Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,78
scalp this time,” said Nyberg. “It looks like he poked his eyes out too.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man in the pit doesn’t have any eyes,” said Nyberg. “There are two holes where they used to be.”
It took them two hours to get the body out. Wallander talked to the workman who had lifted the tarpaulin and the ticket agent who had stood by the steps of the station dreaming of Greece. He noted the times that they had seen the body. He asked Nyberg to search the dead man’s pockets to see if they could establish his identity, but they were empty.
“Nothing at all?” asked Wallander in surprise.
“Not a thing,” said Nyberg. “But something may have fallen out. We’ll look around down there.”
They hauled him up in a sling. Wallander forced himself to look at his face. Nyberg was right. The man had no eyes. The torn-off hair made it seem that it was a dead animal, not a human being lying on the plastic sheet at his feet.
Wallander sat down on the steps of the station. He studied his notes. He called Martinsson, who was talking to a doctor.
“We know he hasn’t been here long,” he said. “I talked to the workmen replacing the sewerage pipes. They put the tarpaulin down at 4 p.m. yesterday. So the body was put there between then and 7 a.m. this morning.”
“There are a lot of people around here in the evenings,” said Martinsson. “People taking a walk, traffic to and from the station and the ferry terminal. It must have happened during the night.”
“How long has he been dead?” asked Wallander. “That’s what I want to know. And who he is.”
Nyberg hadn’t found a wallet. They had nothing to help establish the man’s identity. Höglund came over and sat down next to them.
“Hansson’s talking about requesting reinforcements from the National Criminal Bureau,” she said.
“I know,” said Wallander. “But he won’t do anything until I tell him to. What did the doctor say?”
She looked at her notes.
“About 45 years old,” she said. “Strong, well-built.”
“That makes him the youngest one so far,” said Wallander.
“Strange place to hide the body,” said Martinsson. “Did he think that work would stop during the summer holiday?”
“Maybe he just wanted to get rid of it,” said Höglund.
“Then why did he pick this pit?” asked Martinsson. “It must have been a lot of trouble to get him into it. And there was the risk that someone might see him.”
“Maybe he wanted the body to be found,” Wallander said thoughtfully. “We can’t rule out that possibility.”
They looked at him in astonishment, waiting for him to explain, but he remained silent.
The body was taken away to Malmö. They left for the police station. Norén had been taking pictures of the large crowd milling around outside the cordoned-off area.
Mats Ekholm had shown up earlier that morning, and stared at the corpse for a long time. Wallander had gone over to him.
“You got your wish,” he said. “Another victim.”
“I didn’t wish for this,” replied Ekholm, shaking his head.
Now Wallander regretted his remark. He would have to explain to Ekholm what he’d meant.
Just after 10 a.m. they closed the door to the conference room, Hansson again giving instructions that calls weren’t to be put through. But they had barely started the meeting when the phone rang. Hansson snatched the receiver and barked into it, red with anger. But he sank slowly back in his chair. Wallander knew at once that someone very important was on the line. Hansson adopted Björk’s obsequiousness. He made some brief comments, answered questions, but mostly listened. When the call was over he placed the receiver back as if it were a fragile antique.
“Let me guess – the national police board,” said Wallander. “Or the chief public prosecutor. Or a TV reporter.”
“The commissioner of the national police,” replied Hansson. “He expressed as much dissatisfaction as encouragement.”
“Sounds like a strange combination,” Höglund said drily.
“He’s welcome to come down here and help,” said Svedberg.
“What does he know about police work?” Martinsson spluttered. “Absolutely nothing.”
Wallander tapped his pen on the table. Everyone was upset and uncertain of what to do next, and he knew they had very little time before they would be subjected to a barrage of criticism. They would never be totally immune from outside pressure. They could only counteract it by focusing their attention inward on the shifting centre of the search. He tried to collect his thoughts, knowing that they didn’t have a thing to go on.