Firewall (3 page)

But the boy returned with the roses as promised. Wallander gave him 20 kronor, the ten he'd promised him and ten for actually coming back. He knew he was being overly generous, but it was too late now. A taxi drew up at the church steps and Stefan's mother got out. She had aged and was so thin she looked ill. A young boy of about seven stood by her side. He looked a lot like his brother. His eyes were wide and frightened. He still lived in fear from that time. Wallander walked over and greeted them.

"It's just going to be us and the minister," the woman said.

They walked into the church. The minister was a young man who was sitting on a chair next to the coffin, leafing through a newspaper. Wallander felt Anette Fredman suddenly grab hold of his arm. He understood.

The minister got up and put his newspaper away. They sat down to the right of the coffin. She was still clinging to Wallander's arm.

First she lost her husband, Wallander thought. Björn Fredman was an unpleasant and brutal man, who hit her and terrified his children, but he had been her husband and the father of her children. He was murdered by his own son. Then her oldest child, Louise, had died. And now here she is, about to bury her son. What's left for her? Half a life? As much as that?

Someone entered the church behind them. Fru Fredman did not seem to hear anything, or else she was trying so hard to stay in control of herself that she couldn't focus on anything else. A woman was walking up the aisle. She was about Wallander's age. Anette Fredman finally looked up and nodded to her. The woman sat down a few rows behind them.

"She's a doctor," she said. "Her name is Agneta Malmström. She helped Jens a while back when he wasn't doing so well."

Wallander recognised the name, but it took him a moment to remember that it was Agneta Malmström and her husband who had provided him with the most important clues in the Stefan Fredman case. He had spoken to her late one night with the help of Stockholm Radio. She had been on a yacht far out at sea, beyond Landsort.

Wallander heard organ music although he had not seen an organist. The minister had turned on a tape recorder. Wallander wondered why he had not heard any church bells. Didn't funerals always start with the ringing of church bells? This thought was pushed aside when Anette Fredman's grip on his arm tightened. He cast a glance at the boy by her side. Should a child his age be attending a funeral? Wallander didn't think so. But the boy looked fairly collected.

The music died away and the minister began to speak. He started by reminding them of Christ's words, "Let the little ones come unto me." Wallander concentrated on the wreath that lay on the coffin, counting the blossoms to keep the lump in his throat from growing.

The service was short. Afterwards, they approached the coffin. Fru Fredman was breathing hard, as if she were in the final few yards of a race. Dr Malmström stood right behind them. Wallander turned to the minister, who seemed impatient.

"Bells," Wallander said to him. "Why were there no bells? There should be bells ringing as we walk out, and not a recording either."

The minister nodded hesitantly. Wallander wondered what would have happened if he had pulled out his police badge. They started walking out. Jens and his mother went ahead. Wallander said hello to Agneta Malmström.

"I recognised you," she said. "We've never met, but I've seen your face in the papers."

"She asked me to come. Did she call you too?"

"No, I came of my own accord."

"What's going to happen now?"

Dr Malmström shook her head slowly. "I don't know. She's started drinking heavily. I have no idea how Jens is going to get on."

At this point they reached the vestibule where Fru Fredman and Jens were waiting for them. The church bells rang out. Wallander opened the doors, throwing one last look at the coffin. Some men were already carrying it through a side door.

Suddenly a flash went off in his face. There had been a press photographer waiting outside. Anette Fredman held up her hands to shield her face. The photographer turned from her and tried to get a picture of the boy. Wallander put out his arm to stop him, but the photographer was too quick. He got his picture.

"Why can't you leave us alone?" Fru Fredman cried.

The boy started to cry. Wallander grabbed the photographer and pulled him aside. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed.

"None of your fucking business," the photographer said. He had bad breath. "I shoot whatever sells. Pictures of a serial killer's funeral sell. Too bad I didn't get here earlier."

Wallander reached for his police badge, then changed his mind and snatched the camera. The photographer tried to pull it out of his hands, but Wallander was stronger. He opened the camera and pulled out the film.

"There have to be limits," Wallander said, and handed the camera back to him.

