One Step Behind

"Are we allowed to do that?"

Wallander stared at Martinsson. "Right now we're allowed to do whatever the hell we want."

Martinsson and Leman left, and Wallander was alone. The bird kept singing. A couple of metres away, hidden behind thick bushes, three young people lay dead. How alone can a person possibly feel, he wondered. He sat down on a rock by the path. The bird flew away.

We didn't get them home, he thought. They never left for Europe. They were here the whole time and they were dead. Maybe even since Midsummer. Eva Hillström was right all along. Someone else wrote those postcards. They were here the whole time, in the same spot where they celebrated their Midsummer feast.

He thought about Isa Edengren. Did she realise what had happened? Was that why she had tried to commit suicide? Did she realise the others were dead, just as she would have been if she'd been with them that night?

There were already things that didn't make sense. Why had no one discovered the bodies for a whole month? Even if the spot was out of the way, someone would have come across it, or smelled them. Wallander didn't understand it, but he also couldn't quite bear to keep thinking about it. Who could possibly have wanted to kill three young people dressed up in costume and celebrating Midsummer together? It was an act of insanity. And somewhere in the network of co

Wallander felt an increasing sense of helplessness. Although he had only gazed at the scene for a few seconds, he had not been able to mistake the bullet holes in their foreheads. The murderer knew what he was aiming at. And Svedberg had been the best shot in the force.

A breeze tossed the trees from time to time. In between the small gusts, all was calm. Svedberg was the best shot. Wallander forced himself to think this through. Could Svedberg possibly have been the one? What was there that spoke against this possibility? For that matter, were there any clear alternatives to choose from?

He got up and started walking to and fro along the path. He wished he could have called Rydberg on the phone. But Rydberg was dead, as dead as these three young people. As he moved along the path he had a sudden impulse to run away from it all. He didn't think he could handle the pressure any more. Someone else would have to take over: Martinsson or Hansson. He was burnt out. And he had developed diabetes. He was on a downward spiral.

Finally he heard people approaching. There were sounds of cars in the distance and branches breaking somewhere down the path. Then they were there, gathering around him. He would have to take charge and tell them what to do. He had known many of them for as long as 15 years. Lisa Holgersson was pale. Wallander wondered what he looked like himself.

"They're down there," he said and pointed to the bushes. "They've been shot. Although they haven't been identified yet, I'm sure they're the three missing young people, the ones we assumed, or hoped, were travelling through Europe. Now we know that isn't the case."

He paused before continuing. "I want to prepare you for the fact that the bodies may have been lying here since Midsummer. You all know what that means. There is every reason to put on a mask."

He looked at Holgersson. Did she want to see them? She nodded. Wallander led the way. The only sounds were rustling leaves and small branches breaking underfoot. When the smell of the bodies came wafting over them, someone groaned. Holgersson grabbed Wallander's arm. Wallander knew it was easier to deal with a macabre scene like this in a group rather than alone. Only one of the younger police officers had to turn away and vomit.

"We can't let their parents see this," Holgersson said with a shaky voice. "It's horrible."

Wallander turned to the doctor who had accompanied them. He was also very pale.

"The investigation has to be as quick as possible," Wallander said. "We need to take the bodies back and get them fixed up as soon as possible before the parents have to identify them."

The doctor shook his head. "I'm not touching this," he said simply. "I'm calling Lund."

He went off to the side and made a call on Martinsson's phone.

"We need to be clear about one thing," Wallander said to Holgersson. "We already have a dead police officer on our hands. Now we have three more murder victims. That means four murders to solve, and it's going to be huge when it gets out. There will be enormous pressure on us to catch the killer. We also have to be prepared for rumours of a co

"The suspicion that Svedberg was the killer?"

"Yes."

"Do you think he did it?"

Her question came so quickly that he was taken by surprise. "I don't know," Wallander said slowly. "There are no indications that Svedberg had a motive. Somewhere there's a co

"How much should we say at this point?"

"I don't actually think it matters. We've never been able to protect ourselves from idle speculation."

Höglund was listening to their conversation. He noticed that she was shaking.

"There's one more thing to keep in mind," she said. "Eva Hillström is going to accuse us of not moving on this soon enough."

"She may be right about that," Wallander said. "It may be something we'll have to acknowledge. I'll bear responsibility for it."

"Why you?" Holgersson asked.

"Someone has to," Wallander said simply. "It doesn't matter who it is."

Nyberg gave them all rubber gloves, and they started working. There were specific routines to be followed, tasks that had to be done in a certain order. Wallander walked over to Nyberg, who was instructing someone with a camera.

"I want everything on video," Wallander said. "Both close-up and from far away."

"Will do."

"Try to get someone whose hand won't shake."

"It's always easier to look at death through the lens," Nyberg said. "But we'll use a tripod just in case."

Wallander gathered his team together: Martinsson, Hansson and Höglund. He started looking around for Svedberg but stopped himself.

"They're dressed up," Hansson said. "And they're wearing wigs."

"It's the 18th century," Höglund said. "This time I'm sure."

"So it happened on Midsummer's Eve," Martinsson said. "That's two months ago."

"We don't know that," Wallander broke in. "We don't even know that this is where the crime took place."

He knew how ridiculous it sounded, but it was strange that no one had discovered them for so long. Wallander started walking around the blue linen cloth. He tried to see what had happened. He slowly let his mind pull back from everything else.

They were here to have a party. There were supposed to be four of them but one had fallen ill. They carried food, drink and a tape recorder with them in two big baskets.

Wallander interrupted himself and went over to Hansson, who was talking on the phone. Wallander waited until he was done.

"The cars," he said. "Where are the cars that we assumed were somewhere in Europe? They must have got here somehow."

Hansson promised to look into it. Wallander resumed his slow circling of the tablecloth where the dead lay. They set their things out, they ate and drank. Wallander crouched down. There was an empty bottle of wine in one of the baskets, two more in the grass. Three empty bottles altogether.

When death came for you, you had already emptied three bottles. That means you were drunk. Wallander got up thoughtfully. Nyberg came up behind him.

"I'd like to know if any wine ran out into the grass or if we can determine if they drank it all."

Nyberg pointed to a stain on the blue cloth.

"Some of it spilled right there. It's not blood, if that's what you're thinking."