Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,72
of girls. But none of them filed a complaint. Two of them did disappear.”
“What do you mean?”
Sandin looked at Wallander in surprise.
“I mean they were never heard from again. We searched for them, tried to trace them. But they were gone.”
“What do you think happened?”
“They were killed, of course. Dissolved in lime, dumped in the sea. How do I know?”
Wallander couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Can this be true?” he said doubtfully. “It sounds incredible.”
“What is the saying? Amazing but true?”
“You think Wetterstedt committed murder?”
Sandin shook his head.
“I’m not saying that. Actually I’m convinced he didn’t. I don’t know exactly what happened, probably never will. But we can still draw conclusions, even if there’s no real evidence.”
“I’m having a hard time accepting this is true,” said Wallander.
“It’s absolutely true,” said Sandin firmly. “Wetterstedt had no conscience. But nothing could be proved.”
“There were many rumours about him.”
“And they were all justified. Wetterstedt used his position and his power to satisfy his perverted sexual desires. But he was also mixed up in secret deals that made him rich.”
“Art deals?”
“Art thefts, more likely. In my free time I tried to track down all the connections. I dreamed that one day I’d be able to slam such an airtight report down on the prosecutor’s desk that Wetterstedt would not only be forced to resign, but would end up with a long prison sentence. Unfortunately I never got that far.”
“You must have a great deal of material from those days, don’t you?”
“I burnt it all a few years ago. In my son’s kiln. At least ten kilos of paper.”
Wallander swore under his breath. He hadn’t dreamed that Sandin would get rid of the material he had gathered so laboriously.
“I still have a good memory,” said Sandin. “I could probably remember everything I burned.”
“Arne Carlman,” said Wallander “Who was he?”
“A man who raised peddling art to a higher level,” replied Sandin.
“In the spring of 1969 he was in Långholmen prison,” said Wallander. “We got an anonymous tip-off that he had contacted Wetterstedt. And that they met after Carlman got out of jail.”
“Carlman popped up now and then in reports. I think he wound up in Långholmen for something as simple as passing a bad cheque.”
“Did you find links between him and Wetterstedt?”
“There was evidence that they had met as early as the late 1950s. Apparently they had a mutual interest in betting on the horses. Their names came up in connection with a raid on Täby racetrack around 1962. Wetterstedt’s name was removed, since it wasn’t considered wise to tell the public that the minister of justice had been frequenting a racetrack.”
“What kind of dealings did they have?”
“Nothing we could pin down. They circled like planets in separate orbits which happened to cross now and then.”
“I need to find that connection,” said Wallander. “I’m convinced we have to find it to identify their killer.”
“You can usually find what you’re looking for if you look hard enough,” said Sandin.
Wallander’s mobile phone rang. He felt an icy fear. But he was wrong again. It was Hansson.
“I just wanted to know whether you’ll be back today. Otherwise I’ll set up a meeting for tomorrow.”
“Has anything happened?”
“Nothing crucial. Everyone’s up to their eyes in their own assignments.”
“Tomorrow morning at 8 a.m.,” said Wallander. “Not tonight.”
“Svedberg went to the hospital to get his sunburn looked at,” said Hansson.
“This happens every year,” said Wallander. He hung up.
“You’re in the papers a lot,” said Sandin. “You seem to have gone your own way occasionally.”
“Most of what they say isn’t true,” said Wallander.
“I often ask myself what it’s like to be a policeman nowadays,” said Sandin.
“So do I,” said Wallander.
They got up and walked to Wallander’s car. It was a beautiful evening.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Wetterstedt?” asked Wallander.
“There are probably quite a few,” said Sandin.
Wallander stopped short.
“Maybe we’re thinking about this the wrong way,” he said. “Maybe we should separate the investigations. Not look for a common denominator, but for two separate solutions. And find the connection that way.”
“The murders were committed by the same man,” said Sandin, “so the investigations have to be interlinked. Otherwise you might end up on the wrong track.”
Wallander nodded.
“Call me again sometime,” said Sandin. “I have all the time in the world. Growing old means loneliness. A long wait for the inevitable.”
“Did you ever regret joining the police?” asked Wallander.
“Never,” said Sandin. “Why would I?”
“Just wondering,” said Wallander. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”