Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,82
Fredman and Wetterstedt could have had much use for each other,” said Forsfält.
“Why not?”
“Let me put it bluntly,” said Forsfält. “Björn Fredman was what used to be called a rough customer. He drank a lot and got into fights. His education was nearly non-existent, although he could read, write, and do arithmetic tolerably well. His interests could hardly be called sophisticated. And he was a brutal man. I interrogated him myself a number of times. His vocabulary consisted almost exclusively of swear words.”
Wallander listened. When Forsfält stopped he looked at Svedberg.
“We’re back to square one again,” Wallander said slowly. “If there’s no connection between Fredman and the other two.”
“There could be things I don’t know about,” said Forsfält.
“I’m just thinking out loud,” said Wallander.
“What about his family?” said Svedberg. “Do they live here in Malmö?”
“He’s been divorced for a number of years,” said Forsfält. “I’m sure of that.”
He picked up the phone and made a call. After a few minutes a secretary came in with a file on Fredman and handed it to Forsfält. He took a quick look and then put it down on the table.
“He got divorced in 1991. His wife stayed in their flat with the children. It’s in Rosengård. There are three children. The youngest was just a baby when they split up. Fredman moved back to a flat on Stenbrottsgatan that he’d kept for many years. He used it mostly as an office and storeroom. I don’t think his wife knew about it. That’s where he also took his other women.”
“We’ll start with his flat,” said Wallander. “The family can wait. You’ll see that they’re notified of his death?”
Forsfält nodded. Svedberg had gone out to the hall to call Ystad. Wallander stood by the window, trying to decide what was most important. There seemed to be no link between the first two victims and Fredman. For the first time he had a premonition that they were following a false lead. Was there a completely different explanation for the murders? He decided he would go over all the investigative material that evening with an open mind. Svedberg came back and stood next to him.
“Hansson was relieved,” he said.
Wallander nodded. But he didn’t say a word.
“According to Martinsson an important message came from Interpol about the girl,” Svedberg went on.
Wallander hadn’t been paying attention. He had to ask Svedberg to repeat himself. The girl seemed to be part of something that had happened a long time ago. And yet he knew that sooner or later he’d have to take up her case again. They stood in silence.
“I don’t like it in Malmö,” said Svedberg suddenly. “I only feel happy when I’m home in Ystad.”
Svedberg hated to leave the town of his birth. At the station it had become a running joke. Wallander wondered when he himself ever really felt happy. But then he remembered the last time. When Linda appeared at his door so early on Sunday morning.
Forsfält came to get them. They took the lift down to the car park and then drove out towards an industrial area north of the city. The wind had started to blow. The sky was still cloudless. Wallander sat next to Forsfält in the front seat.
“Did you know Rydberg?” he asked.
“Did I know Rydberg?” he replied slowly. “I certainly did. Quite well. He used to come to Malmö sometimes.”
Wallander was surprised at his answer. He’d always thought that Rydberg had discarded everything to do with the job, including his friends.
“He was the one who taught me everything I know,” said Wallander.
“It was tragic that he left us so soon,” said Forsfält. “He should have lived longer. He’d always dreamed of going to Iceland.”
“Iceland?”
Forsfält nodded.
“That was his big dream. To go to Iceland. But it didn’t happen.”
Wallander was struck by the realisation that Rydberg had kept something from him. He wouldn’t have guessed that Rydberg dreamt of a pilgrimage to Iceland. He hadn’t imagined that Rydberg had any dreams at all, or indeed any secrets.
Forsfält pulled up outside a three-storey block of flats. He pointed to a row of windows on the ground floor with the curtains drawn. The building was old and poorly maintained. The glass on the main door was boarded up with a piece of wood. Wallander had a feeling that he was walking into a building that should no longer exist. Isn’t this building’s existence in defiance of the constitution? he thought sarcastically. There was a stench of urine in the stairwell.