station late one night when Magnusson was dragged in, so drunk that he couldn’t stand up. He had been driving in that state, and had lost control and gone straight through the plate-glass window of a bank. He’d ended up spending six months in jail.

When he returned to Ystad he didn’t go back to his job. His wife had left their childless marriage. He continued drinking but managed not to step too far over the line. He gave up his career in journalism and made a living setting chess problems for a number of newspapers. The only reason