Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,67

and asked them to find Nyberg, who called back 15 minutes later.

“Do you remember the camera from Wetterstedt’s house?” Wallander asked.

“Of course I remember,” said Nyberg grumpily.

“Has the film been developed yet? There were seven pictures exposed.”

“Didn’t you get them?” Nyberg asked, surprised.

“No.”

“They should have been sent over to you last Saturday.”

“I never got them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Maybe they’re lying around somewhere.”

“I’ll have to look into this,” said Nyberg. “I’ll get back to you.”

Somebody would bear the brunt of Nyberg’s wrath, and Wallander was glad that it wouldn’t be him.

He found the number of the Hässleholm police and after some difficulty managed to get hold of Hugo Sandin’s phone number. When Wallander asked about Sandin, he was told that he was about 85 years old but that his mind was still sharp.

“He usually stops by to visit a couple of times a year,” said the officer Wallander spoke to, who introduced himself as Mörk.

Wallander wrote down the number and thanked him. Then he called Malmö and asked for the doctor who had done the autopsy on Wetterstedt.

“There’s nothing in the report about the time of death,” Wallander said to him. “That’s very important for us.”

The doctor asked him to wait a moment while he got his file. After a moment he returned and apologised.

“It was left out of the report. Sometimes my dictaphone acts up. But Wetterstedt died less than 24 hours before he was found. We’re still waiting for some results from the laboratory that will enable us to narrow the time span further.”

“I’ll wait for those results,” said Wallander and thanked him.

He went in to see Svedberg, who was at his computer.

“Did you talk to that journalist?”

“I’m just typing up a report.”

“Did you get the time of their visit?”

Svedberg looked through his notes.

“They got to Wetterstedt’s house at 10 a.m. and stayed until 1 p.m.”

“After that, nobody else saw him alive?”

Svedberg thought for a moment. “Not that I know of.”

“So, we know that much,” said Wallander and left the room.

He was just about to call Hugo Sandin, when Martinsson came in.

“Have you got a minute?” he asked.

“Always,” said Wallander. “What’s up?”

Martinsson waved a letter.

“This came in the mail today,” he said. “It’s from someone who says he gave a girl a ride from Helsingborg to Tomelilla on Monday, 20 June. He’s seen the description of the girl in the papers, and thinks it might have been her.”

Martinsson handed the envelope to Wallander, who took out the letter and read it.

“No signature,” he said.

“But the letterhead is interesting.”

Wallander nodded. “Smedstorp Parish,” he said. “Official church stationery.”

“We’ll have to look into it,” said Martinsson.

“We certainly will,” said Wallander. “If you take care of Interpol and the other things you’re busy with, I’ll look after this.”

“I still don’t see how we have time,” said Martinsson.

“We’ll make time,” said Wallander.

After Martinsson left, Wallander realised that he’d been subtly criticised for not leaving the suicide case for the moment. Martinsson might be right, he thought. There was no space for anything but Wetterstedt and Carlman. But then he decided the criticism was unjustified. They must make time to handle every case.

As if to prove that he was right, Wallander left the station and drove out of town towards Tomelilla and Smedstorp. The drive gave him time to think about the murders. The summer landscape seemed a surreal backdrop to his thoughts. Two men are axed to death and scalped, he thought. A young girl walks into a rape field and sets herself on fire. And all around me it’s summertime. Skåne couldn’t be more beautiful than this. There’s a paradise hidden in every corner of this countryside. To find it, all you have to do is keep your eyes open. But you might also glimpse hearses on the roads.

The parish offices were in Smedstorp. After he passed Lunnarp he turned left. He knew that the office kept irregular hours, but there were cars parked outside the whitewashed building. A man was mowing the lawn. Wallander tried the door. It was locked. He rang the bell, noting from the brass plate that the office wouldn’t be open until Wednesday. He waited. Then he rang again and knocked on the door. The lawnmower hummed in the background. Wallander was just about to leave when a window on the floor above opened. A woman stuck out her head.

“We’re open on Wednesdays and Fridays,” she shouted.

“I know,” Wallander replied. “But this is urgent. I’m from the Ystad police.”

Her head disappeared. Then the door opened. A blonde woman dressed