The Troubled Man

21

Wallander had no intention of keeping his promise. He decided immediately that he would talk to Linda and Hans. When it came to a choice between respecting his family and respecting the Swedish security services, he didn’t hesitate. He would tell them, word for word, what he had heard. It was his duty to them.

Wallander sat thinking for a long time after his conversation with Ytterberg. His first reaction was that something didn’t make sense. Louise von Enke a Russian agent? Even if the police had discovered classified documents in her purse, even in a hidden compartment, he couldn’t believe it.

But why would Ytterberg tell him things that weren’t true? After having met him briefly on a couple of occasions, Wallander had every confidence in him. He would never have called if he hadn’t been sure about what he was going to say.

Wallander knew what he had to do. Trying to protect Linda by withholding facts wouldn’t help her. He must take seriously what Ytterberg had said. Whatever eventually emerged as the truth, it would not show that Ytterberg’s account of the facts was wrong; rather there would — or must — be different conclusions to draw.

He got into his car and drove to Linda and Hans’s house. Klara’s stroller was standing in the shade of a tree; her parents were sitting side by side in the garden hammock, cups of coffee in their hands.

Wallander sat down on one of the garden chairs and told them what he had heard. Both Hans and Linda reacted with furrowed brows and incredulous expressions. While Wallander was speaking, he thought of Stig Wennerström — the colonel who had sold Sweden’s defense secrets to the Russians nearly fifty years previously. But it was impossible for him to link Louise von Enke with this man who had been active as a spy for so many years, displaying so much greed and cunning.

“I don’t doubt that I was told the facts,” he concluded. “But nor do I have any doubt that there is a plausible explanation for those papers in her purse.”

Linda shook her head, turned to her partner, then looked her father in the eye.

“Is this really true?”

“I wouldn’t give you anything other than an exact account of what I’ve just heard myself.”

“Don’t get annoyed. We have to be able to ask you questions.”

“I’m not annoyed. But don’t start asking me unnecessary questions.”

Both Wallander and Linda realized that a quarrel was about to break out, and they managed to smooth things over. Hans didn’t appear to notice anything amiss.

Wallander turned to him and could see the dejection in his face.

“Do you have any thoughts?” he asked cautiously. “After all, you knew her better than any of us.”

“Absolutely none. I recently discovered that I have a sister I knew nothing about. And now this. It feels as if my parents are becoming more and more like strangers. The telescope is turned around. They are disappearing from my view.”

“No distant memories? Words that were said, people who came to visit?”

“Nothing. All I feel is a stomachache.”

Linda took Hans’s hand. Wallander stood up and walked over to the stroller under the apple tree. A bumblebee was buzzing around the mosquito net. He carefully wafted it away and observed the sleeping bundle. Remembered Linda in her stroller, Mona’s constant anxiety, and his own joy at having a child.

He returned to his chair.

“She’s asleep.”

“Mona says I used to cry at night.”

“You did. I was usually the one who got up to comfort you.”

“That’s not how Mona remembers it.”

“She has never been too concerned about the truth.”

“Klara hardly ever wakes us up.”

“Then you are truly blessed. You used to give us some absolutely awful nights with all your screaming and yelling.”

“And you were the one who used to carry me around and hush me?”

“Sometimes with cotton balls in my ears. But yes, I was the one who used to carry you around. Any other suggestion is untrue, no matter what Mona says.”

Hans slammed his cup onto the table so hard that coffee sloshed over onto the cloth. He didn’t seem to have been listening.

“Where has Mom been all this time? And where is Håkan?”

“What do you think? What’s the first thought that comes into your mind? Now, when everything is changing?”

It was Linda who asked the questions. Wallander looked at her in surprise. He had been formulating the same words, but she got them out first.

“I can’t answer that. But something tells me my father is alive. Strangely enough, at the same time I was told my mother is dead, I had a strong feeling that he’s alive.”

Wallander took over and asked more questions.

“Why? Something must make you think that.”

“I don’t know.”

Wallander hadn’t really expected Hans to have much to say this soon after hearing the shattering news. He had come to see that the distance between individual members of the von Enke family was vast.

Wallander paused, since it struck him that this in itself was something to think more closely about. What had Håkan and Louise actually known about each other? Had there been just as much secrecy between them as in their relations with other members of the family? Or was it just the opposite? Was it possible that the relationship between the two of them was extremely close?

