Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,7
to happen with all these cutbacks.”
“That’s exactly why I came to see you,” said Martinsson. “There’s a rumour going round that staff numbers are going to be cut back on Saturday and Sunday nights.”
Wallander looked at Martinsson sceptically.
“That won’t work,” he said. “Who’s going to deal with the people we’ve got in the cells?”
“Rumour has it that they’re going to take tenders for that job from private security companies.”
Wallander gave Martinsson a quizzical look.
“Security companies?”
“That’s what I heard.”
Wallander shook his head. Martinsson got up.
“I thought you ought to know about it,” he said. “Do you have any idea what’s going to happen within the force?”
“No,” said Wallander. “Cross my heart.”
Martinsson lingered in the office.
“Was there something else?”
Martinsson took a piece of paper out of his pocket.
“As you know, the World Cup has started. Sweden was 2–2 in the game against Cameroon. You bet 5–0 in favour of Cameroon. With this score, you came in last.”
“How could I come in last? Either I bet right or wrong, didn’t I?”
“We run statistics that show where we are in relation to everyone else.”
“Good Lord! What’s the point of that?”
“An officer was the only one who picked 2–2,” said Martinsson, ignoring Wallander’s question. “Now for the next match. Sweden against Russia.”
Wallander was totally uninterested in football, although he had occasionally gone to watch Ystad’s handball team, which had several times been ranked as one of the best in Sweden. But lately the entire country seemed to be obsessed by the World Cup. He couldn’t turn on the TV or open a newspaper without being bombarded with speculation as to how the Swedish team would fare. He knew that he had no choice but to take part in the football pool. If he didn’t, his colleagues would think he was arrogant. He took his wallet out of his back pocket.
“How much?”
“A hundred kronor. Same as last time.”
He handed the note to Martinsson, who checked him off on his list.
“Don’t I have to guess the score?”
“Sweden against Russia. What do you think?”
“4–4,” said Wallander.
“It’s pretty rare to have that many goals scored in football,” Martinsson said, surprised. “That sounds more like ice hockey.”
“All right, let’s say 3–1 to Russia,” said Wallander. “Will that do?”
Martinsson wrote it down.
“Maybe we can take the Brazil match while we’re at it,” Martinsson went on.
“3–0 to Brazil,” said Wallander quickly.
“You don’t have very high expectations for Sweden,” said Martinsson.
“Not when it comes to football, anyway,” replied Wallander, handing him another 100-krona note.
Martinsson left and Wallander began to mull over what he had been told, but then he dismissed the rumours with irritation. He would find out soon enough what was true and what wasn’t. It was already 4.30 p.m. He pulled over a folder of material about an organised crime ring exporting stolen cars to the former Eastern-bloc countries. He had been working on the investigation for several months. So far the police had only succeeded in tracking down parts of the operation. He knew that this case would haunt him for many more months yet. During his leave, Svedberg would take over, but he suspected that very little would happen while he was gone.
There was a knock on the door, and Ann-Britt Höglund walked in. She had a black baseball cap on her head.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Like a tourist,” replied Wallander.
“This is what the new caps are going to look like,” she said. “Just imagine the word POLICE above the peak. I’ve seen pictures of it.”
“They’ll never get one of those on my head,” said Wallander. “I suppose that I should be glad I’m not in uniform any more.”
“Someday we might discover that Björk was a really good chief,” she said. “I think what you said in there was great.”
“I know the speech wasn’t any good,” said Wallander, starting to feel annoyed. “But you are all responsible for having picked me.”
Höglund stood up and looked out of the window. She had managed to live up to the reputation that preceded her when she came to Ystad the year before. At the police academy she had shown great aptitude for police work, and had developed even more since. She had filled part of the void left by Rydberg’s death a few years ago. Rydberg was the detective who had taught Wallander most of what he knew, and sometimes Wallander felt that it was his task to guide Höglund in the same way.
“How’s it going with the cars?” she asked.
“They keep on being stolen,” said Wallander. “The organisation seems to