One Step Behind

Nyberg sounded as certain as he had when he'd begun to speak. "We'll be able to prove it, if it is the case," he said. "We'll be able to determine exactly how long the wine we found in the glasses had been exposed to air. But I already know what I think. I think the Lemans would not have found anything at all if they had gone for their walk on Saturday morning."

The room was silent. Nyberg had followed his train of thought much further than Wallander had realised. It hadn't occurred to Wallander that the bodies might only have been lying out for about a day. The killer must have been close by. What Nyberg said also affected Svedberg's relationship to the crime. He could have killed them and hidden the bodies, but he could not have brought them out again.

"I can tell you feel sure of this," Wallander said. "What's the likelihood that you could be mistaken?"

"None. I may be wrong in the exact hours and times I've been suggesting. But it must have happened in the way I have described."

"Is the place we found them also the scene of the crime?"

"We're not finished yet," Nyberg said. "But it does seem as if blood has seeped through into the ground."

"So you think they were shot there and then moved?"

"Exactly."

"So where were they taken?"

They all sensed the importance of this question. They were charting the movements of the killer. Although they couldn't see him clearly, they were zeroing in on his actions. That was a crucial step.

"I think we should assume that this is the work of a man acting alone," Wallander said. "But there may have been more than one person involved. This seems more probable if it turns out that the bodies were moved and later replaced."

"Perhaps we're using the wrong words," Höglund said. "Perhaps instead of moved we should be saying concealed."

Wallander was thinking the same thing. "The spot is not deep inside the reserve," he said. "It's possible to drive a car up there, but it is not allowed and it would attract attention. The alternative is easy. The bodies could have been concealed somewhere in the area, perhaps quite close to the scene of the crime."

"The dogs didn't pick up any tracks," Hansson said. "Not that that means anything."

Wallander had made up his mind. "We can't wait for all the results to come in. I want to search the area again at dawn for somewhere the bodies may have been concealed. If we're right, it'll be nearby."

It was just after 1 a.m. Wallander knew everyone needed a few hours' sleep before the morning.

He was the last to leave the room. The night air was warm, with no hint of wind. He pulled the air deep into his lungs, walked behind the back of a police car, and relieved himself. He would miss his appointment with Dr Göransson in the morning. His blood-sugar level was way too high at 15.5, but how could he think about his health at a time like this?

He started to walk home through the deserted town. Something was bothering him, a fear he knew he shared with the others although no one had said so. They were close to tracking the killer's movements, but they had no idea what he was thinking or what motivated him. They had no idea if he was pla

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Wallander didn't make it into bed that night. As soon as he stopped outside his door on Mariagatan and fumbled for his keys, anxiety overtook him. He put the keys back in his pocket, walked over to his car and jumped in. Somewhere out there a killer was hiding in the shadows and he would remain there until they caught him. They had to find him. He simply couldn't be allowed to get away, to become one of the people who would haunt Wallander in his dreams.

As he drove through the calm night, he thought about a case in the early 1980s, shortly after he had moved to Ystad with Mona and Linda. Rydberg had called him late one night with the news that a young girl had been found dead in a field outside of Borrie. She had been bludgeoned to death. They drove out there together that November evening. Hard flecks of snow were drifting through the air.

The girl had taken the bus from Ystad after going to the cinema, got off at her normal stop, and followed her usual shortcut through the fields to the farm where she lived. When she hadn't arrived at the time she said she would be home, her father went down to the road to look for her, and found her.

The investigation went on for years and filled thousands of pages of reports, but they never found the killer, nor any possible motive. The only clue was a piece of a wooden clothes-peg found close to the dead girl's body which bore traces of blood. Apart from that there was nothing. Rydberg would often come to Wallander's office to talk about it. During his last days, when he was dying of cancer, he mentioned her again. Wallander understood that he didn't want him to forget about the dead girl in the field. Once he was gone, only Wallander would be left to solve the case. He seldom thought about her now, but occasionally she appeared in his dreams. The image was always the same. Wallander was leaning over her, with Rydberg somewhere in the background. She looked back at him but was unable to speak.

Wallander took the turn-off for the nature reserve. I don't want three young people haunting my dreams, he thought. Nor do I want Svedberg there. We have to find the one who did this.

He parked his car and saw to his surprise that the officer on duty was Edmundsson.

"Where's your dog?" Wallander asked.

"At home," Edmundsson said. "I don't see why he should have to sleep in the car."

Wallander nodded. "How is everything out here?"

"Only Nyberg is here, as well as those of us on duty."

"Nyberg?"

"He arrived a little while ago."

He's also haunted by anxiety, Wallander thought. It shouldn't surprise me.

"It's too hot to be August."

"Autumn will come, just you wait," Wallander said. "It'll come when you least expect it."

He turned on his torch and walked into the reserve.

The man had been hiding in the shadows for a long time. In order to enter the nature reserve without being seen, he had approached it from the sea. He followed the beach, climbed the dunes, and disappeared into the woods. To avoid ru

Under the cover of darkness he saw police officers come and go along the path. Two of the officers were women. Shortly after 10 p.m. many of them left the reserve, and he sat down to drink the tea he had brought with him in a thermos. The order he sent to Shanghai had already been filled. He would pick it up early the next day. When he finished his tea, he packed the thermos away and made his way to the place where he had killed them. There were no more dogs in the area, so he felt safe. From a distance he could see big spotlights that were set up around the scene, casting an unearthly glow. It was like a theatre production, but one that was closed to the ordinary public. He was tempted to sneak close enough so he could hear what the policemen were saying and watch their faces. But he controlled himself, as he always did. Without self-control you couldn't be sure that you would get away and be safe.

The shadows danced in the spotlights. The police looked like giants, although he knew it was just an illusion. They fumbled around like blind animals in the world he had created. For a moment he allowed himself to enjoy a feeling of satisfaction. But only for a moment. He knew pride was dangerous and could make you vulnerable.

He returned to his lookout beside the main trail. He was thinking of leaving when someone walked by. The beam of a torch flickered over the ground. A face was visible for an instant and the man recognised him from the papers. His name was Nyberg and he was a forensic specialist. He smiled to himself. Nyberg might be able to identify the individual pieces, but he would never see the whole pattern.