One Step Behind

"Thanks again for meeting me last night," he said.

"An old friend came down to see me from Stockholm in 1973," Nyberg replied. "We went out to a bar one evening. I don't think I've been out since then."

Wallander remembered that he hadn't paid Edmundsson back.

"Well, anyway, I had a nice time," he said.

"There's already a rumour going around that we were caught trying to get out of paying the bill," Nyberg said.

"Just as long as Thurnberg doesn't get wind of it. He might take it the wrong way."

Wallander walked over to Hansson, who was making some notes.

"Any doubt they're the right ones?"

"The Toyota is Lena Norman's, the Volvo belongs to Martin Boge."

"How long have they been here?"

"We don't know. In July the car park is full of cars coming and going. It's only in August that it starts to slow down and that people start noticing which cars haven't been moved."

"Is there any other way to find out if they've been here since Midsummer?"

"You'll have to talk to Nyberg about that."

Wallander went back to Nyberg, who was staring at the Toyota.

"Fingerprints are the most important," Wallander said. "The cars must have been driven here from the reserve."

"Someone who leaves his prints on a boat might well leave us a greeting on a steering wheel."

"That's what I'm hoping."

"That probably also means our killer is fairly sure his prints don't appear in any records, either here or abroad."

"I was thinking the same thing," Wallander said. "We'll just have to hope you're wrong."

Wallander didn't need to stay any longer. As he passed the turn-off to his father's house, he couldn't resist having a look. There was a For Sale sign by the driveway. He didn't stop. Seeing the sign gave him a fa

"I'm in Lund," she said. "In Lena Norman's flat. I think you should come here."

"What is it?"

"You'll see when you get here. I think it's important."

Wallander wrote down the address and was on his way.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The block of flats was on the outskirts of Lund. It was four storeys high, one of five buildings comprising a large housing estate. Once, many years ago when Wallander had come down to Lund with Linda, she had pointed them out to him and told him they were student flats. If she had chosen to study in Lund, she would have lived in a place like this. Wallander shivered, imagining Linda out in the reserve.

He didn't have to guess which building it was, as a police car was parked outside one of them. Wallander put his phone in his pocket and got out. A woman was stretched out in the sun on one of the lawns. Wallander wished he could lie down beside her and sleep for a while. His tiredness came and went in heavy waves. An officer stood inside the doorway, yawning. Wallander waved his identification in front of him and the officer pointed up the stairs absentmindedly.

"All the way up. No elevator."

Then he yawned again and Wallander felt a sudden urge to whip him into shape. Wallander was the superior officer, and one from another district at that. They were trying to catch a man who had killed five people so far. He didn't need to be greeted by an officer who yawned and could hardly bring himself to speak.

But he said nothing. He walked up the stairs. Apart from the loud, raucous music coming from one flat, the building seemed abandoned. It was still August and the autumn term had not yet begun. The door to Lena Norman's flat was slightly ajar but Wallander rang the bell anyway.

Höglund came to the door herself. He tried to read her expression without success.

"I didn't mean to sound so dramatic over the phone," she said quickly. "But I think you'll understand why I wanted you to see this."

He followed her into the flat, which hadn't been aired out for a while. The air had that characteristic but indescribable dry quality he had so often encountered in concrete buildings. He had read somewhere that the FBI had developed a method for determining how long a house had been locked up. He didn't know whether Nyberg had the technique at his disposal.

At the thought of Nyberg he made another mental note to repay Edmundsson. The flat had two rooms and a kitchen. They reached the combined living room and study. The sun was shining in through the window and dust drifted slowly in the still air. There were a number of photographs tacked up on one wall. Wallander put on his glasses and peered at them. He recognised her at once. Lena Norman was dressed up in a scene that looked like it was supposed to be from the 17th century. Martin Boge was also in the picture, which was taken with what appeared to be a castle in the background. The next picture was also of a party. Lena Norman was in that one too, and now Astrid Hillström was there. They were indoors somewhere, half-naked. Wallander guessed they were staging a bordello scene. Neither Norman nor Hillström was particularly convincing. Wallander straightened up and cast a glance over the entire wall.

"They play different roles at their parties," he said.

"It goes further than that," she said and went over to a desk that stood at right angles to one of the windows. It was covered with binders and plastic folders.

"I've gone through this material," she said. "Not completely, of course, but what I've seen so far worries me." Wallander lifted his hand to interrupt her.

"Wait a second. I need to drink a glass of water, and use the bathroom."

"My father has diabetes," she said.

Wallander froze on his way to the door. "What do you mean by that?"

"If I didn't know any better I'd think you had it too, the way you drink water these days. And need to go to the loo constantly."

For a moment Wallander thought he was going to break his silence and tell her the truth: that she was right. But instead he just muttered something inaudible and left the room. When he came out of the kitchen, the toilet was still flushing.

"The flushing mechanism is broken," he said. "I guess that's not our problem."

She was looking at him as if she was expecting him to talk.

"Why are you worried?" he asked.

"I'll tell you what I've found so far," she said. "But I'm convinced there's more, and that it'll become apparent when we've gone through everything."

Wallander sat down on a chair by the desk. She remained standing.

"They dress up," she started. "They have parties, and move between our own time and that of past ages. From time to time they even go into the future, but not very often. Probably because it's harder – no one knows how people will dress in a thousand years, or even 50. We know all this, of course. We've talked to the friends who weren't with them at Midsummer. You even had a chance to talk to Isa Edengren. We know they rented their costumes in Copenhagen. But there's a deeper level to this."

She picked up a folder covered in geometric figures. "They appear to have belonged to a sect," she said. "It has its roots in the United States, in Mi