The photographer stared at him, then took his mobile from his jacket pocket. "I'm calling the police," he said. "That was assault."

"Do it," Wallander said. "I'm a detective with the CID in Ystad. Inspector Kurt Wallander. Call my colleagues in Malmö and tell them whatever you want."

Wallander let the roll of film fall to the ground and broke open the casing under his shoe. The church bells stopped ringing. He was sweating and still enraged. Anette Fredman's shrill plea to be left alone echoed in his head. The photographer stared at the destroyed film. The group of boys were still playing football.

Fru Fredman had asked him to join them for coffee after the service when she called. He had not been able to say no.

"There won't be any pictures in the paper," Wallander said.

"Why can't they leave us alone?"

Wallander had nothing to say. He looked over at Agneta Malmström, but she had nothing to say either.

The flat in the shabby rental building was just as Wallander remembered. Dr Malmström came with them. They sat in silence while they were waiting for the coffee to percolate. Wallander thought he heard a clink of glass from the kitchen.

Jens was on the floor playing quietly with a car. Wallander could see that Dr Malmström found it all as depressing as he did, but there was nothing to say.

They sat there with their coffee cups. Anette Fredman sat across from them with shiny eyes. Dr Malmström tried to discover how she was managing, now that she was unemployed. Fru Fredman answered in vague perfunctory phrases.

"We manage. Things will work out somehow. A day at a time."

The conversation died away. Wallander looked down at his watch. He got up and shook Anette Fredman's hand. She burst into tears. Wallander was taken aback. He didn't know what to do.

"You go," Dr Malmström said. "I'll stay with her a little while."

"I'll call to see how things are going," Wallander said. Then, awkwardly, he patted the boy's head and left.

He sat in the car for a while before starting the engine. He thought about the photographer who was so sure the pictures of a serial killer's funeral would sell.

I can't deny that this is how things are now, he thought. But that doesn't mean that I can understand a single bit of it.

He drove through the autumn landscape to Ystad. It had been a depressing morning.

An easterly wind had picked up. As he walked into the police station, he saw that a belt of cloud was moving in over the coast.

CHAPTER THREE

By the time Wallander reached his office, he had a headache. He looked in his desk drawers for some tablets. He heard Hansson walk past his door whistling. Finally, he found a crumpled packet of acetaminophen. He went to the canteen to get himself a glass of water and a cup of coffee. A group of young officers, who had been taken on during the last couple of years, was sitting at one table talking loudly. Wallander nodded in their direction and said hello. He heard them talking about their time at Police Training College. He walked back to his office and watched the two tablets dissolve in the glass of water.

He thought about Fru Fredman. He tried to imagine what the future might hold for the little boy in the impoverished suburb of Rosengård who had played so quietly on the living-room floor. He had seemed to be hiding from the world, carrying within him his memories of a dead father and two siblings, now both dead too.

Wallander drained the glass and immediately felt the headache lifting. He looked at a folder that Martinsson had put on his desk,
Urgent as all hell
on a red Post-it on the front. Wallander already knew the facts of the case. They had discussed it last week on the telephone while Wallander was at a national police conference on new directions for policing the violence associated with the growing motorcycle gang movement. Wallander had asked to be excused, but Chief Holgersson had insisted. She specifically wanted him on this. One of the gangs had just bought a farm outside Ystad and they had to be prepared to deal with them in the future.

Wallander opened the folder with a sigh. Martinsson had written a concise report of the events. Wallander leaned back in his chair and thought about what he had just read.

Two girls, one 19, the other not more than 14, had ordered a taxi from a restaurant at about 10 p.m. on Tuesday. They had asked to be driven to Rydsgård. One was in the passenger seat. As they reached the outskirts of Ystad she asked the driver to stop, saying she wanted to move to the back seat. When the taxi pulled over to the side of the road, the girl in the back hit the driver on the head with a hammer. The girl in the passenger seat stabbed him in the chest with a knife. They took the driver's wallet and his mobile and left. The driver was able to make an emergency call on the taxi radio despite his condition.

