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    One Step Behind
    One Step Behind
    One Step Behind
    Ebook602 pages9 hours

    One Step Behind

    By Henning Mankell and Ebba Segerberg

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    Sweden’s most tenacious detective races to unlock the twisted logic behind a madman’s crimes: “Lyrical, meticulous, and stunningly suspenseful” (St. Petersburg Times).
     
    On Midsummer’s Eve, three friends gather in a secluded meadow in Sweden. In the beautifully clear twilight, they don eighteenth-century costumes and begin a secret role-play. But an uninvited guest soon brings their performance to a gruesome conclusion. His approach is careful; his aim is perfect. Three bullets, three corpses. And his plans have only just begun to take shape.
     
    Meanwhile, Inspector Kurt Wallander is just back from vacation. Constantly fatigued, he soon learns his health is at risk—but there’s no time for rest when a fellow officer is murdered. Wallander soon discovers that the two grisly crimes are connected. A serial killer is on the loose, and the only lead is a photograph of a strange woman no one in Sweden seems to know. Forced to dig into the personal life of a trusted colleague, Wallander steps into a nightmare worse than any he could have imagined. Can he find his way out of the darkness before it’s too late?
     
    A pulse-pounding thriller and an incisive investigation into the mysteries of human nature, One Step Behind is “typical of the dense, intricate intelligence that Mankell brings to detection and crime writing” (The Washington Post Book World).
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateFeb 1, 2002
    ISBN9781595586148
    One Step Behind

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    Reviews for One Step Behind

