One Step Behind

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Monday had been a wasted day. That was the first thought that went through Wallander's mind when he woke up Tuesday morning. For the first time in a long while he felt fully rested, as he'd left the station at 9 p.m. the night before.

It was 6 a.m. and he lay motionless in his bed. Through the gap in the curtains he saw blue sky. Monday had been a wasted day because it hadn't brought them closer to their goal. He'd spoken to two of the postal workers assigned to rural routes, but neither one had been able to tell him anything of significance. Around 6 p.m., Wallander had conferred with the other members of the investigative team. By then they had covered all six postal workers. But what were they supposed to have asked, and what answers had they been expecting?

Wallander was forced to admit that his hunch had been wrong. And it wasn't just the postmen who had proved a dead end; Lone Kjær had called from Copenhagen to say that they hadn't been able to recover any prints from the bar top at the Amigo. They had even worked on the bar stool. Wallander knew it had been unlikely that they'd get anything, but he'd still been hoping that they would. A print would have identified the killer beyond doubt. Now they had to carry around that vague and disconcerting anxiety that this lead would also turn out to be false; that the man in the dark wig was only a step along the path, not the answer itself.

They'd spent a long time wondering whether or not to publish the digitally enhanced picture of Louis – too long for Wallander's liking. He'd sent for Thurnberg. The members of his team had wildly differing opinions, but Wallander had insisted that it should be published. Someone might recognise the face now that the wig was gone. All they needed was one person. Thurnberg had joined the discussion for the first time, supporting Wallander. In his opinion, the picture should be released to the press as soon as possible.

They decided to wait until Wednesday, the day after the funeral.

"People love these composite sketches," Wallander had said. "It doesn't matter if it really looks like him or not. There's something extraordinary, almost magical about this act of throwing out a half-finished face in the hope that someone will bite."

They had worked non-stop all Monday afternoon. Hansson had searched the various databases of the Swedish Police for information on Bror Sundelius. As expected, there was nothing. In terms of digital records at least, he was clean. They'd decided that Wallander would go back and talk to him on Wednesday, pressing him harder this time. Wallander knew that Sundelius was coming to the funeral, and he'd reminded the others of this fact.

Other things had come up on that Monday afternoon, even though Wallander now saw the day as a waste. Shortly after 4 p.m., a journalist from one of the national papers had called him to say that Eva Hillström had been in contact with them. The parents of the young murder victims were pla

After speaking to the journalist he'd felt a new knot in his already overtaxed stomach. This one took up residence right next to the fear that the killer was going to strike again. He'd gone over it all again in his mind, asking himself if they could have done more, if they had really done everything in their power up to this point. The reason that they hadn't caught the killer yet was because the investigation was so complicated, not because of laziness, lack of focus, or poor police work. They had so little to go on. The internal blunders made along the way were another matter. The perfect investigation didn't exist; not even Eva Hillström could claim otherwise.

After the 6 p.m. meeting, when they had ruled out the postal workers and studied different images of Louis with exhausted eyes, Wallander told them about his conversation with the newspaper reporter. Thurnberg, immediately concerned, had questioned Wallander's decision not to respond to the allegations.

"There just isn't time to do everything at once," Wallander had said. "We're so overworked right now that even these allegations will have to wait."

"The national chief of police is going to be here tomorrow," Thurnberg had replied, "and the minister of justice. It's particularly unfortunate that this article is going to coincide with their visit."

Wallander had suddenly understood Thurnberg's real concern. "Not even a shadow of these allegations falls on you," he'd said. "It seems that Eva Hillström and the other parents are critical of the work of the police, not the chief prosecutor's office."

Thurnberg had had nothing else to say. Shortly afterwards they'd called it a day. Höglund had followed Wallander out into the hall and told him that Thurnberg had been asking questions about events in the nature reserve on the day the jogger, Nils Hagroth, claimed to have been assaulted by Wallander. On hearing this, Wallander had been hit by another a wave of exhaustion. Didn't they have enough on their plates without Nils Hagroth's absurd charges? That had been the moment when, despite the consistently high level of activity, the entire day had begun to seem like a waste.

Wallander reluctantly got out of bed at 7.30 a.m. He was already dreading this day. His uniform hung on the cupboard door. He had to put it on now, because there wouldn't be enough time between his meeting with the national chief of police and the minister of justice and the funeral itself. He looked at himself in the mirror after he put it on. The trousers strained alarmingly across his belly. He would have to leave the top button undone. He couldn't remember when he had last worn his uniform but it must have been a long time ago.

On the way to the station he stopped at a news-stand and bought a paper. The reporter had not been exaggerating. It was a big article, with pictures. The parents' allegations were threefold. First, the police had waited too long before acting on the disappearance of their children. Second, they felt the investigation had not been as organised as it could have been. Third, they felt they had been poorly informed of the developments in the case.

The national chief isn't going to be very happy, Wallander thought. It's not going to matter if we tell him that these allegations are unjust. The fact that they've been made will hurt the police.

Wallander approached the station feeling shaken and angry. It was just before 8 a.m. It was going to be a long and depressing day, although the weather was still warm and beautiful.

Holgersson called him from her car at 11.30 a.m. They were on their way from Sturup and would arrive at the station in five minutes. Wallander walked out to reception to greet them. Thurnberg was already there. They exchanged pleasantries, neither of them mentioning the article. The car pulled up outside and everyone got out. The national chief of police and the minister of justice were appropriately dressed for a funeral. Everyone was introduced, and they all proceeded to Holgersson's office for coffee. Before they entered the room, Holgersson pulled Wallander aside.