He couldn’t answer those questions at the moment. Hans stood up and went into the house.

“He needs to call Copenhagen,” Linda said. “We had just made the decision when you arrived.”

“What decision?”

“That he should stay home another day.”

“Does that man never have any time off?”

“Stock exchanges all over the world are very restless at the moment. Hans is worried. That’s why he works all the time.”

“With Icelanders?”

She looked doubtfully at him.

“Are you trying to be funny? Don’t forget you’re talking about the father of my child.”

“When he showed me his office there were Icelanders sitting around. Why should my recalling that be funny?”

Linda waved her hand dismissively. Hans returned to the hammock. They spoke briefly about Louise’s funeral. Wallander was unable to tell them when they could expect to receive the body after the pathologists had completed their work.

“It’s odd,” said Hans. “Only yesterday I received a large envelope with photographs from Håkan’s seventy-fifth birthday party.”

“Do you want us to look at them?” Linda asked.

“Not right now.” Hans shrugged.

“I’ve put them together with the lists of guests and other papers connected with the party. Including copies of all the bills.”

Wallander had been lost in his own thoughts and only heard, as if from a distance, what Hans said to Linda. He suddenly woke up.

“Did I hear right? Did you mention guest lists?”

“Everything was very efficiently organized. My father wasn’t an officer for nothing. He checked off the names of all those who actually attended, those who sent their apologies, and those who went against convention and neither turned up nor explained why they couldn’t come.”

“How is it that you have the lists?”

“Because neither my father nor my mother was much good when it came to computers. I helped them create the documents. The idea was that I should write in my father’s comments. God only knows why. But it never happened.”

Wallander bit his lip as he thought that over. Then he stood up.

“I’d like to see those lists, if I may. And the photographs. I can take them home with me if you have other plans.”

“How can we have other plans when we have a little baby?” Linda wondered aloud. “Have you forgotten that? She’ll wake up soon. And that will put an end to the heavenly peace we’re enjoying now. In any case, I think it would be best if you went home now and took the stuff with you.”

Hans went indoors and soon reappeared with several files full of papers and photographs. Linda accompanied Wallander to his car. They could hear thunder in the distance. She stood in front of the car door as he was about to open it.

“Could they have gotten it wrong? Could it be murder?”

“There’s nothing to suggest that. Ytterberg is a competent police officer, very experienced. He sees what there is to see. He would react if there was the slightest trace of a suspicion.”

“Tell me again what she looked like when they found her.”

“Her shoes were standing neatly beside the body. She was lying on her side, in her stocking feet. Her clothes were all in place — in other words, she hadn’t fallen down, she’d lain down.”

“But her shoes?”

“Isn’t that something that used to be normal, but we don’t think about it anymore nowadays? You always take your shoes off before you die.”

Linda shook her head.

“What was she wearing?”

Wallander tried to remember what Ytterberg had said. Skirt, blouse, knee socks.

Linda shook her head.

“I never saw her in knee socks. She either wore tights or nothing at all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely certain. She would wear special thick socks when she went skiing, but that’s irrelevant in this context.”

Wallander tried to assess the significance of this. He had no doubt that Linda knew what she was talking about. When she was as sure as she seemed to be now, she was nearly always right.

“I have no sensible answer. I’ll pass your comments on to the police in Stockholm.”

She moved to one side and closed the door once he had settled in behind the wheel.

“Louise wasn’t the type of woman who would commit suicide,” Linda said.

“But that’s what she did.”

Linda shook her head without speaking. Wallander realized she had told him something that she wanted him to take into account. They didn’t need to discuss it right now. He started the engine and drove away. When he came to the main road, he surprised himself by turning away from Ystad and instead taking the coast road toward Trelleborg. He felt the need to get some fresh air. He came to Mossby Strand, where several mobile homes and campers enjoyed sea views. He parked at the side of the road and walked down to the beach. Every time he came back to this place he had the feeling that this stretch of coast, not very remarkable in itself, certainly not all that pretty, was nevertheless one of the central points in his life. This was where he had taken Linda for walks when she was a little girl; this was where he had tried to make peace with Mona when she told him she wanted a divorce. This was also where, ten years ago, Linda had told him about her ambition to become a police officer, and that she had already been offered a place at the police academy. And it was here that Linda had told him she was pregnant.