His name was Johan Lundberg and he was about 60 years old. He had been a taxi driver almost all his adult life. He had given good descriptions of both girls. Martinsson had been able to get their names by using these descriptions while interviewing other people who had been in the restaurant.

The girls had been arrested in their homes. Both were now in custody despite their age, because of the enormity of the crime and the violence involved. Lundberg had been conscious when admitted at the hospital, but his condition had deteriorated. He was now unconscious, and the doctors were unsure of the prognosis. As a motive for the crime, Martinsson reported, the girls had offered only the explanation that they "needed money".

Wallander made a face. He had never known anything like it – two girls responsible for an act of such pointless brutality. According to Martinsson's notes, the younger girl had excellent grades at school. The older one was a hotel receptionist and had earlier worked as a nanny in London. She had applied for a place on a foreign-language course at the university. Neither had been in trouble before.

I just don't get it, Wallander thought. This total lack of respect for human life. They could have killed that taxi driver, and it may even turn out that way. Two girls. If they had been boys I could maybe understand, if only because by now I'm used to it.

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. His colleague Ann-Britt Höglund was in the doorway. As usual she looked pale and tired. Wallander thought about the change in her life since she first came to Ystad. She had been one of the best in her class at Police Training College and had arrived with a great deal of energy and ambition. Today she still possessed a strong will, but she was changed. The paleness in her face came from within.

"Do you want me to come back later?" she said.

"No, not at all."

She sat down gingerly in the rickety chair opposite him. Wallander pointed to the papers in front of him. "Do you have anything to say about this?" he asked.

"Is it the taxi driver case?"

"Yes."

"I've talked to the older girl, Hökberg. She gave me clear and strong answers, answered everything. And seemed to have not a trace of remorse. The other girl has been in custody with the social welfare people because of her age."

"Can you understand it?"

Höglund paused before answering. "Yes and no. We know that crime has spread down to the ranks of the very young."

"Forgive me, but I don't recall a case of two teenage girls attacking anyone with a knife and a hammer. Were they drunk?"

"No. But I don't know if that should surprise us. Maybe the surprise is that something like this didn't happen sooner."

Wallander leaned over the desk. "You'll have to run that last part by me again."

"I don't know if I can explain it."

"Give it a try."

"Women aren't needed in the workforce any more. That era is over."

"But that doesn't explain why a young girl would assault a taxi driver."

"There has to be something more to it than we know. Neither you nor I believe that people are born evil."

Wallander shook his head. "I cling to that belief," he said, "though at times it's a challenge."

"Just look at the magazines young girls are reading. Now it's all about beauty again, nothing else. How to get a boyfriend and find meaning for life through his interests and dreams, that sort of thing."

"Wasn't that what they were always about?"

"No. Think of your own daughter. Didn't she have her own ideas about what to do with her life?"

Wallander knew that she was right. "Yes, but that doesn't get me to the point of knowing why they attacked Lundberg," he said.

"But you should know. Young girls are slowly starting to see through the messages society sends them. When they work out they aren't needed, that in fact they're superfluous, they react just as viciously as boys. And go on to commit crimes, among other things."

Wallander was quiet. He now understood the point Höglund had been trying to make.

"I don't think I can explain it any better," she said. "Shouldn't you talk to them yourself?"

"Martinsson has suggested it."

"Actually, I stopped by for another reason. Something I need your help on."

Wallander waited for her to continue.

"I said I'd give a talk to a women's club in Ystad. The meeting is on Thursday evening, but I don't feel up to it any more. There's too much going on in my life, and I can't seem to focus."

Wallander knew that she was in the throes of agonising divorce proceedings. Her husband was constantly away due to his work as an engineer. He was sent all over the world, and that meant that the process was dragging on. It was more than a year since she had first told Wallander about the marriage ending.

"Why don't you see if Martinsson would do it?" Wallander said. "You know I'm hopeless at lectures."

"You only have to tell them what it's like to be a police officer," she said. "And you'd only need to speak for half an hour to an audience of 30 or so women. Probably there will be questions too. They'll love you."

Wallander shook his head firmly. "Martinsson will be more than happy to do it," he said. "And he has experience in politics so he's used to this kind of thing."