    4/5

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    • 3/5
      This is a likeable, powerful, slow but not plodding mystery including murder, suicide, love, and more. The lead detective, Wallander, seems very believable as a gruff (without the inner teddy bear) wizened hard-driver. The multiple group meetings in the conference room and the worsening health with real symptoms are a couple of the touches that add realism to the typically glossed over mundane world of real policing in the station. Set in Ystad a town in County Skane, Sweden, the story takes place almost exclusively in Sweden. References to past cases-perhaps to engage readers of earlier novels-are thankfully few. The lack of skill among the male detectives in attracting and engaging with women is thankfully realistic. The pace starts very slow but soon picks up. The clues and facts that a reader picks up but the characters do not definitely are engaging and evoke energy, concern, and care from the reader. The story is weak at times and leaves some significant questions unanswered where they could have gracefully been covered before the book ends, which seems almost ham-handed but perhaps realistic. The book is solid but there is nothing absolutely amazing about it and it might sacrifice glamor, violence, or intrigue and gritty details at the expense of a whole lot of realism. And at 400+ p[ages, no one is going to call this taut but the pace at the end satisfies.
    • 5/5
      I enjoyed this book very much. The pace was slow and realistic. I was exposed to clues and followed trails along with the police force, heading in wrong directions, making mistakes, back tracking and finally figuring things out. Mankell is a master at taking the reader along for the ride. His protagonist, Kurt Wollander, is very believable as a detective. He's smart, but not brilliant, forgetful, but detail oriented, patient, but only up to a point. I will read more books by this author.
    • 5/5
      A very good and very entertaining and suspenseful crime novel. Kurt Wallander--the main detective in a series of books by Henning Mankell is given the job of finding the murderer of three young people out celebrating midsummer's eve in a forest preserve--but it's not as simple as that because at first there are no bodies and foul play is only presumed by one of the parents of those kids. Instead it's a missing persons case while at the same time there is another mysterious murder of one of Wallander's detective team--Svedberg who as it happens had been investigating the disappearance (at the request of said concerned parent on his own time and unknown to Wallander etal) of the very same kids.Well--a murderer is on the loose and no one has a clue as to his identity or what his motivation is. The scene of Svedberg's murder--his apartment is strewn with his belongings and the shotgun--the murder weapon is there as well. And as it happens the midsummer's night celebration was meant to be for 4 kids and not 3--a young lady begging off because of a stomach ailment. Returning to Svedberg's apartment on his own Wallander discovers a hiding place in which there is two photographs--one of one of the kids in the group that had been murdered and another of a mysterious woman--later on identified as Louise. Still not a lot to go on. And then there are more murders including the girl who had been sick which happens right under Wallander's nose.Anyway one of the things that makes One step behind so good is being taken through the whole process of the investigation--numerous interviews, dead ends, evaporating leads. Wallander himself is not feeling very well for all this--he's in the initial stages of a diabetes diagnosis and the investigation as well will exacerbate a chronic case of insomnia. Well you can imagine. To top it all off they will have to dig into the dirt of the life of one of their own--a very well liked detective about whom they will very soon find out they knew very little about his private life. Eventually some leads do start paying off--and slowly they will begin collating the good information from the bad--circling in on the culprit--as it happens a disgruntled transvestite postal worker with a habit of reading other peoples mail. Well it takes all kinds. All in all it's well written, keenly observed and the pace is right on the money. That's a combination that is hard to beat and this is one of--though not quite--the best crime novels I've read. To sum up I do see myself reading more of Mankell's work--very well done.
    • 5/5
      Absolutely amazing. I loved this book. It was scary, suspenseful, maddening, and it gave me nightmares. Definitely recommend it.
    • 4/5
      Although the crimes are of the usual unusual sort and really get the reader thinking,this is not up to Mankell's high standard. For a start the whole thing id much too protracted for my liking,going over the same ground again and again. When the killer id finally captured and interrogated,he has no explanation for his actions.The whole thing becomes a cop-out.
    • 4/5
      I liked this one more than the last couple Wallander mysteries I've read. Solid pacing and great suspense.
    • 2/5
      I like Kurt Wallander as a character but I found this overly long and it had a rather weak ending.
    • 4/5
      Henning Mankell has created a fascinating character in a really compelling series. This particular book filled in a number of blanks in the Wallander legacy. Mankell, in an interview I heard recently, said that when he writes, it's with the knowledge there is extreme violence in this world. Humanity, too, but violence takes the upper hand these days. It may be true, though I hope humanity wins out. Either way, Mankell brings both to his novels, including this one.
    • 4/5
      A bit long and meandering at times but well crafted. I do wonder how Wallender manages to go days upon days without sleep. Someone near 50 with diabetes would be incoherent after a day or so. Surprised that once they had the name of the killer they did not do a vehicle check to see what cars he owned. I must be too much of a North American.
    • 5/5
      Henning Mankel has proven himself to be a wonderful crime novelist. His books create a unique sense of atmosphere along with razor-sharp plotting. The great pleasure in reading Mankell is the social commentary on Sweden's changing society. His fiction is at least as much about evolving mores in Swedish culture as it is about the classic "whodunits."
    • 5/5
      I thought maybe I should write a review in English here. Although I have enjoyed all the Wallendar books, I thought this one was especially good. The plot involving Svedberg was something new and different and added to the story.
    • 4/5
      I haven't read all the Wallander books yet, but so far this one has the most intricate plot (which is saying a lot!). Really fascinating and unexpected turns.
    • 4/5
      Another relatively straightforward policy procedural featuring INspector Wallander, but also an excellent and psycholoogically perceptive read. In this one, Wallander senses a connection between the murder of three young people in the woods on Midsummer Eve, and the killing of one of Wallenberg's police colleagues. The gradual peicing together of the case is fascinating to watch, as are the relationships among the police.
    • 4/5
      A serial killer is stalking happy people.Swedish police inspector Kurt Wallander can't actually be described as happy - in fact, he's anything but, as he can't seem to get enough sleep and is beginning to question his commitment to his job. But something about the disappearance of three teenagers and a colleague's murder strikes him as connected. The only way he'll stop more people from dying is to stop the killer... but to do that he'll have to hold his shaky team together, and that may be the hardest challenge he's faced yet.Deliberately paced, introspective, and interesting.
    • 4/5
      Translator was different form the last one and the result was awkward. Some infelicitous English and some mistakes/typos that should have been caught. BUT a great story--ending was breath-taking.
    • 4/5
      I must say at the beginning the plot pace seems slow, but in the end the pace getting quicker. I love how the author describe the settings in this novel.
    • 3/5
      This is another dense, intricately plotted crime novel featuring Swedish detective Kurt Wallander. Thus, it works better if absorbed in long chunks. A bit long and meandering at times but well crafted. We get through the whole process of the investigation--numerous interviews, dead ends, evaporating leads, interspersed with Wallender's personal issues.
    • 4/5
      Another exciting adventure of Kurt Wallander and the Ystad police in which they investigate serial murders for a total of eight people. Young people dressed in costume are murdered at a Midsummer's celebration, then a policeman colleague is bumped off. Are the murders connected? Wallander thinks so. The murders are meticulously planned and carried out. The police are always "one step behind" the murderer. The bodies pile up and so do the red herrings. The author leads us through a labyrinth to get at the truth. I guessed wrong all the way through; the author certainly kept my interest! Highly recommended.
    • 3/5
      This is my first Kurt Wallander novel. Wallander is a Swedish police detective, and in this installment, at least, he seems a bit out of his element investigating a series of brutal murders of overtly happy people. He forgets his mobile phone, thereby landing himself in dire straits on more than one occasion. He makes very little progress in the investigation; most of his interviews seem to come to nothing, and when he does identify the suspect it is almost by accident. He is coping (not well) with recently discovered health issues including elevated blood pressure and blood sugar, and cannot seem to remember to take his medication or to eat when he ought to. The man is borderline incompetent, not to put too fine a point upon it. I feel I may have done the series a disservice by starting in the middle somewhere, but I find the style a bit dreary and repetitive, and I suspect the translation may be partly to blame. As a police procedural, One Step Behind lacks a lot in the procedure department, and we never get a decent explanation as to what the psychopathic killer was all about. I may give another Mankell a chance, because I know there are many many devoted Wallander fans out there, and they must see something I'm missing.Review written in 2012
    • 4/5
      Number seven in the Kurt Wallander series, this is the story of an unusual serial killer who uses his position as a relief postman to find out about his intended victims, by opening their mail and discovering details of their arrangements. He begins by murdering three young people celebrating mid-summer eve in a secluded forest. The police are notified that they are missing but do not suspect for some time that there has been foul play. One of Wallander’s team – Svedburg – is found brutally murdered in his flat, but there is no immediate reason to connect the two crimes. Wallander is continually exhausted – not only for lack of sleep and over-work, but also because he is diagnosed as having diabetes. As the title suggests, the investigation is always one step behind the killer, and there are four more deaths before the thrilling finale, in which it seems Wallander will be the ninth victim. As usual, the background and the police work are fascinating, as is Wallander’s struggle to keep going.
    • 4/5
      Henning Mankell’s police procedural novels are like potato chips: the first one is so fine, you wonder why you’re not devouring handfuls every day. But by the time you get to the bottom of the bag – or perhaps to the fifth or sixth of Mankell’s novels you’ve read – a bit of backlash sets in. What you’ve got is still great, sure, but you just don’t have the same appetite for it you once did.I suspect, therefore, that if you’re new to Mankell’s work (which I do recommend), you will find One Step Behind a real treat. It’s highly competent work, with a good protagonist, i.e. Detective Chief Inspector Kurt Wallander.In this story, Wallander is battling not only the black dog of depression that regularly haunts him, but also incipient diabetes: let’s just say you are not likely to find a work of popular fiction in which more time is spent in the men’s room than this one. The mystery is also well-plotted; two separate killings are quite quickly recognized as related (which is a relief; who doesn’t hate a murder mystery in which seemingly-random threads ‘come together’ at the end in ridiculously unlikely fashion?), and Wallander and team are soon working round the clock as the killer leaves them constantly feeling ‘one step behind’. On the downside, this book is utterly humorless – this seems typical of the Scandinavian murder-mystery sub-genre – and its translation seems unusually flat. It’s a pace-y but prosaic journey we take around southern Sweden. Also, although there is no one incident in the story at which the suspension of disbelief is shattered, there are many implausible and unlikely events. I won’t include spoilers, but there were several sequences in which it’s clear Mankell was finding it hard to keep at bay the imaginary screen adapters looking over his shoulder.Never the less, One Step Behind is an enjoyable read, and is recommended.

