Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,81
didn’t say. You’ll have to talk with our colleagues.”
“Who should I ask for?” Wallander demanded, taking his mobile phone out of his pocket.
“An Inspector Sten Forsfält.”
Wallander got hold of Forsfält. He explained who he was. For a few seconds the conversation was drowned out by the noise of a plane. Wallander thought of the trip to Italy he planned to take with his father.
“First of all, we have to identify the man,” said Wallander when the plane had climbed away in the direction of Stockholm.
“What did he look like?” asked Forsfält. “I met Fredman several times.”
Wallander gave as accurate a description as he could.
“It might be him,” said Forsfält. “He was big, at any rate.”
Wallander thought for a moment.
“Can you drive to the hospital?” he asked. “We need a positive identification as quickly as possible.”
“Sure, I can do that,” said Forsfält.
“Prepare yourself, because it’s a hideous sight,” said Wallander. “He had his eyes poked out. Or burnt away.”
Forsfält didn’t reply.
“We’re coming to Malmö,” said Wallander. “We need some help getting into his flat. Did he have any family?”
“He was divorced,” said Forsfält. “Last time he was in, it was for battery.”
“I thought it was for fencing stolen property.”
“That too. Fredman kept busy. But not doing anything legal. He was consistent on that score.”
Wallander said goodbye and called Hansson to give him a brief run-down.
“Good,” said Hansson. “Let me know as soon as you have more information. By the way, do you know who called?”
“The national commissioner again?”
“Almost. Lisa Holgersson. Björk’s successor. She wished us luck. Said she just wanted to check on the situation.”
“It’s great that people are wishing us luck,” said Wallander, who couldn’t understand why Hansson was telling him about the call in such an ironic tone.
Wallander borrowed Waldemarsson’s torch and shone it inside the van. He saw a footprint in the blood. He leaned forward.
“That’s not a shoe print. It’s a left foot.”
“A bare foot?” said Svedberg. “So he wades around barefoot in the blood of the people he kills?”
“We don’t know that it’s a he,” said Wallander dubiously.
They said goodbye to Waldemarsson and his colleagues. Wallander waited in the car while Svedberg ran to the airport café and bought some sandwiches.
“The prices are outrageous,” he complained when he returned. Wallander didn’t bother answering.
“Just drive,” was all he said.
It was past midday when they stopped outside the police station in Malmö. As he stepped out of the car Wallander saw Björk heading towards him. Björk stopped and stared, as if he had caught Wallander doing something he shouldn’t.
“You, here?” he said.
“We need you back,” said Wallander in an attempt at a joke. Then he explained what had happened.
“It’s appalling what’s going on,” said Björk, and Wallander could hear that his anxious tone was genuine. It hadn’t occurred to him before that Björk might miss the people he worked with for so many years in Ystad.
“Nothing is quite the same,” said Wallander.
“How’s Hansson doing?”
“I don’t think he’s enjoying his role.”
“He can call if he needs any help.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Björk left and they went into the station. Forsfält still wasn’t back from the hospital. They drank coffee in the canteen while they waited.
“I wonder what it would be like to work here,” said Svedberg, looking around at all the policemen eating lunch.
“One day we may all wind up here,” said Wallander. “If they close down the district. One police station per county.”
“That would never work.”
“No, but it could happen. The national police board and those bureaucrats have one thing in common. They always try to do the impossible.”
Forsfält appeared. They stood up, shook hands, and followed him to his office. Wallander had a favourable impression of him. He reminded him of Rydberg. Forsfält was at least 60, with a friendly face. He had a slight limp. Wallander sat down and looked at some pictures of laughing children tacked up on the wall. He guessed that they were Forsfält’s grandchildren.
“Björn Fredman,” said Forsfält. “It’s him, all right. He looked appalling. Who would do such a thing?”
“If we only knew,” said Wallander. “Who was Fredman?”
“A man of about 45 who never had an honest job in his life,” Forsfält began. “I don’t have all of the details. But I’ve asked the computer people for his records. He was a fence and he did time for battery. Quite violent attacks, as I recall.”
“Was he involved in fencing stolen art?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“That’s a pity,” said Wallander. “That would have linked him to Wetterstedt and Carlman.”