Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,99

are you going to give?” asked Forsfält.

Wallander thought for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I have a suspicion that Fredman may have abused her.”

“That’s not good enough,” said Forsfält firmly.

“I know,” said Wallander. “Somehow I have to show that it’s crucial to the whole murder investigation to obtain information on Louise Fredman. About her and from her.”

“What do you think she could help you with?”

Wallander threw out his hands.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe nothing will be cleared up by finding out what it is that’s keeping her locked up. Maybe she’s incapable of holding a conversation with anyone.”

Forsfält nodded, deep in thought. Wallander knew that Forsfält’s objections were well-founded, but he couldn’t ignore his hunch that Louise Fredman was important. Wallander paid for lunch. When they got back to the station Forsfält went to the reception desk and got a black plastic bag.

“Here are a few kilos of papers on Björn Fredman’s troubled life,” he said, smiling. But then he turned serious, as if his smile had been inappropriate.

“That poor devil,” he said. “The pain must have been incredible. What could he possibly have done to deserve it?”

“That’s just it,” said Wallander. “What did he do? What did Wetterstedt do? Or Carlman? And to whom?”

“Scalping and acid in the eyes. Where the hell are we headed?”

“According to the national police board, towards a society where a police district like Ystad doesn’t need to be manned at all on weekends,” said Wallander.

Forsfält stood silent for a moment before he replied. “I hardly think that’s the answer,” he said.

“Tell the national commissioner.”

“What can he do?” Forsfält asked. “He’s got a board of directors on his back. And above them are the politicians.”

“He could always refuse,” said Wallander. “Or he could resign if things get too far out of hand.”

“Perhaps,” said Forsfält absently.

“Thanks for all your help,” said Wallander. “And especially for the story about the smithy.”

“You’ll have to come up and visit sometime,” said Forsfält. “I don’t know whether Sweden is as fantastic as all the magazines say it is. But it’s a great country all the same. Beautiful. And surprisingly unspoiled. If you take the trouble to look.”

“You won’t forget Marianne Eriksson?”

“I’m going to see if I can find her right now,” replied Forsfält. “I’ll call you later.”

Wallander unlocked his car and tossed in the plastic bag. Then he drove out of town and onto the E65. He rolled down the window and let the summer wind blow across his face. When he arrived in Ystad he stopped at the supermarket and bought groceries. He was already at the checkout when he discovered he had to go back for washing powder. He drove home and carried the bags up to his flat, but found that he had lost his keys.

He went back downstairs and searched the car without finding them. He called Forsfält and was told that he had gone out. One of his colleagues went into his office and looked to see whether they were on his desk. They weren’t there. He called Peter Hjelm, who picked up the phone almost at once. He came back minutes later and said he couldn’t find them.

Wallander fished out the piece of paper with the Fredmans’ number in Rosengård. The son answered. Wallander waited while he looked for the keys, but he couldn’t find them. Wallander wondered whether to tell him that he now knew his sister Louise had been in a hospital for several years, but decided not to.

He thought for a while. He might have dropped his keys at the place where he ate lunch with Forsfält, or in the shop where he had bought the new shirt. Annoyed, he went back to his car and drove to the station. Ebba kept a spare set of keys for him. He told her the name of the clothing shop and the restaurant in Malmö. She said she would check whether they had found them. Wallander left the station and went home without talking to any of his colleagues. He needed to think over all that had happened that day. In particular, he wanted to plan his conversation with Åkeson. He carried in the groceries and put them away. He had missed the laundry time he had signed up for. He took the box of washing powder and gathered up the huge pile of laundry. When he got downstairs, the room was still empty. He sorted the pile, guessing which types of clothes required the same water temperature. With some fumbling