Wallander set off along the beach, banishing the stiffness that had possessed his body after all that sitting around. He thought about what Linda had said. But people do commit suicide, whether we believe it or not, he told himself. Several people who I would never have imagined would take their own lives had in fact done so, in most cases after careful planning. How many people have I watched being taken down from nooses they used to hang themselves, how many bits and pieces have I gathered together after somebody placed the barrel of a shotgun in their mouth and pulled the trigger? And I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of relatives who told me they weren’t surprised.

Wallander walked so far that he was tired when he got back to his car. He sat behind the wheel and opened one of the files. He picked out several photographs at random. He thought he recognized some of the faces, but others he couldn’t remember at all. He put the photos back into the file and drove home. If the material was going to be of any use, he needed to work his way through it carefully, not haphazardly.

It was evening before he sat down at the kitchen table with the files. This is where I’ll begin, he thought. With the pictures of a large and well-organized party for a man celebrating his seventy-fifth birthday. He examined the photos one at a time. The dining tables could almost always be seen in the background, so he could judge, roughly, if the picture had been taken before, during, or after the meal. There were 104 in total, many of them blurred and with no obvious focus. Either Håkan or Louise was in 64 of them, and both were in 12. In 2 of the pictures they were looking at each other; she was smiling. Wallander laid the photos out in a row, grouped according to when they were probably taken. He was struck by how serious Håkan looked in all the pictures. Is he just being an austere naval officer, or is it a reflection of the worry he will soon begin talking to me about? Wallander wondered.

On the other hand, Louise was smiling virtually all the time. He found one exception, but then she was unaware that her picture was about to be taken. Only one true picture, Wallander thought — or was it just a coincidence? He moved on to the pictures containing a large number of guests. Friendly, elderly people, giving an impression of general well-being. No down-and-outs had come to celebrate Håkan von Enke’s birthday, he muttered to himself. These people can afford to look happy and contented.

Wallander slid the photos to one side and moved on to the two lists of guests. He counted 102. The names were in alphabetical order, and a lot of the guests were married couples.

The phone rang while he was studying the first list. It was Linda.

“I’m curious,” she said. “Have you found anything?”

“Nothing that I didn’t know already. Louise is smiling. Håkan looks serious. Did he never smile?”

“Not very often. But Louise’s smile is genuine. She never pretended to be something she wasn’t. And I think she was also pretty good at judging other people.”

“I’ve just started looking at the guest lists. A hundred and two names. Nearly all of them unknown to me. Alvén, Alm, Appelgren, Berntsius—”

“I remember him,” Linda said. “Sten Berntsius. A high-ranking naval officer. A couple of years ago, I went to an unpleasant dinner party at Håkan and Louise’s place when he was a guest. He had his wife with him, a timid little creature who just sat there blushing, and she drank too much wine as well. But Berntsius was awful.”

“How?”

“Palme hatred.”

“Are you seriously telling me that you attended a dinner party at which the guests said bad things about a Swedish prime minister who had been murdered twenty years earlier?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Hatred lives on for a long time. Sten Berntsius started going on about how Palme was a spy for the Soviet Union, a cryptocommunist, a traitor, and God only knows what else.”

“What did Louise and Håkan have to say?”

“I’m afraid Håkan at least tended to agree. Louise didn’t say much; she tried to smooth things over. But the atmosphere was unpleasant.”

Wallander tried to think back. For him, Olof Palme was above all else an example of the most dramatic failure of the Swedish police. He could hardly remember him as a politician. A man with a shrill voice and a smile that was occasionally far from friendly? He couldn’t recall which of the memories were genuine. He hadn’t been interested in politics in Palme’s day. That was when he was trying to get his own life in order, and also dealing with his intractable father.

“Palme was prime minister when those submarines were snorkeling in Swedish waters,” he said. “I suppose that’s the context in which his name cropped up?”

“Not really, no. If I remember correctly it was mostly about defense cuts that they claimed had begun during his time. He alone was responsible for the fact that Sweden was no longer capable of defending itself. Berntsius maintained it was a big mistake to believe that Russia would always be as peaceful as it is now.”

“What were the political views of the von Enkes?”

“They were both extremely conservative, of course. Louise always tried to give the impression that she was contemptuous about politics, but that wasn’t true.”

“So she did have a mask, despite what you said earlier.”

