Faceless Killers by Henning Mankell Page A

rumours of money stashed away. And even though they could be brutal, they were hardly characterised by the methodical violence that he had witnessed at this murder scene.
    People in the country get up early in the morning, he thought as he swung onto the narrow road that led to the Nyströms' house. Maybe they've had time to mull things over.
    He stopped in front of the house and turned off the engine. At the same moment the light in the kitchen went out. They're scared, he thought. They probably think it's the killers coming back. He left the lights on as he got out of the car and walked across the gravel to the steps.
    He sensed rather than saw the flash coming from a bush beside the house. The ear-splitting noise made him dive for the ground. A pebble slashed his cheek, and for an instant he thought he had been hit.
"Police!" he yelled. "Don't shoot! Damn it, don't shoot!"
    A torch shone on his face. The hand holding the torch was shaking, and the beam wobbled back and forth. Nyström was standing in front of him, an ancient shotgun in his hand.
"Is it you?" he asked.
    Wallander got up and brushed off the gravel. "What were you aiming at?"
"I shot straight up in the air," said Nyström.
    "Do you have a permit for that gun?" Wallander asked. "Otherwise there could be trouble."
    "I've been up all night, keeping watch," said Nyström. Wallander could hear how upset he was.
    "I have to turn off my lights," said Wallander. "Then we'll talk, you and I."
    Two boxes of shotgun shells lay on the kitchen table. On the sofa lay a crowbar and a big sledgehammer. The black cat was in the window, and stared menacingly at Wallander as he came in. Hanna Nyström stood at the stove stirring a pot of coffee.
    "I had no idea that it was the police," said Nyström, sounding apologetic. "And so early."
Wallander moved the sledgehammer and sat down.
    "Mrs Lövgren died last night," he said. "I thought I'd come out and tell you myself."
    Every time Wallander was forced to notify someone of a death, he had the same unreal feeling. To tell strangers that a child or a relative had died, and to do it with dignity, was impossible. The deaths that the police informed people of were always unexpected, and often violent and gruesome. Somebody drives off to buy something at the shops and dies. A child on a bicycle is run over on the way home from the playground. Someone is abused or robbed, commits suicide or drowns. When the police are standing in the doorway, people refuse to accept the news.
    The couple were silent. The woman stirred the coffee with a spoon. The man fidgeted with his shotgun, and Wallander discreetly moved out of the line of fire.
"So, Maria is gone," Nyström said slowly.
"The doctors did everything they could."
    "Maybe it was just as well," said Hanna Nyström, unexpectedly forceful. "What did she have left to live for after he was dead?"
    The man put the shotgun down on the kitchen table and stood up. Wallander noticed that he put his weight on one knee.
    "I'll go out and give the horse some hay," he said, putting on a tattered cap.
"Do you mind if I come with you?" asked Wallander.
"Why would I mind?" said the man, opening the door.
    From her stall the mare whinnied as they entered the stable. With a practised hand Nyström flung an arm load of hay into the stall.
"I'll muck out later," he said, stroking the horse's mane.
"Why did they keep a horse?" Wallander wondered.
    "To a retired dairy farmer an empty stable is like a morgue," replied Nyström. "The horse was company."
    Wallander thought that he might just as well start asking his questions here in the stable.
    "You stayed up to keep watch last night," he said. "You're scared, and I can understand that. You must have thought to yourself: 'Why were they the ones who were attacked?' You must have thought: 'Why them? Why not us?' "
    "They didn't have any money," said Nyström. "Or anything else that was especially valuable. Anyway, nothing was stolen, as I told one of the