    Book preview

    One Step Behind - Henning Mankell

    Prologue

    The rain stopped shortly after five o’clock.

    The man crouching beside the thick tree trunk carefully removed his coat. It hadn’t rained hard and it hadn’t lasted for more than half an hour, but the dampness had nonetheless seeped through his clothing. He felt a sudden flash of anger. He didn’t want to catch a cold. Not now, not in the middle of summer.

    He lay the raincoat on the ground and stood up. His legs were stiff. He started swaying back and forth gently to get his circulation going. At the same time, he looked around for any signs of movement.

    He knew that the people he was waiting for wouldn’t arrive before eight o’clock. That was the plan. But there was a chance, however small, that someone else could come walking down one of the paths that snaked through the nature preserve.

    That was the only factor that lay beyond his control, the only thing he couldn’t be sure of.

    Even so, he wasn’t worried. It was Midsummer’s Eve. There weren’t any camping or picnic areas in the preserve, and the people had chosen the spot with care. They wanted to be alone.

    They had decided on this place two weeks ago. At that point he had been following them closely for several months. He had even come to look at the spot after he learned of their decision. He had taken great pains not to let himself be seen as he wandered through the grounds. At one point an older couple came walking along one of the paths and he hid himself behind some trees until they passed.

    Later, when he located the spot for their Midsummer festivities, he had immediately been struck by how ideal it was. It lay in a hollow with thick brush all around. There were a few trees scattered farther up the hillside.

    They couldn’t have chosen a better spot.

    Not for their purposes. Nor his own.

    The rain clouds were dispersing. The sun came out and it immediately became warmer.

    It had been a chilly June. Everyone had complained about the early summer in Skåne. And he had agreed.

    He always did.

    It’s the only way to sidestep life’s obstacles, he thought. To escape whatever crosses one’s path.

    He had learned the art of agreeing.

    He looked up at the sky. There would be no more rain. The spring and early summer had really been quite cold. But now, as evening approached on Midsummer’s Eve itself, the sun came out at last.

    It will be a beautiful evening, he thought. As well as memorable.

    It smelled of wet grass. He heard the sound of flapping wings somewhere. To the left below the hillside there was a glimpse of the sea.

    He stood wide-legged and spit out the wad of chewing tobacco that had started to dissolve in his mouth. Then he stamped it out in the sand.

    He never left any traces. But he often thought that he should stop using chewing tobacco. It was a bad habit. Something that didn’t suit him.

    They had decided to meet in Hammar.

    That was the best place, since some of them were coming from Simrishamn and the others from Ystad. They would drive out to the nature preserve, park their cars, and walk to the spot they had chosen.

    They had not been able to decide on anything for a long time. They had discussed various alternatives and sent the proposals back and forth. But when one of them finally suggested this place, the others had quickly assented. Perhaps because they had run out of time. One of them took care of the food, while another went to Copenhagen and rented the clothes and wigs that were needed. Nothing would be left to chance.

    They even took bad weather into account.

    At two o’clock in the afternoon on Midsummer’s Eve, one of them put a big tarp in his red duffel bag. He also included a roll of tape and some old aluminum tent-stakes. If it rained, at least they would have some shelter.

    Everything was ready. There was only one thing that could not have been anticipated.

    One of them suddenly became ill.

    It was a young woman, the one who had perhaps been looking forward to the Midsummer’s Eve plans most of all. She had met the others less than a year before.

    When she woke up that morning she had felt nauseated. At first she thought it was because she was nervous. But some hours later, when it was already twelve o’clock, she had started vomiting and running a high fever. She still hoped it would pass. But when her ride showed up at the door, she stood there on trembling legs and said that she was too ill to go.

    Consequently, there were only three of them in Hammar shortly before half past seven on Midsummer’s Eve. But they did not allow this to spoil the mood. They were experienced; they knew that these things happened. One could never guard against sudden illness.

    They parked their cars outside the nature preserve, took their baskets, and disappeared down one of the paths. One of them thought he heard an accordion in the distance. But otherwise there were just birds and the distant sound of the sea.

    When they arrived at the selected spot they realized at once that it had been the right choice. They would be undisturbed here and free to await the dawn.

    The sky was now completely free of clouds.

    The midsummer night would be clear and beautiful.

    They had made the plans for this Midsummer’s Eve at the beginning of February. Back then they had spoken of their longing for light summer nights. They had drunk large quantities of wine and quarreled at length about the precise meaning of the word dusk: At what point did this particular moment between light and dark arrive? How could one really describe the landscape of twilight in words? How much could you actually still see when the light passed into this obscure state of transition, defined by a certain length of the shadows?

    They had not come to an agreement. The question of dusk had remained unsolved. But they had started planning their celebration that evening.