“Perhaps. Let us know if you find anything important.”

Wallander went out to feed Jussi. The dog was looking disheveled and tired. Wallander wondered if it was true that dogs and their owners grew to look like each other. If so, old age really had gotten its claws into him. Was he already getting close to his devastating dotage, when he would become increasingly helpless? He shuddered at the thought and went back inside. But, about to sit down at the kitchen table again, he realized that it was pointless. There was nothing in either the guest lists or the photos that could throw light on the missing persons. There must be some other explanation for what had happened. He was wasting his time. He wasn’t looking for a needle, he was looking for a haystack.

Wallander picked up everything he’d spread out over the kitchen table and put it all on the table in the hall. He would give it back the next day and then try to stop thinking about the dead Louise and the missing Håkan. Soon enough they would all go to Kristberg church, prettily located with a view over Lake Bören in Östergötland. The von Enkes had a family grave there over a century old, and that is where Louise would be buried. Hans had told him that his parents had written a joint will in which they had stated that they did not wish to be cremated. Wallander sat in his armchair and closed his eyes. What did he want to happen to his own body? He didn’t have a family grave, no sepulchral rights. His mother was buried in a memorial grove in Malmö, his father in one of Ystad’s cemeteries. He didn’t know what his sister, Kristina, who lived in Stockholm, planned to do.

He fell asleep in the chair and woke up with a start. He had been dragged out of sleep by a dog barking. He stood up. His shirt was wet through; he must have been dreaming. Jussi didn’t usually bark for no reason. When he started moving, he discovered that his legs were numb. He shook them into life while continuing to listen for sounds out there in the darkness of the summer night. Jussi was quiet now. Wallander opened the door and stood on the threshold. Jussi immediately started jumping against the fence of his kennel, yelping. Wallander looked around. Perhaps there’s a fox on the prowl, he thought. He walked over to Jussi. There was a strong smell of grass. But no wind; everything was still. He tickled Jussi behind the ears. “What were you barking at?” he asked quietly. “Can dogs also have nightmares?” He gazed out over the field. Shadows everywhere, a faint hint of morning light in the east. He checked his watch. A quarter to two. He had been asleep for nearly four hours. His sweaty shirt was making him shiver. He went back inside and lay down in bed. But he couldn’t get to sleep. “Kurt Wallander is lying in his bed, thinking of death,” he said aloud to himself. It was true. He really was thinking of death. But he often did that. Ever since he was a young police officer, death had always been present in his life. He saw it in the mirror every morning. But now, when he couldn’t sleep, it crept up very close to him. He was sixty years old, a diabetic, slightly overweight. He didn’t pay as much attention to his health as he should, didn’t exercise enough, drank too much, ate what he shouldn’t, and at irregular times. Sometimes he tried to discipline himself, but it never lasted long. He would lie there in the dark and become panic-stricken. There was no leeway left. Now he had no choice. Either he must change his lifestyle or die early. Either make an effort to reach at least seventy or assume that death would strike at any moment. Then Klara would be robbed of her maternal grandfather, just as she had been robbed of her paternal grandmother for reasons that were not yet clear.

He lay awake until four o’clock. Fear came and went in waves. When he finally fell asleep, his heart was full of sorrow at the thought that so much of his life was now over and could never be relived.

He had just woken up, shortly after seven, still feeling tired and with a headache, when the phone rang. At first he thought he would ignore it. Presumably it was Linda, who wanted to satisfy her curiosity. She could wait. If he didn’t answer, she would know that he was asleep. But after the fourth ring he got out of bed and reached for the receiver. It was Ytterberg, who sounded lively and full of energy.

“Did I wake you up?”

“Nearly,” said Wallander. “I’m trying to be on vacation, but I’m not doing too well.”

“I’ll keep it brief. But I suspect you’d like to know about what I’m holding in my hand. It’s a report from the pathologist — Dr. Anahit Indoyan. She analyzed the chemicals found in Louise von Enke’s body and discovered something she thinks is odd.”

Wallander held his breath and waited for what was coming next. He could hear Ytterberg sorting through his papers.

“There’s no doubt that the pills Louise took could be classified as sleeping pills,” said Ytterberg. “Dr. Indoyan can identify some of the chemical ingredients. But there are some things she doesn’t recognize. Or rather, she’s not able to describe the substances in question. She has no intention of giving up, of course. She allows herself a very interesting comment at the end of her preliminary report. She thinks she has found similarities, more or less vague, with substances used during the DDR regime.”

