Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,48

help from outside, from the criminal psychiatric division in Stockholm. Since this man’s modus operandi is so remarkable, perhaps they can do a psychiatric profile of him.”

“Has this offender killed before?” asked Svedberg. “Or is this the first time?”

“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “But he’s cautious. I get a feeling that he plans what he does very carefully. When he strikes he does it without hesitation. There could be at least two reasons for this. First, he doesn’t want to get caught. Second, he doesn’t want to be interrupted before he finishes what he set out to do.”

A shudder of revulsion passed through the group.

“This is where we have to start,” he said. “Where is the connection between Wetterstedt and Carlman? Where do their paths cross? That’s what we have to clarify. And we have to do it as quickly as possible.”

“We should also realise that we won’t be working in peace,” said Hansson. “Reporters will be swarming around us. They know that Carlman was scalped. They have the story they’ve been longing for. For some strange reason Swedes love to read about crime when they’re on holiday.”

“That might not be such a bad thing,” said Wallander. “At least it might send a warning to anyone who might be on the hit list.”

“We ought to stress that we want clues from the public,” said Höglund. “If we assume that you’re right, that the murderer has a list he’s working through, and that other people could realise that they’re on it, then there may be a chance that some of them have an idea of who the killer is.”

“You’re right,” said Wallander, turning to Hansson. “Call a press conference as soon as possible. We’ll tell the press everything we know. That we’re looking for a single killer. And that we need all the clues we can get.”

Svedberg got up and opened a window. Martinsson yawned loudly.

“I know we’re all tired,” said Wallander. “But we have to carry on. Try to grab some sleep when you get a chance.”

There was a knock on the door. An officer handed over an atlas. They set it on the table and found the Dominican Republic and the city of Santiago.

“We’ll have to deal with this girl later,” said Wallander. “We can’t worry about it now.”

“I’ll send a reply,” said Martinsson. “And ask for more information about her disappearance.”

“How did she end up here?” muttered Wallander.

“The message from Interpol gives her age as 17,” said Martinsson. “And her height as about 160 centimetres.”

“Send them a description of the medallion,” said Wallander. “If the father can identify it, the case is closed.”

They left the conference room. Martinsson went home to talk to his family and cancel their holiday. Svedberg went down to the basement and took a shower. Hansson vanished down the hall to organise the press conference. Wallander followed Höglund into her office.

“Do you think we’ll catch him?” she asked gravely.

“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “We have a lead that seems solid. This isn’t an offender who simply kills anyone who gets in his way. He’s after something. The scalps are his trophies.”

She sat down in her chair as Wallander leaned against the doorframe.

“Why do people take trophies?” she asked.

“So they can brag about them.”

“To themselves or to others?”

“Both.”

Suddenly he realised why she had asked about the trophies.

“You think that he took these scalps so he could show them to somebody?”

“It can’t be ruled out,” she said.

“No,” said Wallander, “it can’t be ruled out. Nothing can.”

He was just about to leave the room, but turned around.

“Will you call Stockholm?” he asked.

“It’s Midsummer Day,” she said. “I don’t think they’ll be on duty.”

“You’ll have to call someone at home,” said Wallander. “Since we don’t know whether he’s going to strike again, we’ve got no time to lose.”

Wallander went to his own office and sat down heavily in the visitor’s chair. One of its legs creaked precariously. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep.

He woke up with a start when someone entered the room. He glanced at his watch and saw that he’d been asleep for almost an hour. He still had a headache, but he wasn’t quite so tired.

It was Nyberg. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was standing on end.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said apologetically.

“I was just dozing,” said Wallander. “Have you got any news?”

Nyberg shook his head.

“All I can come up with is that the person who killed Carlman must have had his clothes drenched