    When they arrived at the hollow and put down their baskets, they separated and changed behind some thick bushes. They wedged small makeup mirrors in the branches so they could see that the wigs were on straight.

    None of them sensed the man who was observing their intricate preparations from a distance. Getting the wigs to sit straight turned out to be the easiest part. Putting on the corsets, padding, and petticoats was more difficult, as was arranging the cravat and the ruffles, not to mention applying the thick layers of powder. They wanted every detail to be perfect. They were playing a game, but the game was in earnest.

    At eight o’clock they came out from behind their bushes and looked at each other. It was a breathtaking moment. Once more they had left their own time for another age.

    The age of Bellman, the bacchanalian eighteenth-century poet.

    They drew closer and burst into laughter. But then they regained their dignified demeanor. They spread out a large tablecloth, unpacked their baskets, and put on a cassette tape with several renditions of the most famous songs from Bellman’s work Fredman’s Epistles.

    Then the celebration began. When winter comes, they said to themselves, we will think back on this evening.

    They were creating yet another secret for each other.

    At midnight he had still not made up his mind.

    He knew he had plenty of time. They would be staying until dawn. Perhaps they would even stay and sleep all morning.

    He knew their plans down to the last detail. It gave him a feeling of unlimited power.

    Only he who had the upper hand was free to escape.

    Slightly after eleven o’clock, when he heard that they were tipsy, he carefully changed his position. He had picked out the starting point for his actions on his first visit. It was a dense thicket a bit higher up on the hillside. Here he had a full view of everything that was happening on the light-blue tablecloth. And he could approach them without being seen. From time to time they left the tablecloth in order to relieve themselves. He could see everything they did.

    It was past midnight. Still he waited. He waited because he was hesitating.

    Something was wrong.

    There should have been four of them. One of them had not come. In his head he went through the possible reasons. There was no reason. Something unexpected must have happened. Had the girl changed her mind? Was she sick?

    He listened to the music and the laughter. From time to time he imagined that he too sat down there on the light-blue tablecloth, a wineglass in his hand. Afterward he would try on one of the wigs. Perhaps some of the clothes, too? There was so much he could do. There were no limits. He could not have had more power over them if he had been invisible.

    He continued to wait. The laughter rose and fell. Somewhere above his head a night bird quickly swooped by.

    It was ten minutes past three o’clock.

    He couldn’t wait any longer. The moment was at hand. The hour he alone had appointed.

    He could barely remember the last time he had worn a wristwatch. The hours and minutes ticked continuously within him. He had an inner clock that was always on time.

    Down by the light-blue tablecloth everything was still. They lay with their arms wrapped around one another, listening to the music. He didn’t know if they were sleeping. But they were lost in the moment, and did not sense that he was right behind them.

    He picked up the handgun with the silencer that had been lying on his raincoat. He looked around quickly.

    Then he stealthily made his way to the tree located directly behind the group. There he paused for a few seconds. No one had noticed anything. He looked around one last time. But there was no one else.

    They were alone.

    He stepped out and shot each of them once in the head. He couldn’t help it that blood splattered onto the white wigs. It was over so quickly that he barely had time to register what he was doing.

    But now they lay dead at his feet. Still wrapped around each other, just like a few seconds before.

    He turned off the tape recorder that had been playing. He listened. The birds were chirping. Once again he looked around. Of course there was no one there.

    He put his gun away, and spread a napkin out on the cloth. He never left a trace.

    He sat down on the napkin and looked at those who had recently been laughing and who were now dead.

    The idyll hasn’t been affected, he thought. The only difference is that we are now four. As the plan had been all along.

    He poured himself a glass of red wine. He didn’t really drink. But now he simply couldn’t resist.

    Then he tried on one of the wigs. He ate a little of the food. He wasn’t particularly hungry.

    At three-thirty he got up.

    He still had much to do. The nature preserve was frequented by early risers. In the unlikely event that someone left the path and found their way into the hollow, they would not find any traces.

    At least not yet.

    The last thing he did before he left the spot was comb through their bags and clothes. He found what he was looking for. All three had been carrying their passports. Now he put them into his coat pocket. Later that day he would burn them.

    He looked around one last time. He took a little camera out of his pocket and took a picture.

    Only one.

    It was like looking at a painting of a picnic from the eighteenth century.

    Except that someone had spilled blood on this painting.

    It was the morning after Midsummer’s Eve. Saturday, the twenty-second of June.

    It was going to be a beautiful day.

    Summer had come to Skåne at last.

    Part One

    Chapter One

    On Wednesday, the seventh of August, 1996, Kurt Wallander came close to being killed in a traffic accident just east of Ystad.

    It happened early in the morning, shortly after six o’clock. He had just driven through Nybrostrand on his way out to Österlen. Suddenly he had seen a truck looming in front of his Peugeot. He heard the truck’s horn blaring as he violently wrenched the wheel to the side.

    Afterward he had pulled off the road. That was when the fear set in. His heart throbbed in his rib cage. He felt nauseated and dizzy, and he thought he was about to faint. He kept his hands tightly clenched around the wheel.

    When he calmed himself he slowly realized what had happened.

    He had fallen asleep at the wheel. Nodded off just long enough for his old car to begin to drift into the opposing lane.

    One second longer and he would have been dead, crushed by the heavy truck.

    The realization made him feel suddenly empty. The only thing he could think of was the time, a few years earlier, when he had almost driven into an elk outside Tingsryd.

    But back then it had been dark and foggy. This time he had nodded off at the wheel.

    The fatigue.

    He didn’t understand it. It had come over him without warning, shortly before the start of his vacation at the beginning of June. This year he had planned to take his vacation early. But the whole holiday had been lost to rain. It was only when he returned to work shortly after Midsummer that the warm and sunny weather had come to Skåne.

