Faceless Killers

Every time Wallander stepped into someone's home, he felt as though he were looking at the front cover of a book that he had just bought

Justice doesn't only mean that the people who commit crime are punished. It also means that we can never give up seeking the truth.

We’re living as if we were in mourning for a lost paradise, he thought. As if we longed for the car thieves and safecrackers of the old days, who doffed their caps and behaved like gentlemen when we came to take them in. But those days have irretrievably vanished, and it’s questionable whether they were ever as idyllic as we remember them.

He had never been particularly inclined to philosophical meditation. He had never felt a need to delve into himself. Life was a continual interplay among various practical questions awaiting a solution. Whatever was out there was something inescapable which he could not affect no matter how much he worried about some meaning that probably didn’t even exist. Having a few minutes of solitude was another thing altogether. It was the vast peace that lay hidden in not having to think at all. Just listen, observe, sit motionless.

The dread of something menacing that you felt when you were a child returns when you get old.

Martinsson had sifted through the tip-offs. Everything that the police learnt was fed into a computer. Then he did a rough sort. The most ridiculous ones never got beyond the print-outs. “Hulda Yngveson phoned from Vallby and said that is was the disapproving hand of God that dealt the blow,” said Martinsson. “She always calls,” sighed Rydberg. “If a calf runs off, it’s because God is displeased.” “I put her on the C.F. list,” said Martinsson. The sullen atmosphere was broken by a little amusement when Martinsson explained that C.F. stood for “crazy fools”.

The wife of the dead man had thrown herself down in the mud, and her wails were so piercing that several of the policemen couldn’t tolerate the sound and had moved away. To his surprise, Wallander saw that the only one who was able to handle the grieving woman and the anguished children was Martinsson. The youngest policeman on the force, who so far in his career had never even been forced to notify someone of a relative’s death. He had held the woman, kneeling in the mud, and in some way the two were able to understand each other across the language barrier.

Martinsson fired. Wallander watched Lucia fly back and put his hand up to his shoulder. The gun fell from his hand and landed outside the counter. With a bellow Martinsson yanked himself free of the guy ropes and launched himself at the counter, straight at the wounded man. The counter collapsed, and Martinsson landed in a jumble of leather jackets. Wallander lunged forwards and grabbed the gun from mud. He saw Skinhead dash past him into crowd. No-one seemed to have noticed the shots. The traders in the surrounding stalls had watched in amazement as Martinsson made his ferocious tiger pounce. “Get after him,” Martinsson shouted from the heap of leather jackets. “I’ll take care of this bastard.

in a rash moment he decided to lie his way to the truth. If he wasn't mistaken, Ellen Magnusson had had very little experience with the police. She would assume that they searched for the truth by being honest themselves. She was the one who would lie, not the police.

I hurried home as fast as I could" "Why in a hurry?" "It's not a good idea to run into strange man in the woods." Wallander nodded.

Life was a continual interplay among various practical questions awaiting a solution. Whatever was out there was something inescapable which he could not affect no matter how much he worried about some meaning that probably didn’t even exist.

I’m old, he thinks. Old and used up. Every morning when I wake up I’m surprised all over again that I’m seventy years old.

I can’t have him at my place, that would never work. We’d murder each other.

De repente notó que la vieja confianza que los unía cuando eran niños había desaparecido.

There’s no such thing as a murderer’s face,” he said. “You imagine something: a profile, a hairline, a set of the jaw. But it never matches up.

Every time Wallander stepped into a strange apartment, he felt as though he were looking at the covers of a book he had just bought. The apartment, the furniture, the pictures on the walls, and the smells were the title. Now he had to start reading.

Even so. The papers will be screaming about the fact that the murderer was a cop. There will be new persecution of the force.

Our colleagues don’t sound happy,” Björk said with concern. “It’s never popular to bring in someone from your own force. It’s going to be a dismal winter because of this.

Who ever said police work was supposed to be fun?

Eliminating someone from an investigation is just as important as getting a positive lead.

Where do our habits come from? he thought. What secret factory produces our habits, both good and bad? Ellen Magnusson

Era sfinito, eppure non sentiva alcun desiderio di andare a casa. Ogni sera era la stessa cosa. Tornare a casa significava affrontare un oceano di solitudine.

He could feel his stomach churning. I’m repressing things, he thought. Along with everything else I don’t have time for. I’m searching for the slayers of the dead and can’t even manage to pay attention to the living. For a dizzying instant his entire consciousness was filled with only one urge. To take off. Flee. Disappear. Start a new life.

Somewhere in the dark a vast meaninglessness was beckoning to him. A grinning face that laughed scornfully at all his vain attempts to manage his life.

He took a sheet of paper out of a desk drawer. But what would he write? The day’s work had hardly involved more than collecting a large number of question marks.