One Step Behind

"Is that what you think Svedberg believed?" Martinsson asked.

"Yes. But he knew something else as well. Or at least suspected it. We don't know how this suspicion arose in the first place, or why he conducted his whole investigation in secret. But it must have been important. He dedicated his entire holiday to it. He insisted on taking all of his holiday time. He had never done that before."

"Something's still missing," Höglund said. "And that's a motive. Revenge, hatred, jealousy. It doesn't add up. Who would've wanted to murder three young people? Or four, for that matter. Who could've hated them? Who had reason to be jealous? There's a brutality to this crime that goes beyond anything I've ever seen. It's worse than the case involving the poor boy who dressed up as an Indian."

"He may have chosen this party deliberately," Wallander said. "Although it's almost too terrible to imagine, he could have chosen his moment precisely because their joy was at its peak. Think how alone people can feel over Midsummer."

"In that case we're dealing with a madman," Martinsson said, visibly upset.

"A methodical and deliberate madman, yes," Wallander said. "But the important thing is to try to find the invisible common denominator in these crimes. The murderer got his information from some source. He must have had access to their lives. That's the key we're after. We have to look thoroughly into their lives. We'll find this point of intersection. We may already have come across it and not seen it."

"So you think Isa Edengren should be our focus," Höglund said. "In a way you think she's leading this investigation, and we're carefully following in her footsteps."

"Something like that. We can't overlook the fact that she tried to kill herself. We have to find out why. We also don't know how the killer feels about the fact that she survived."

"You're thinking about the person who called the hospital and pretended to be Lundberg," Martinsson said.

Wallander nodded. "I want one of you to talk to whoever took that call. Find out what the caller sounded like. Was he old or young? What dialect did he speak? Anything could turn out to be important."

Martinsson promised to take on this task. For the next hour they went over what else had to be covered. At one point Holgersson came in to talk about the arrangements for Svedberg's funeral.

"Does anyone know what kind of music he liked?" she asked.

"Strangely enough, Ylva Brink says she has no idea."

Wallander realised to his surprise that he had no idea either. Holgersson left again, after he had given her an update on the investigation.

"I wish we could know what exactly happened and why when we attend his funeral," Martinsson said.

"I doubt we will," Wallander said. "But that's what we'd all like."

It was 5 p.m. They were about to leave when the phone rang. It was Ebba.

"Please, no reporters," Wallander said.

"It's Nyberg. It sounds important."

Wallander felt a twinge of excitement. There was a hiss of static, then Nyberg's voice came on.

"I think we were right."

"Have you found the spot?"

"That's what we think. We're taking pictures now, and we're trying to see if we can get a footprint."

"Were we right about the location?"

"This is about 80 metres from where they were found. It's a very well selected spot. It's surrounded by thick shrubbery and no one would choose to walk through it."

"When are you going to start digging?"

"I was going to see if you wanted to come and take a look at it first."

"I'm on my way."

Wallander hung up. "They think they've found the place where the bodies were buried," he said.

They quickly decided that Wallander would go out there alone. The others had a number of tasks to take care of as soon as possible.

When he got to the nature reserve, he drove his car past the roadblocks all the way up to the crime scene. A forensic technician was waiting for him, and escorted him to a spot where Nyberg had cordoned off an area of about 30 square metres. Wallander saw at once that the spot was well chosen, just as he had said. He crouched down beside Nyberg, who started to point things out to him.

"The ground over here has been dug up," he said. "Clumps of grass have been taken out and replanted. If you look over there under the leaves you'll see dirt that's been swept aside. If you dig a hole and fill it with something else, there'll be earth left over."

Wallander brushed his hand along the ground. "It's been carefully done."

Nyberg nodded. "It's very precise," he said. "He didn't take any shortcuts. We would never have noticed this place without having set out to look for it."

Wallander got up. "Let's dig it up," he said. "We've got no time to lose."

The work went slowly. Nyberg directed the others. It was begi

They gathered in a semicircle around the edge.

"It's big enough," Nyberg said.

"Yes," Wallander said. "It's big enough. Even for four bodies."

He shivered. For the first time they were following closely in the killer's tracks. They had been right. Nyberg kneeled next to the hole.

"There's nothing here," he said. "It's possible that the bodies were sealed in airtight body bags. If there was also a tarpaulin tucked in around them under the sod, I doubt that even Edmundsson's dog would pick up anything. But of course we'll go over it, down to the last tiny speck of dirt."

Wallander walked back up to the main path with Holgersson and Höglund.

"What is this killer doing?" Holgersson asked, distaste and fear in her voice.

"I don't know," Wallander said. "But at least we have a survivor."

"Isa Edengren?"

Wallander didn't answer. He didn't need to. They all knew what he meant. The grave had been intended for her as well.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

At 5 a.m. on Tuesday, 13 August, Wallander left Ystad, deciding to drive along the coast, through Kalmar. He was already at Sölvesborg when he realised he had forgotten his promise to visit Dr Göransson at the clinic that morning. He pulled over by the side of the road and called Martinsson. It was just past 7 a.m. Wallander told him about the doctor's appointment and asked Martinsson to call and give an excuse.

"Tell him an urgent matter called me out of town," Wallander said.

"Are you sick?" Martinsson asked.

"It's a routine check-up," Wallander told him. "That's all."

Afterwards, when he had pulled back out onto the road, it occurred to him that Martinsson must have wondered why he didn't call Dr Göransson himself. Wallander asked himself the same question. Why couldn't he tell people that he had in all likelihood developed diabetes? He was having trouble making sense of his own actions.

He was thirsty, and his body ached. When he passed a roadside cafe he stopped and had breakfast. On the way out he bought two bottles of mineral water. He made it to Kalmar by 9 a.m. The phone rang. It was Höglund, who was going to help him with directions once he reached Östergötland.

"I talked to a colleague in Valdemarsvik," she said. "I thought it would be best to make it sound like a personal favour."

"Good idea," Wallander said. "Police officers don't tend to like it when you trespass on their territory."

"Especially not you," she said with a laugh. She was right. He didn't like having police officers from other districts in Ystad.