    The tiredness had been there all along. He could fall asleep in whatever chair he happened to find himself in. Even after a long night’s undisturbed sleep, he had to force himself out of bed. Often when he was in the car he found himself needing to pull over to take a short nap.

    He didn’t understand it. His daughter Linda had asked him about his lack of energy during the week that they had spent sightseeing together in Gotland. It was on one of the last days, when they had checked into an inn in Burgsvik. They had spent the day exploring the southern tip of Gotland, and they had eaten dinner at a pizzeria before returning to the inn. The evening was particularly beautiful.

    She had asked him point-blank about the fatigue. He had studied her face on the other side of the kerosene lamp and realized that her question had been thought out in advance. But he shrugged it off. There was nothing wrong with him. Surely, the fact that he used part of his vacation to catch up on lost sleep was to be expected. Linda didn’t ask any other questions. But he knew that she hadn’t believed him.

    Now he realized that he couldn’t ignore it any longer. The fatigue wasn’t natural. Something was wrong. He tried to think if he had other symptoms that could signal an illness. But apart from the fact that he sometimes woke in the middle of the night with leg cramps, he hadn’t been able to think of anything.

    He realized how close to death he had been. Now he couldn’t put it off any longer. He would make an appointment with the doctor today.

    He started the engine and drove on. He rolled down the windows. Although it was already August, the heat of summer showed no sign of letting up.

    Wallander was on his way to his father’s house in Löderup. No matter how many times he went down this road, he still found it hard to adjust to the fact that his father wouldn’t be sitting there in his studio, surrounded by the ever-present smell of turpentine, in front of the easel where he painted pictures of a recurring and unchanging subject: a landscape, with or without a wood grouse in the foreground, the sun hanging from invisible threads above the treetops.

    It had been close to two years now since Gertrud had called the police station in Ystad and told him that his father was lying dead on the studio floor. He could still recall with photographic clarity his drive out to Löderup, denying that it could be true. But when he had seen Gertrud in the yard, he had known he could not repress it any longer. He had known what awaited him.

    The two years had gone by quickly. As often as he could, but not often enough, he visited Gertrud, who still lived in his father’s house. A year went by before they began to clean up the studio in earnest. They found a total of thirty-two paintings that were completed and signed. One night in December of 1995, they sat down at Gertrud’s kitchen table and made up a list of the people who would receive these paintings. Wallander kept two for himself. One with a wood grouse, the other without. Linda would get one, as would his ex-wife, Mona. Surprisingly, and disappointingly to Wallander, his sister Kristina had not wanted one. Gertrud already had several and did not need any more. They therefore had twenty-eight paintings to give away. With some hesitation, Wallander sent one to a detective in Kristianstad with whom he had had sporadic contact. But after giving away twenty-three of the paintings, they couldn’t think of any more names. At that point they had even given one to each of Gertrud’s relatives. There were five paintings remaining.

    Wallander wondered what he should do with them. He knew that he would never be able to make himself burn them.

    Technically they belonged to Gertrud. But she had said that he and Kristina should have them. She had come so late into their father’s life.

    Wallander passed the turnoff to Kaseberga. He would be there soon. He thought about the task that lay before him. One evening in May, he and Gertrud had taken a long walk along the tractor trails that wound their way along the edges of the linseed fields. She said she no longer wanted to live there. It was starting to get too lonely.

    I don’t want to live there so long that he starts to haunt me, she said.

    Instinctively, he knew what she meant. He would probably have reacted the same way.

    They walked between the fields and she asked for his help in selling the house. There was no hurry; it could wait until the summer’s end. But she wanted to move out before the fall. Her sister was newly widowed and lived outside the town of Rynge, and that was where she wanted to move too.

    Now the time had come. Wallander had taken the day off. At nine o’clock a real estate agent would come out from Ystad, and together they would settle on a reasonable selling price. Before that, Wallander and Gertrud would go through the last few boxes of his father’s belongings. They had finished packing the week before. His colleague Martinsson came out with a trailer and they made several trips to the dump outside Hedeskoga. It occurred to Wallander, who was experiencing a growing sense of unease, that what remained of a person’s life inevitably ended up at the nearest dump.

    All that was left of his father now—aside from the memories—were some photographs, five paintings, and some boxes of old letters and papers. Nothing more. His life was over and completely accounted for.

    Wallander turned down the road leading to his father’s house.

    He caught a glimpse of Gertrud waiting in the yard. She was always up early.

    She greeted him. To his surprise he saw that she was wearing the same dress she had worn at the wedding. He immediately felt a lump in his throat. For Gertrud, this was a moment of solemnity. She was leaving her home.

    They drank coffee in the kitchen, where the doors to the cabinets stood ajar and revealed empty shelves. Gertrud’s sister was coming to get her today. Wallander would keep one key and give the other to the real estate agent.

    Together they leafed through the contents of the two boxes. Among the old letters Wallander was surprised to find a pair of children’s shoes that he seemed to remember from his childhood. Had his father saved them all these years?

    He carried the boxes out to the car. When he closed the car door, he saw Gertrud on the steps. She smiled.

    There are five paintings left. You haven’t forgotten about them, have you?

    Wallander shook his head. He walked toward the little house that had been his father’s studio. The door was open. Although they had cleaned in here, the smell of turpentine remained. The pot that his father had used for making endless cups of coffee stood on the hotplate.

    This may be the last time I am here, he thought. But in contrast to Gertrud I haven’t dressed up. I’m in my old baggy clothes. And if I hadn’t been so lucky I could also have been dead now, like my father. Linda would have to drive to the dump with what was left after me. And among my stuff she would find two paintings, one with a wood grouse painted in the foreground.

