a chair and sat down near the sofa where the family was gathered. Besides Carlman’s widow there were two boys in their 20s and a girl a couple of years older. All of them seemed oddly calm.
“I promise that I’ll only ask questions that we absolutely must have answers to tonight,” he said. “The rest can wait.”
Silence. None of them said a word.
“Do you know who the murderer is?” Wallander asked. “Was it one of the guests?”
“Who else could it be?” replied one of the sons. He had short-cropped blond hair. Wallander had an uneasy feeling that he could see a resemblance to the mutilated face he had just examined out in the arbour.
“Is there anyone in particular that comes to mind?” Wallander continued.
The boy shook his head.
“It doesn’t seem very likely that someone would have chosen to come here when a big party was going on,” said Mrs Carlman.
Someone cold-blooded enough wouldn’t have hesitated, thought Wallander. Or someone crazy enough. Someone who doesn’t care whether he gets caught or not.
“Your husband was an art dealer,” Wallander went on. “Can you describe for me what that involves?”
“My husband has 30 galleries around the country,” she said. “He also has galleries in the other Nordic countries. He sells paintings by mail order. He rents paintings to companies. He’s responsible for a large number of art auctions each year. And much more.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“A successful man is always disliked by those who have the same ambitions but lack the talent.”
“Did your husband ever say he felt threatened?”
“No.”
Wallander looked at the children sitting on the sofa. They shook their heads almost simultaneously.
“When did you see him last?” he continued.
“I danced with him at around 10.30 p.m.,” she said. “Then I saw him a few more times. It might have been around 11 p.m. when I saw him last.”
None of the children had seen him any later than that. Wallander knew that all the other questions could wait. He put his notebook back in his pocket and stood up. He wanted to offer some words of sympathy, but couldn’t think what to say, so he just nodded and left the house.
Sweden had won the football game 3–1. Ravelli had been brilliant; Cameroon was forgotten, and Martin Dahlin’s headed goal was a work of genius. Wallander picked up fragments of conversations going on around him, and pieced them together. Höglund and two other police officers had guessed the right score. Wallander sensed that he had solidified his position as the biggest loser. He couldn’t decide whether this annoyed or pleased him.
They worked hard and efficiently. Wallander set up his temporary headquarters in a storeroom attached to the barn. Just after 4 a.m. Höglund came in with a young woman who spoke a distinct Göteborg dialect.
“She was the last one to see him alive,” said Höglund. “She was with Carlman in the arbour just before midnight.”
Wallander asked her to sit down. She told him her name was Madelaine Rhedin and she was an artist.
“What were you doing in the arbour?” asked Wallander.
“Arne wanted me to sign a contract.”
“What sort of contract?”
“To sell my paintings.”
“And you signed it?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I got up and left. I looked at my watch. It was 11.57 p.m.”
“Why did you look at your watch?”
“I usually do when something important happens.”
“The contract was important?”
“I was supposed to get 200,000 kronor on Monday. For a poor artist that’s a big deal.”
“Was there anyone nearby when you were sitting in the arbour?”
“Not that I saw.”
“And when you left?”
“The garden was deserted.”
“What did Carlman do when you left?”
“He stayed there.”
“How do you know? Did you turn around?”
“He told me he was going to enjoy the fresh air. I didn’t hear him get up.”
“Did he seem uneasy?”
“No, he was cheerful.”
“Think it over,” Wallander said. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll remember something else. Anything might be important. I want you to keep in touch.”
When she left the room, Åkeson came in from the other direction. He was totally white. He sat down heavily on the chair Madelaine Rhedin had just vacated.
“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” he said.
“You didn’t have to look at him,” said Wallander. “That’s not why I wanted you to come.”
“I don’t know how you stand it,” said Åkeson.
“Me neither,” said Wallander.
Suddenly Åkeson was all business.
“Is it the same man who killed Wetterstedt?” he asked.
“Without a doubt.”
“In other words, he may strike again?”
Wallander nodded. Åkeson grimaced.
“If there was ever a time to give priority to an investigation, this is it,” he said. “I