Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,69
to get up.
“Just a moment,” said Wallander. “There’s something I’d like to ask you about.”
The man heard the change in Wallander’s voice. He gave him a wary look.
“I’m a police officer,” said Wallander. “I didn’t come here to talk to the vicar. I came to talk to you. Why didn’t you sign the letter you sent? About the girl you gave a lift from Helsingborg.”
It was a reckless move, he knew, in defiance of everything he had been taught. It was a punch below the belt – the police didn’t have the right to lie to extract information, especially when no crime had been committed.
But it worked. The man jumped, caught off guard. Wallander could see him wondering how he could know about the letter.
“It’s not against the law to write anonymous letters,” he said. “Or to pick up hitchhikers. I just want to know why you did. And what time you picked her up and where you took her. The exact time. And whether she said anything during the journey.”
“Now I recognise you,” muttered the man. “You’re the policeman who shot a man in the fog a few years ago. On the shooting range outside Ystad.”
“You’re right,” said Wallander. “That was me. My name is Kurt Wallander.”
“She was standing at the slip road of the southbound motorway,” said the man suddenly. “It was 7 p.m. I had driven over to Helsingborg to buy a pair of shoes. My cousin has a shoe shop there. He gives me a discount. I don’t usually pick up hitchhikers. But she looked so forlorn.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. What do you mean?”
“When you stopped the car. What language did she speak?”
“I have no idea what language it was, but it certainly wasn’t Swedish. And I don’t speak English. I said I was going to Tomelilla. She nodded. She nodded to everything I said.”
“Did she have any luggage?”
“Not a thing.”
“Not even a handbag?”
“Nothing.”
“And then you drove off?”
“She sat in the back seat. She didn’t speak. I thought there was something odd about the whole thing. I was sorry I’d picked her up.”
“Why’s that?”
“Maybe she wasn’t going to Tomelilla at all. Who the hell goes to Tomelilla?”
“So she didn’t say a word?”
“Not a word.”
“What did she do?”
“Do?”
“Did she sleep? Look out the window? What?”
The man tried to remember.
“There was one thing I worried about afterwards. Every time a car passed us she crouched down. As if she didn’t want to be seen.”
“So she was frightened?”
“Definitely.”
“What happened next?”
“I stopped at the roundabout on the outskirts of Tomelilla and let her out. To tell you the truth, I don’t think she had any idea where she was.”
“So she wasn’t going to Tomelilla?”
“I think she just wanted to get out of Helsingborg. I drove off. But when I was almost home I thought, I can’t just leave her there. So I drove back. But she was gone.”
“How long did it take you to go back?”
“Not more than ten minutes.”
Wallander thought for a moment.
“When you picked her up outside Helsingborg, she was standing at the slip road. Is it possible she’d had a lift to Helsingborg? Or was she coming from there?”
The man thought for a while.
“From Helsingborg,” he said. “If she’d had a lift down from the north, she wouldn’t have been standing where she was.”
“And you never saw her again? You didn’t look for her?”
“Why would I?”
“What time was this?”
“I let her off at 8 p.m. I remember the news came on the car radio just as she got out of the car.”
Wallander thought about what he had heard. He knew he’d been lucky.
“Why did you write to the police?” he asked. “Why anonymously?”
“I read about the girl who’d burned herself to death,” he said. “And I had a feeling that it might have been her. But I decided not to identify myself. I’m a married man. The fact that I picked up a female hitchhiker might have been misinterpreted.”
Wallander could see that he was telling the truth.
“This conversation is off the record,” he said. “But I will still have to ask you for your name and telephone number.”
“My name is Sven Andersson,” said the man. “I hope there won’t be any trouble.”
“Not if you’ve told me the truth,” Wallander replied.
He wrote down the number.
“One more thing,” he said. “Can you remember whether she was wearing a necklace?”
Andersson thought. Then he shook his head. Wallander got up and shook his hand.
“You’ve been a great help,” he said.
“Was it her?” Andersson asked.
“Possibly,” said Wallander. “The question we must answer is