    The place spooked him. His father was still in there in the dark studio.

    The paintings were leaning against one wall. He carried them to the car. Then he lay them in the trunk and spread a blanket over them. Gertrud remained on the steps.

    Is there anything else? she asked.

    Wallander shook his head.

    There’s nothing else, he answered. Nothing.

    002

    At nine o’clock the real estate agent’s car swung into the yard. When the man behind the wheel got out, Wallander realized to his surprise that he recognized him. His name was Robert Åkerblom. A couple of years earlier his wife had been brutally murdered and disposed of in an old well. It had been one of the most difficult and grisly murder investigations that Wallander had ever been involved in. He furrowed his brow. He had decided to contact a large real estate company that had offices all over Sweden. Åkerblom’s business did not belong to them, if it was even still in existence. Wallander thought he had heard that it had closed shortly after Louise Åkerblom’s murder.

    He went out onto the steps. Robert Åkerblom looked exactly as Wallander remembered him. At their first meeting in Wallander’s office he had wept. Wallander seemed to recall thinking at the time that Robert Åkerblom had one of those faces he would never remember. But the worry and grief for his wife had been genuine. Wallander recalled that they had been active in a non-Lutheran church. He thought they were Methodists.

    They shook hands.

    We meet again, said Robert Åkerblom.

    His voice sounded familiar. For a second Wallander felt confused. What was the right thing to say?

    But Robert Åkerblom beat him to the punch.

    I grieve for her as much now as I did then, he said slowly. But of course it’s even harder for the girls.

    Wallander remembered the two girls. They had been so young then. They took it in without being able to fully understand what had happened.

    It must be hard, he said.

    For a moment he was afraid that the events of the last meeting would repeat themselves; that Robert Åkerblom would start crying. But that didn’t happen.

    I tried to keep the business going, he continued, but I didn’t have the energy. When I got the offer to join the firm of a competitor, I took it. I’ve never regretted it. I don’t have the long nights of going over the books anymore. I’ve been able to spend more time with the girls.

    Gertrud joined them and they went through the house together. Robert Åkerblom made notes and took some photographs. Afterward they had a cup of coffee in the kitchen. The price that Åkerblom came up with seemed low to Wallander at first. Then he realized that it was three times what his father had paid for the place.

    Robert Åkerblom left a little after eleven o’clock. Wallander thought he should perhaps stay until Gertrud’s sister came to get her. But she sensed his thoughts and told him she didn’t mind being left alone.

    It’s a beautiful day, she said. Summer has come at last, even though it’s almost over. I’ll sit in the garden.

    I’ll stay if you like. I’m off work today.

    Gertrud shook her head.

    Come and see me in Rynge, she said. But wait a couple of weeks first. I have to get settled in.

    Wallander got in his car and drove back to Ystad. He was going straight home to make an appointment with his doctor. Then he would sign up to use the laundry facilities and clean the apartment.

    Since he wasn’t in a hurry, he chose the longer way back. He liked driving, just looking at the landscape and letting his mind wander.

    He had just passed Valleberga when the phone rang. It was Martinsson. Wallander pulled over.

    I’ve been trying to get hold of you, Martinsson said. Of course no one mentioned that you were off work today. And do you know that your answering machine is broken?

    Wallander knew the machine sometimes got stuck. He also immediately sensed that something had just happened. Although he had been a policeman for a long time, the feeling was always the same. His stomach tensed up. He held his breath.

    I’m calling you from Hansson’s room, Martinsson continued. Astrid Hillström’s mother is here to see me.

    Who?

    Astrid Hillström. One of those missing kids. Her mother.

    Now Wallander knew who he meant.

    What does she want?

    She’s very upset. Her daughter sent her a postcard from Vienna.

    Wallander furrowed his brow.

    Isn’t it good news that she’s finally written?

    She claims her daughter didn’t write it. She’s upset that we’re not doing anything.

    How can we do anything when no crime seems to have been committed ? When all the evidence indicates that they left of their own accord?

    Martinsson paused for a moment before answering.

    I don’t know what it is, he said. But I have a feeling that there’s something to what she’s saying. I don’t know what—but there’s something. Maybe.

    Wallander immediately grew more attentive. Over the years he had learned to take Martinsson’s hunches seriously. More often than not, they were later proved right.

    Do you want me to come in?

    No, but I think you, me, and Svedberg should talk this thing over tomorrow morning.

    What time?

    How about eight o’clock? I’ll tell Svedberg.

    Wallander sat still for a moment after the conversation was over. He watched a tractor out on a field.

    He thought about what Martinsson had said. He had also met Astrid Hillström’s mother on several occasions.

    He went over the events again in his mind.

    A few days after Midsummer’s Eve some young people were reported missing. It happened right after he had returned from his rainy vacation. He reviewed the case together with a couple of his colleagues. From the outset he doubted that any crime had been committed and, as it turned out, a postcard arrived from Hamburg three days later. It had a picture of the central railway station on the front. Wallander could recall its message word for word. We are traveling around Europe. We may be gone until the middle of August.

    Today it was Wednesday, the seventh of August. They would be home soon. Another postcard written by Astrid Hillström came from Vienna.

    The first card was signed by all three of them. Their parents recognized the signatures. Only Astrid Hillström’s mother hesitated. But she allowed herself to be convinced by the others.

    Wallander glanced in his rearview mirror and drove out onto the main road. Martinsson had been right about his misgivings.