"I already asked him. He can't."

"Holgersson?"

"The same. There's only you."

"What about Hansson?"

"He'd start talking about horse racing after a few minutes. He's hopeless."

Wallander saw that he would have to give in. He couldn't leave her in the lurch. "What kind of women's club?"

"It started as a book club, I think, which has grown into a society for intellectual and literary activity. They've been active for about ten years."

"Well, I don't want to do it but, since you're stuck, I will."

She was clearly relieved and gave him a piece of paper. "Here's the name and number of the contact person." The address was in the middle of town, not far from where he lived. Höglund got to her feet.

"They won't pay you anything," she said. "But you'll get plenty of coffee and cake."

"I don't eat cake."

"If it's any help, this kind of public service is exactly what the chief constable wants us to be doing. You know how we're always getting those memoranda about finding new ways of reaching out to the community."

Wallander thought of asking her how she was getting on in her personal life, but he let it pass. If she had a problem she wanted to discuss with him, she would be the one to bring it up.

"Weren't you going to go to Stefan Fredman's funeral?"

"I was just there, and it was exactly as depressing as you might imagine."

"How is the mother taking it? I can't remember her name."

"Anette. She's certainly been dealt a bum hand in life. But I think she's taking good care of the one child she has left. Or is trying to, at any rate."

"We'll have to wait and see."

"What do you mean by that?"

"What's the boy's name?"

"Jens."

"We'll have to wait and see if the name Jens Fredman starts popping up in our police reports in about ten years' time."

Wallander nodded. There was certainly that possibility.

Höglund left and Wallander went to fetch a fresh cup of coffee. The young officers were gone. Wallander walked to Martinsson's office. The door was wide open, but the room was empty. Wallander returned to his office. His headache was gone. He looked out of the window. Some blackbirds were screeching over by the water tower. He tried to count them, but there were too many.

The phone rang and he answered without sitting down at his desk. It was someone calling from the bookshop to let him know that the book he had ordered had come in. Wallander couldn't recall ordering a book, but said that he'd call in to pick it up the following day.

He remembered what the book was as soon as he put the receiver down. It was a present for Linda. A French book on restoring antique furniture. Wallander had read about it in a magazine at the doctor's surgery. He was still hoping that Linda would return to her idea of restoring furniture for a living, despite her subsequent experimentation with other careers. He had ordered the book and promptly forgotten about it. He pushed his coffee cup aside and decided to call her later that evening. It had been several weeks since they had talked.

Martinsson walked in. He was always in a hurry and seldom knocked. Over the years, Wallander had become steadily more convinced of Martinsson's abilities as a police officer. His chief weakness was that he would probably rather be doing something else. There had been times when he had seriously considered quitting, the worst one of which was set off by his daughter being attacked at school. The offenders maintained that it was for no other reason than that she was the daughter of a policeman. That had been enough to push him over the edge. But Wallander had eventually been able to talk him out of it. Martinsson's greatest strengths were that he was both stubborn and sharp. His stubbornness was sometimes overtaken by a certain impatience and then his sharp wits were not enough. Occasionally he turned in sloppy background work.

Martinsson leaned against the door frame. "I tried to ring you," he said, "but your mobile was turned off."

"I was in church," Wallander said. "I forgot to turn it on again."

"At Stefan's funeral?"

Wallander told Martinsson what he had told Höglund, that it was as grim as he could have imagined.

Martinsson gestured to the file on his table.

"I've read it," Wallander said. "And I still can't fathom what drove these girls to take a hammer and a knife and assault someone – anyone – like that."

"It says it right there," Martinsson said. "They needed the money."

"But why such violence? How is he, anyway?"

"Lundberg?"

"Who else?"

"He's still unconscious and on the critical list. They promised to call if there was any change. It doesn't look so good, though."

"Do you understand any of this?"

Martinsson sat down. "No," he said, "I certainly don't. And I'm not sure I want to."

"But we have to. If we're going to do our jobs, that is."

Martinsson looked at Wallander. "You know I've often thought about quitting. Last time you managed to talk me out of it. Next time it won't be as easy."