One Step Behind

"You're right to disregard Svedberg. He's not part of the pattern. It's a good point."

It was 4.20 a.m. Wallander walked over to the window and looked out into the night. It was still dark. Åke Larstam was out there in that darkness. Wallander felt a sudden twinge of panic. We're not going to get him in time, he thought. We're going to be too late. He's already chosen his victim and we have no idea who it is. We're scurrying around like blind mice, not knowing where to turn. We know nothing.

Wallander put on a pair of rubber gloves and starting going through the rest of the papers in the drawer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The sea. That would be his place of last resort, if it ever came to that. He imagined himself walking straight out, slowly sinking down to the place where eternal darkness and silence reigned. A place where no one would ever find a single trace of him.

He took one of his cars and drove down to the sea, just west of Ystad. Mossbystrand was deserted this August evening. Few cars went by on the road to Trelleborg. He parked so that none of the lights from oncoming traffic would hit him, and so that he could make a quick getaway if he was being followed.

There was one detail about the latest events that disturbed him. He had been lucky. If his bedroom door had been completely closed, as it usually was, he would never have heard them breaking into the flat that evening. He had woken up with a start, realised what was happening, and slipped out the back door. He had no idea if he had remembered to close it behind him. The only thing that he had grabbed, apart from some clothes, was his gun.

Although he had been shaken, he'd forced himself to drive calmly. He didn't want to risk having an accident.

Now it was 4 a.m. and it would be a while before the sun came up. He thought about everything that had happened and wondered if he had made a mistake. But he couldn't find anything. He was not going to alter his plans.

Everything had gone well. During Svedberg's funeral he had gone to the policeman's flat on Mariagatan. It was easy enough to pick the lock. He'd looked through the flat and quickly established that the man lived alone. Then he'd made his plans. It was easier than he expected; he found a set of spare keys to the flat in a kitchen drawer. He wouldn't have to pick the lock next time. For fun he lay down on the policeman's bed, but it was much too soft. He felt as though he was drowning.

Afterwards he had gone home, showered, eaten and rested in the soundproofed room. Later he'd done something that he had been pla

He thought about the fact that the police were in his flat right now, pulling out drawers, dirtying the floor, moving his porcelain figurines around. It enraged him, and he could hardly control his desire to rush back and shoot them all. But self-preservation was more important than revenge, and he knew they would find nothing in the flat to help them in their search. He kept no photographs there, no private documents, nothing. They didn't know about the safe-deposit box he kept at the bank under an assumed name. That's where all the important documents were, such as his car registration and his financial information.

They would probably be in his flat for many hours but sooner or later the policeman would return home, exhausted after his sleepless night. And he would be there waiting for him.

He returned to the car. The most important thing was for him to catch up on the sleep he had missed. He could of course sleep in one of his cars, but there was a slight chance that he could be discovered. He also disliked the idea of curling up in the back seat. It was undignified. He wanted to stretch out in a real bed, one where he could remove the mattress to give him the firm support he liked.

He considered checking into a hotel under a false name, but dismissed the possibility when he had a sudden flash of inspiration. There was one place he could go where no one would disturb him. And there was always the back door if someone turned up unexpectedly. He started the engine and turned on the headlights. It was almost time for the sun to rise. He needed to sleep, to rest in preparation for the coming day.

He turned on to the main road and drove back to Ystad.

It was close to 5 a.m. when Wallander started to realise how best to describe the kind of person Åke Larstam was. He was someone who left no trace of himself. They had nearly finished their search of the flat and hadn't managed to find even one object that revealed anything about the person who lived there. There was no post, not even a piece of paper with Åke Larstam's name on it.

"I've never seen anything like it," Wallander said. "Åke Larstam doesn't seem to exist. We can't find a single document that verifies his existence, even though we know he's real."

"Maybe he keeps another flat somewhere," Martinsson said.

"Maybe he has ten other flats," Wallander answered. "He might have all kinds of villas and summer houses, but if so we have nothing here that will lead us to them."

"Perhaps he took everything with him when he fled," Hansson said. "He may have known we were closing in on him."

"The state of this flat doesn't suggest that," Wallander said. "I think he lived like this. The man has a professionally soundproofed room. But you may be right. I hope you are; then perhaps we'll find something after all."

The piece of paper lay on the table in front of them.

"Are we misinterpreting it?" Höglund asked.

"It says what it says. Nyberg claims it was written recently. He can tell that from the consistency of the graphite, or something like that."

"Why do you think he wrote it?"

Martinsson was the one who asked the last question, and Wallander knew it was an important one.

"You're right," he said. "It stands out as the only personal item we've found. What does it mean? I'm assuming that he was here when Nyberg and I were at the door. The unlocked back door seems to imply a hasty departure."

"Then this was something he left behind inadvertently?" Martinsson asked.

"That's the most plausible explanation. Or rather the most obvious. But is it the right one?"

"What would the alternative be?"

"That he wanted us to find it."

No one seemed to grasp what Wallander was getting at. He knew it was a flimsy theory.

"What do we know about Åke Larstam? We know he's good at getting the information he needs. He ferrets out other people's secrets. I'm not saying he has access to our investigation, but I think the information he does have is aided by a fair amount of foresight. He must have considered the possibility that we would find him. The fact that I turned up at that bar in Copenhagen, if nothing else, would have forced him to think about this. What does he do? He prepares to flee, but first he prepares a greeting for us. He knows we'll find it, since there's nothing much else here to find."

"But that still doesn't tell us why," Martinsson said.

"He's teasing us. That's not so unusual. Lunatics like this often enjoy taunting the police. He must have exulted over his triumph in Copenhagen. There he was, parading around as Louise just after the Danish papers had run her picture, and he still managed to get away."

"It still strikes me as strange that we would find this piece of paper on the very day he's pla

"He couldn't have known when we would get here."

But the words sounded unconvincing even to his ears. Wallander let it drop.

"We have to take his threats seriously," he said. "We have to assume he intends to strike again."