One Step Behind

His last remark took Wallander by surprise and made him laugh.

"Was he a fisherman?"

"He's been a jack-of-all-trades. He worked on a tugboat once upon a time."

"You know everybody. And they all know you?"

"That's the way it goes. If this old chap didn't show up to meet my boat, I'd go up and see if he was sick, or if he'd had a fall. If you're a country postman, either at sea or on land, you end up knowing everybody's business. What they're doing, where they're going, when they're due back. Whether or not you actually want to."

Westin had brought the boat softly alongside the landing, and now he unloaded a couple of boxes. Quite a few people had gathered on the pier. Westin took the packet of post and walked up to a small red house.

Wallander stretched his legs on the pier, looking at a pile of old-fashioned stone sinkers. The air was cooler. Westin came back after a couple of minutes and they left. Their route took them through the varied landscape of the archipelago. After two more post stops, they approached Bärnsö. They came out on an open stretch of sea called Vikfjärden. Bärnsö lay strangely isolated, as if it had been thrown out of the community of islands.

"You must know the whole Edengren family," Wallander said, when Westin had pulled back the throttle and they were gliding towards the little dock.

"I suppose you could say that," Westin said. "Although I haven't had much contact with the parents. Honestly speaking, I think they're rather snobbish. But Isa and Jörgen have caught a ride with me many times."

"You know that Jörgen is dead," Wallander said carefully.

"I heard he was in a car accident," Westin said. "His father told me. I had to collect him once when there was something wrong with their boat."

"It's tragic when children die," Wallander said.

"I had always thought Isa was the one who would have an accident."

"Why is that?"

"She lives her life to the extreme. At least, if you believe what she says."

"She talks to you? Maybe as a postman you become something of a confidant."

"Hell, no," Westin said. "My son is Isa's age. They were together for a while a couple of summers ago. But it ended, like these things often do at that age."

The boat hit the edge of the pier. Wallander took his bag and got off.

"I'll give you a call this afternoon."

"I eat at 6 p.m.," Westin answered. "Before or after is fine."

Wallander watched the boat disappear around the point. He thought about how Westin had described Jörgen's death. His parents had changed the story. A toaster in the bath had become a car accident.

Wallander walked onto the green, lush island. Next to the dock was a boathouse and a small guest house. It reminded him of the gazebo in Skårby where he had found Isa. An old wooden rowing boat lay turned over on some trestles. Wallander caught a faint whiff of tar. Several large oak trees grew on the hillside leading up to the main house. It was a red two-storey house, old but in good condition. Wallander walked up to it, looking around and listening. There was a sailing boat in the distance, and the dying sound of an outboard motor. Wallander was sweating. He put the bag down, took his coat off and threw it over the railing of the front steps. The curtains were drawn in the windows. He went up the steps and knocked on the door. He waited. Then he banged on it with his fist. No one answered. He felt the handle. It was locked. For a moment he hesitated, then he walked around the back, feeling as though he was repeating his visit to Skårby. There was a garden with fruit trees behind the house – apples, plums and a lone cherry tree. Garden furniture was piled up under a plastic sheet.

A path led away from the house towards the thick woods. Wallander started walking down the path, and came to an old well and an earth cellar. The numbers 1897 were carved into the rock above the door, and the key was in the lock. Wallander opened the door. It was dark and cool inside, and there was a smell of potatoes. When his eyes became accustomed to the dark he saw that it was empty. He closed the door and continued along the path, catching glimpses of the sea on his left. From the position of the sun he knew he was walking northwards. After about a kilometre he came to a junction where a smaller path led off to the left. He kept walking straight ahead, and after a couple of hundred metres came to the end. Ahead of him were smooth boulders and cliffs. Beyond them, just the open sea. It was the tip of the island. A seagull squawked above him, rising and falling on the wind. He climbed out onto the rocks, sat down, and wiped the sweat from his forehead, wishing that he'd brought some water with him. Gone were all thoughts of Svedberg and the dead young people.

He got up after a while and walked back. At the junction he took the smaller path, which led to a small, natural harbour. Some rusty iron rings were bolted into the rock face. The water was like a mirror, reflecting the tall trees. He turned and walked back to the main house. He checked his phone, went behind one of the oak trees, and took a piss. Then he got out a bottle of water and sat down on the main steps. His mouth was completely dry. As he put the bottle down something caught his attention. He stared at his bag that lay at the foot of the stairs. He was sure he had put it on the higher step. He got off the stairs and went over his actions in his mind.

First I put the bag down, then I removed my jacket and hung it on the railing, he thought. Then I moved the bag to the second step.

It had been moved. He looked around at everything with a new attentiveness. The trees, the bushes, the main house. The curtains were still drawn. He thought of the landing and the guest house, the guest house that reminded him of the gazebo in Skårby. He walked down the hill to the boathouse. The door was latched. He opened it and looked in. It was empty, but he could tell from the size of the berth and the ropes that it housed a big boat. Fishing nets were hanging on the walls. He went out again and locked the door. Part of the guest house was built out over the water with a ladder hanging over the end for swimming. He stood and stared at it for a moment. Then he walked up and felt the door. It was locked. He knocked lightly.

"Isa," he said. "I know you're in there."

He waited.

When she opened the door he didn't recognise her at first. She had tied her hair up in a knot. She was dressed in black, in some kind of overalls. Wallander thought her expression was full of animosity, but perhaps it was fear.

"How did you know I was here?" Her voice was hoarse.

"I didn't. Not until you told me."

"I haven't said anything. And I know you didn't see me."

"Policemen have the bad habit of noticing little things. Like someone lifting a bag, for instance. And not putting it back in the right place."

She stared back at him as if she couldn't understand what he had said. He saw that she was barefoot.

"I'm hungry," she said.

"So am I."

"There's food in the main house," she said and started walking. "Why did you come here?"

"We had to find you."

"Why?"

"Since you know what happened, I don't have to tell you."

She walked on in silence. Wallander looked at her. Her face was pale and drawn.

"How did you get out here?" he asked.

"I called Lage, who lives on Wettersö Island."

"Why didn't you get a ride with Westin?"

"I thought you might try to find out if I was here."

"And you didn't want to be found?"

She didn't answer this either. She unlocked the door and let them in, then walked around opening the curtains. She tugged at them in a careless way, as if she actually wanted to break everything around her. Wallander followed her into the kitchen. She opened the back door and co