Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,85

investigative material again. The feeling that they had been sidetracked was still with him. Wallander hadn’t laid the clues they were following. But he was the one who was leading the investigative group, and determining the course that they took. He tried to see where they should have paid more attention, whether the link between Wetterstedt and Carlman was already clearly visible, but unnoticed.

He went over all the evidence that they had gathered, sometimes solid, sometimes not. Next to him he had a notebook in which he listed all the unanswered questions. It troubled him that the results from many of the forensic tests still weren’t available. Although it was past midnight, he was sorely tempted to call up Nyberg and ask him whether the laboratory in Linköping had closed for the summer. But he refrained. He sat bent over his papers until his back hurt and the letters began blurring on the page.

He didn’t give up until after 2 a.m., when he’d concluded that they couldn’t do anything but continue on the path that they had chosen. There must be a connection between the murdered men. Perhaps the fact that Björn Fredman didn’t seem to fit with the others might point to the solution.

The pile of dirty laundry was still on the floor, reminding him of the chaos inside his own head. Once again he had forgotten to get an appointment for his car. Would they have to request reinforcements from the National Criminal Bureau? He decided to talk to Hansson about it first thing, after a few hours’ sleep.

But by the time he got up at 6 a.m., he’d changed his mind. He wanted to wait one more day. Instead he called Nyberg and complained about the laboratory. He had expected Nyberg to be angry, but to Wallander’s great surprise he had agreed that it was taking an unusually long time and promised to follow the matter up. They’d discussed Nyberg’s examination of the pit where they’d found Fredman. Traces of blood indicated that the killer had parked his car right next to it. Nyberg had also managed to get out to Sturup Airport and look at Fredman’s van. There was no doubt that it had been used to transport the body. But Nyberg didn’t think that the murder could have taken place in it.

“Fredman was big and strong,” he said. “I can’t see how he could have been killed inside the van. I think the murder happened somewhere else.”

“So we must find out who drove the van,” said Wallander, “and where the murder occurred.”

Wallander had arrived at the station just after 7 a.m. He’d called Ekholm at his hotel and found him in the breakfast room.

“I want you to concentrate on the eyes,” he said. “I don’t know why. But I’m convinced they’re important. Maybe crucial. Why would he do that to Fredman and not to the others? That’s what I want to know.”

“The whole thing has to be viewed in its entirety,” said Ekholm. “A psychopath almost always creates rituals, which he then follows as if they were written in a sacred book. The eyes have to fit into that framework.”

“Whatever,” Wallander said curtly. “But I want to know why only Fredman had his eyes put out. Framework or no framework.”

“It was probably acid,” said Ekholm.

Wallander had forgotten to ask Nyberg about that.

“Can we assume that’s the case?” he asked.

“It seems so. Someone poured acid in Fredman’s eyes.”

Wallander grimaced.

“We’ll talk this afternoon,” he said and hung up.

Soon afterwards he had left Ystad with Höglund. It was a relief to get out of the station. Reporters were calling all the time. And now the public had started calling too. The hunt for the killer had become a national concern. Wallander knew that this was inevitable, and also useful. But it was an enormous task to record and check on all the information that was flooding in.

Höglund emerged from the terminal and caught up with him on the pier.

“I wonder what kind of summer it’ll be this year,” he said.

“My grandmother in Älmhult predicts the weather,” said Höglund. “She says it’s going to be long, hot and dry.”

“Is she usually right?”

“Almost always.”

“I think it’ll be the opposite. Rainy and cold and crappy.”

“Can you predict the weather too?”

“No.”

They walked back to the car. Wallander wondered what she’d been doing in the terminal. But he didn’t ask.

They pulled up in front of the Malmö police station at 9.30 a.m. Forsfält was waiting on the footpath. He got into the back