An Event in Autumn: A Kurt Wallander Mystery

Chapter 17

The next day, November 29, it was snowing heavily over Skåne. A storm was blowing in from the west, and flights were disrupted at Sturup airport for several hours. Lots of cars skidded off the road between Malmö and Ystad. But after a few hours, the strong wind suddenly dropped, it became warmer, and it began to rain.

Wallander stood at his window in the police station, gazing out over the road and noting how the snow suddenly became rain. The telephone rang. As usual he gave a start. He answered it.

“It’s Simon,” said a voice.

“Simon?”

“Simon Larsson. Once upon a time we used to be colleagues.”

Wallander thought at first that he had misunderstood what had been said. Simon Larsson had been a police officer when Wallander had come to Ystad from Malmö. That was a long time ago. Simon Larsson had been old even then. Two years after Wallander’s arrival in Ystad Larsson had retired and been formally thanked at a party hosted by the then chief of police. As far as Wallander was aware, Simon Larsson had never set foot inside the police station since then. He had severed all contact. Wallander had heard a rumor that Larsson had an apple orchard just north of Simrishamn to which he devoted all his time.

He was surprised to hear that Simon Larsson was evidently still alive. He did the mental arithmetic and concluded that Larsson must now be at least eighty-five.

“I remember who you are,” said Wallander. “But I must say that this call has come as a surprise.”

“No doubt you thought I was dead. I sometimes think I am myself.”

Wallander said nothing.

“I’ve read about the two people you found,” said Larsson. “I might have something useful to say about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I say. If you come around to my place, then maybe — but only maybe — I might have something useful to tell you.” Simon Larsson spoke in a clear and lucid voice.

Wallander made a note of his address. It was a care home for the elderly just outside Tomelilla. Wallander promised to visit him right away. He stopped in at Martinson’s office but it was empty — his cell phone was lying on his desk. Wallander shrugged and decided to drive out to Tomelilla on his own.

Simon Larsson seemed to be in a fragile state. He had a wrinkled face and a hearing aid. He opened the door and Wallander entered a pensioner’s apartment that was frightening in its dreariness. It seemed to Wallander that he was entering the hallway of death. The apartment comprised two rooms. Through a half-open door Wallander could see an old woman lying on top of a bed, resting. Hands shaking, Simon Larsson served up coffee. Wallander felt ill at ease. It was as if he were looking at himself at some time in the future. He didn’t like what he saw. He sat down in a worn armchair. A cat immediately jumped up onto his knee. Wallander let it stay there. He preferred dogs, but he had nothing against cats that occasionally expressed an interest in him.

Simon Larsson sat down on a Windsor chair opposite him.

“I don’t hear well, but I see well. I suppose it’s a hangover from all my years as a police officer — wanting to see the people I’m talking to.”

“I have the same problem,” said Wallander. “Or custom, perhaps I ought to say. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

Simon Larsson took a deep breath, as if he needed to brace himself for what was about to come.

“I was born in August 1917,” he said. “It was a warm summer, the year before the war ended. In 1937 I started working for the public prosecution service in Lund, and I came to Ystad in the sixties, after the police force had been nationalized. But what I wanted to tell you about, which might be of significance, happened during the forties. I worked for a few years then here in Tomelilla. They weren’t so strict about borderlines in those days — sometimes we helped out in Ystad and sometimes they came to assist us here. Anyway, at some time during the war a horse and an old caravan were found on the road not far from Löderup.”

“A horse? And a caravan? I don’t really understand.”

“You will if you stop interrupting me. It was in the autumn. Somebody rang us here in Tomelilla. Some bloke or other from Löderup. He ought to have telephoned Ystad, but instead he phoned the chief inspector’s office here in Tomelilla. He wanted to report that he had found a horse pulling a caravan along a road, without anybody inside or in the driver’s seat. I was the only person around that morning. As I was learning to drive, I didn’t bother ringing Ystad but instead took the car and drove to Löderup. Sure enough, there was a horse and caravan there, but no people. It was obvious from the inside of the caravan that gypsies lived in it. Nowadays we’re supposed to call them travelers, which makes them sound much more respectable. Anyway, they had vanished. It was all very odd. The horse and caravan had simply turned up there as dawn broke. Seven days earlier they had been seen in Kåseberga — a man and a woman in their fifties. He sharpened scissors and knives, they were friendly and reliable — but then they suddenly vanished.”

“Were they ever found?”

“Not as far as I know. I thought this information might be of some use to you.”

“Absolutely. What you say is very interesting. But it’s odd that nobody reported them missing — if they had done they would have been in our register.”

“I don’t really know what happened. Somebody looked after the horse, and I suppose the caravan just rotted away. I suspect the fact is that nobody cared much about travelers. I recall asking about what had happened, a year or so later, but nobody knew anything. There was an awful lot of prejudice in those days. But perhaps there is now as well?”

“Can you remember anything else?”

“It was such a long time ago. I’m just glad I can remember what I’ve told you.”

“Can you say what year it was?”

“No. But there was a fair bit about it in the newspapers at the time. It must be possible to find those articles.”

Wallander felt the urge to act immediately. He drained his cup of coffee and stood up.

“Many thanks for getting in touch. This could well turn out to be important. I’ll get back to you.”

“Don’t leave it too long,” said Larsson. “I’m an old man. I could die at any time.”

Wallander left Tomelilla. He drove fast. For the first time during this investigation, he had the feeling that they were about to make a breakthrough.