Before the Frost

“This doesn’t make sense,” Martinsson said. “Are we dealing with a kind of gang?”

“Or a sect,” Lindman said.

“Or both,” Wallander said. “That’s something we don’t know yet. This piece of information may turn out to lead us in the wrong direction, but we’re not drawing any conclusions. Not yet, not even provisional ones. Let’s put Mrs. Tademan’s information aside for the moment.”

Lindman reported on his meeting with Håkan Holmberg and his keys. He didn’t mention the fact that Linda had been with him.

“The man with an accent,” Wallander mused. “Our Norwegian or Norwegian-Danish link. He turns up again. I think we can safely accept Mr. Holmberg’s assurance that these were the keys to both the Hurup and Frennestad churches.”

“We know that already,” Nyberg said. “We’ve compared them.”

The room fell silent.

“A Norwegian orders copies of some church keys,” Wallander said. “An American woman is later strangled in the church. By whom and why? That’s what we need to find out.”

He turned to Höglund.

“What do our Danish colleagues say about Frans Vigsten?”

“He’s a piano teacher. He was a rehearsal pianist at Det Kongelige Theater and apparently very much admired as such. Now he’s getting increasingly senile and has trouble taking care of himself. But no one has any information indicating that anyone else lives in the apartment, least of all Vigsten himself.”

“And Ulrik Larsen?”

“He stands by his confession — and still says he was trying to steal drugs.”

Wallander threw a hasty glance at Linda before continuing.

“Let’s stay in Denmark for a moment. What about this woman Sylvi Rasmussen? What do we have on her?”

Martinsson rifled through his papers.

“Her original name was something else. She came to Denmark as a refugee after the collapse of Eastern Europe. Drug addict, homeless, the same old story leading to prostitution. She was well-liked by clients and friends. No one has anything bad to say about her. There was nothing else unusual about her life, even the sheer predictable tragedy of it.”

Martinsson looked through the papers again before putting them down.

“No one knows who her final client was, but he must be the murderer.”

“She kept no written record?”

“No. There are the prints of twelve different people in her apartment. They’re being examined, and the Danes will let us know what they find.”

Linda noticed that her father was trying to pick up the pace of the meeting. He tried to interpret the information that was brought in, never receiving it passively, always looking for the underlying message.

Finally he opened the floor for general discussion. Linda was the only one who didn’t say anything. After half an hour they took a short break. Everyone left to stretch their legs or to get some coffee, except Linda, who was assigned to guard the window.

A gust of wind blew some of Martinsson’s papers onto the floor. Linda gathered them up and saw a picture of Sylvi Rasmussen. Linda studied her face, seeing fear in her eyes. She shivered when she thought of her life and fate.

She was about to put the papers back when a detail caught her eye. The pathologist’s report stated that Sylvi Rasmussen had had two or three abortions. Linda stared at the paper. She thought of the two Danish sailors who had been sitting in the corner, Zeba’s son playing on the floor, and Zeba, telling them about her abortion. She also thought about Anna’s unexpected reaction. Linda froze, holding her breath and Sylvi Rasmussen’s photograph.

Wallander came back into the room.

“I think I get it,” she said.

“Get what?”

“I have one question. That woman from Tulsa.”

“What about her?”

Linda shook her head and pointed to the door.

“Close it.”

“We’re in the middle of a meeting.”

“I can’t concentrate if everyone comes back in. But I think I’m onto something important.”

He saw she meant what she was saying and went to close the door.