    Wallander parked on Mariagatan and carried up the boxes and the five paintings. Then he sat down by the phone. At his regular doctor’s office he only reached an answering machine. The doctor wouldn’t be back from vacation until the twelfth of August. Wallander wondered if he should wait until then, but he couldn’t shake the thought of how close to death he had come that morning. He called another doctor and made an appointment for eleven o’clock the following day. He signed up to do laundry, then started cleaning his apartment. He was already completely exhausted after doing the bedroom. He pulled the vacuum cleaner back and forth a few times over the living room floor, then put it away. He carried the boxes and paintings into the room that Linda normally used the few times she came to stay.

    He drank three glasses of water in the kitchen.

    He wondered about his thirst and the fatigue. What was causing them?

    It was already noon, and he realized he was hungry. A quick look in the refrigerator told him there wasn’t much there. He put on his coat and went out. It was a nice day. As he walked to the center of town, he looked at the properties for sale in the windows of three separate real estate offices. He realized that the price Robert Åkerblom had suggested was fair. They could hardly get more than 300,000 kronor for the house in Löderup.

    He stopped at a fast-food kiosk and ate a hamburger. He also drank two bottles of mineral water. Then he went into a shoe store where he knew the owner and used the bathroom. When he came back out onto the street, he felt unsure of what to do next. He should have used his day off to go shopping. He had no food in the house. But right now he didn’t have the energy to go back for the car and drive to a supermarket. After Hamngatan, he crossed the train tracks and turned down Spanienfararegatan. When he arrived down at the waterfront, he strolled along a pier and looked at all the sailboats. He wondered what it would be like to sail. It was something he had absolutely no experience with at all. Then he realized he needed to urinate again. He used the restroom at the harbor café, drank another bottle of mineral water, and sat down on a bench outside the red Coast Guard building.

    The last time he had been here it had been winter, the night Baiba left.

    He had taken her to Sturup Airport and it was already dark. The wind made whirls of snow dance in the headlights. They hadn’t said a word. After he watched her disappear past the checkpoint, he returned to Ystad and went to sit on this bench. The wind had been very cold and he was freezing, but he sat here and realized that everything was over. He wouldn’t see Baiba again. The breakup was final.

    She came to Ystad in December of 1994. His father had just died and he had just finished one of the most challenging investigations of his career. But that fall he had also, for the first time in many years, been making plans for the future. He decided to leave Mariagatan, move to the country, and get a dog. He even visited a kennel and looked at Labrador puppies. He was going to make a fresh start. And above all, he wanted Baiba to move in with him. She visited him over Christmas and Wallander could tell that she and Linda got along well. Then, on New Year’s Eve 1995, the last few days before she was due to return to Riga, they talked seriously about the future. Maybe she would move to Sweden for good as early as next summer. They went to look at houses together. They looked at a house on a subdivision of an old farm outside Svenstorp several times. But then, one evening in March, when Wallander was already in bed, she called from Riga and told him she was having doubts. She didn’t want to get married, didn’t want to move to Sweden—at least not yet. He thought he would be able to get her to change her mind. The conversation ended with an unpleasant and drawn-out quarrel, their first. Afterward they didn’t speak for over a month. Finally, Wallander called her and they decided he would go to Riga that summer. They spent two weeks by the sea in a run-down old house that she had borrowed from one of her colleagues at the university. They took long walks on the beach and Wallander made a point of waiting for her to broach the question of the future. But when she finally did, she was vague and noncommittal. Not now, not yet. Why couldn’t things stay as they were? When Wallander returned to Sweden, he felt dejected and was still unsure of where things stood. The fall had gone by without another meeting. They had talked about it, made plans, and considered various alternatives. But nothing had come of it. It was also during this period that Wallander became jealous. Was there another man in Riga? Someone he didn’t know anything about? On several occasions he called her in the middle of the night and although she always insisted that she was alone, he had the distinct feeling that there had been someone else in her apartment.

    She had come to Ystad for Christmas that year. Linda had not been with them except on Christmas Eve, before leaving for Scotland with friends. And it was then, a couple of days into the new year, that Baiba had told him she could never move to Sweden. She had gone back and forth for a long time. But now she knew. She didn’t want to lose her position at the university. What could she do in Sweden, especially Ystad? She could perhaps become an interpreter. But what else could she do? Wallander tried to persuade her to change her mind, but he didn’t succeed and was forced to give up. Without saying anything explicitly, they both knew it was over. After four years there was no longer any road leading into the future. Wallander took her to Sturup, watched her disappear beyond the checkpoint, and spent the rest of that winter evening on the frozen bench outside the Coast Guard headquarters. He had been downcast and felt more abandoned than ever before. But then another feeling had crept over him. Relief. After all, now he knew where things stood.

    A motorboat sped out of the harbor. Wallander got up. He needed to find a bathroom again.

    They called each other from time to time. But then that had stopped too. Now they hadn’t been in touch for over six months. One day when he and Linda were walking around Visby she had asked if things with Baiba were finally over.

    Yes, he replied. It’s over.

    She waited for him to continue.

    I don’t think either of us really wanted to break it off, he told her. But it was inevitable.

    When he got home, he lay down on the sofa to read the paper but fell asleep almost immediately. An hour later he woke up with a start in the middle of a dream.

    He had been in Rome with his father. Rydberg had also been with them, as well as some small, dwarf-like creatures who insisted on pinching their legs.

    Wallander paused on the sofa.

    I’m dreaming about the dead, he thought. What does that mean? I dream about my father almost every night and he’s dead. So is Rydberg, my old colleague and friend. The one who taught me everything I can even claim to know. And he’s been gone for almost five years.

    He went out onto the balcony. It was still warm and calm. Clouds were starting to pile up on the horizon.

    Suddenly it struck him how terribly lonely he was. Apart from Linda, who lived in Stockholm and whom he saw only occasionally, he had almost no friends. The people he spent time with were people from work. And he never saw them socially.

    He went into the bathroom and rinsed off his face. He looked in the mirror and saw that he had a tan, but the tiredness still shone through. His left eye was bloodshot. His hairline had receded further.

    He stepped on the scale. He weighed a couple of kilos less than at the start of the summer, but it was still too much.

    The phone rang and he answered. It was Gertrud.

    I just wanted to let you know that I made it safely to Rynge. Everything went well.

    I’ve been thinking about you, Wallander told her. I should have stayed there with you.

    I think I needed to be alone with all my memories. But things will be fine here. My sister and I get along well. We always have.

    I’ll be out to see you in about a week.

    After the end of their conversation, the phone rang again immediately. This time it was his colleague Ann-Britt Höglund.

    I just wanted to hear how it went, she said.

    How what went?

    Weren’t you supposed to meet with a real estate agent today? About selling your father’s house?

    Wallander recalled that he had exchanged a few words with her on the subject the day before.

    It went pretty well, he said. You can buy it for three hundred thousand kronor if you like.

    I never even got to see it, she replied.

    It feels quite strange, he told her. The house is so empty now. Getrud has moved and someone else will buy it. It’ll probably be used as a summer house. Other people will live in it and not know anything about my dad.

    All houses have ghosts, she said. Except the newest ones.

    The smell of turpentine will linger for a while, Wallander mused. But when that’s gone there will be nothing left of the people who once lived there.

    That’s so sad.

    It’s just the way it is. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for calling.

    Wallander went to the kitchen and drank some water.

    Ann-Britt was a very thoughtful person. She remembered things. He would never have thought to do the same if the situation had been reversed.

    It was already seven o’clock. He fried up some Falu sausage and potatoes and ate in front of the TV. He flipped through the channels, but nothing seemed very interesting. Afterward he took his cup of coffee and went out onto the balcony. As soon as the sun went down, it cooled off. He went back in again.

    The rest of the evening he spent going through the things he had brought back from Löderup earlier that day.

    At the bottom of one of the boxes there was a brown envelope. When he opened it he saw a couple of old, faded photographs. He couldn’t recall ever having seen them before. He was in one of them, perhaps four or five years old, perched on the hood of a big American car. His father was standing beside him so he wouldn’t fall off.

    Wallander took the photograph with him into the kitchen and got out a magnifying glass from one of the kitchen drawers.

    We’re smiling, he thought. I’m looking straight into the camera and beaming with pride. I’ve been allowed to sit on one of the art hawker’s cars. One of the ones who used to buy my father’s art for outrageous prices. My father is also smiling, but he’s looking at me.

    Wallander sat with the snapshot for a long time. It spoke to him from a distant and inaccessible past. Once upon a time he and his father had been very close. When he decided to become a policeman, all that had changed. In the last few years of his father’s life, they had slowly been retracing their steps back to the closeness that had been lost.

    But we never made it this far, Wallander thought. Not all the way back to the smile I had on the hood of this gleaming Buick. We almost got there in Rome, but it still wasn’t like this.

    Wallander tacked the photo to his kitchen door. Then he went back out onto the balcony. The clouds had gotten closer. He sat down in front of the TV and watched the end of an old movie.

    At midnight he went to bed.

    He had a meeting with Svedberg and Martinsson the next day. And he had to go to the doctor.

    He lay awake in the darkness for a long time.

    Two years ago he had thought about moving from the apartment on Mariagatan. He had dreamed of getting a dog, of living with Baiba.

    But nothing had come of it. No Baiba, no house, no dog. Everything stayed the same.

    Something’s got to happen, he thought. Something that makes it possible for me to start thinking about the future again.

    It was almost three o’clock in the morning when he finally fell asleep.

    Chapter Two

    The clouds started breaking up during the early hours of the morning.

    Wallander was already awake at six o’clock. He had been dreaming about his father again. Fragmented and unconnected images had flickered through his subconscious mind. In the dream he had been both a child and an adult. There had been no coherent story. Recalling the dream was like trying to follow a ship into a fog bank.

    He got up, showered, and drank some coffee. When he walked out onto the street he noticed that the warmth of summer still lingered and it was unusually calm. He drove to the police station. Since it was not yet seven o’clock, the corridors were empty. He got another cup of coffee and went into his office. For once his desk was virtually free of binders and he wondered when he last had so little to do. During the past few years Wallander had seen his workload increase in proportion to the diminishing resources of the police force. Investigations were rushed or ignored altogether. Often a preliminary report resulted in a suspected crime going uninvestigated. Wallander knew that this would not be the case if only they had more time, if only there were more of them.

    Did crime pay? That age-old question was still open to debate. Even those who felt that crime now had the upper hand were hard-pressed to pinpoint the historical moment when the tables had turned. Personally he was convinced that the criminal element had a stronger hold in Sweden than ever before. Criminals engaged in sophisticated financial dealings lived as if in a safe haven. In dealing with them, the judicial system seemed to have capitulated completely.

    Wallander often discussed these problems with his colleagues. He noticed that civilian fears about these developments were growing. Gertrud talked about it. The neighbors he ran into in the laundry room talked about it.

    Wallander knew their fears were justified. But he didn’t see any signs of significant preventive measures being taken. On the contrary, the reduction of the police force and the court personnel continued.

    He took off his coat, opened the window, and looked out at the old water tower.

    During the last few years, vigilante groups had been on the rise in Sweden. The Civilian Guard. Wallander had long feared this development. Whenever the official justice system started breaking down, the lynching mentality of the mob started taking over. Taking justice into one’s own hands became something normal.

    As he stood there at the window, he wondered how many illegal weapons were floating around Sweden. And he wondered what the figures would be in a couple of years.

    He sat down at his desk. His door

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