“DDR?”

“Are you sure you’re awake?”

Wallander didn’t get the connection.

“East Germany. All those athletic miracles — remember them? The outstanding swimmers and track athletes breaking all those records. We know now that they were drugged up to the eyeballs. There’s no doubt that everything was connected — what the Stasi did and what went on in the sports laboratories were two branches of the same tree. And so,” concluded Ytterberg, “our friend Anahit suspects that she might have discovered substances that can be linked to the former East Germany.”

“That no longer exists. And hasn’t existed for twenty years.”

“Not quite. But almost. The Berlin Wall was smashed to pieces in 1989. I remember the date because I got married that fall.”

Ytterberg had nothing more to say. Wallander tried to think.

“It sounds very odd,” he said eventually.

“Yes, it does. But I thought you’d be interested. Shall I send a copy of the report to the police station in Ystad?”

“I’m on vacation. But I can stop in and pick it up.”

“There’ll be more to come,” said Ytterberg. “But now I’m going for a walk through the woods with my wife.”

Wallander hung up and thought about what Ytterberg had said. Something had already occurred to him. He knew what he was going to do next.

Shortly after eight o’clock he was in his car, heading northwest. His destination was just outside Höör, a little house that was long past its prime.

22

On the way to Höör Wallander picked up the report from the reception desk at the police station. Then he did something he very rarely permitted: he pulled over just north of Ystad and picked up a hitchhiker. It was a woman in her thirties with long, dark hair and a small backpack over one shoulder. He didn’t really know why he stopped; perhaps it was just pure curiosity. Over the years he noticed that hitchhikers had largely disappeared from the roads. Cheap buses and flights had made that way of traveling almost obsolete.

As a young man, first when he was seventeen and then the following year, he had hitchhiked his way through Europe, despite his father’s stern opposition to such hazardous undertakings. On both trips he had succeeded in getting as far as Paris, and then back home again. He still recalled desperate roadside waits in the rain, his backpack far too heavy, and the drivers who picked him up but bored him stiff. But two occasions stood out from all the rest. The first time he had been standing in pouring rain just outside Ghent in Belgium — with hardly any money left and on his way home. A car had stopped and taken him all the way to Helsingborg. He had never forgotten that feeling of happiness, of getting back to Sweden with a single ride. The other memory was also from Belgium. One Saturday evening, this time on the way to Paris, he had been marooned in a tiny village off the beaten track. He had indulged in a bowl of soup in a cheap café, and then gone out in search of a viaduct he might be able to sleep under. He had noticed a man standing by the side of the road, in front of a war memorial. The man raised a trumpet to his lips and beat a mournful tattoo in memory of all the soldiers who had been killed during the two world wars. Wallander was deeply touched by the moment, and he’d never forgotten it.

But now, early in the morning, there was a woman standing at the side of the road, thumbing a lift. It was almost as if she had materialized from a different era. She ran to catch up with the car as he pulled over, jumped in and sat in the passenger seat beside him. She seemed to be pleased with the prospect of getting as far as Höör — she would then continue her journey up toward Småland. She smelled strongly of perfume and seemed very tired. She kept pulling her skirt down over her knees, and he thought he could see traces of stains on it. Even as he pulled over he regretted stopping. Why on earth should he pick up somebody he had never met before? What could he talk to her about? She said nothing, and neither did Wallander. There was a ringing noise inside her backpack. She dug out a cell phone and read the display, but didn’t answer it.

“They’re disruptive,” said Wallander. “Cell phones.”

“You don’t need to answer if you don’t want to.”

She spoke with a broad Scanian accent. Wallander guessed that she was from Malmö, from a working-class family. He tried to imagine her work, her life. She wasn’t wearing a ring on her left hand, and he noticed that she had bitten her nails down to the quick. Wallander rejected the idea that she was some kind of caregiver, or a hairdresser. She could hardly be a waitress either. She also seemed restless. She was biting her lower lip, almost chewing it.

“Were you standing there long?” he asked.

“Fifteen minutes or so. I had to get out of the previous car. The driver was making a nuisance of himself.”

She sounded preoccupied, unwilling to talk. Wallander decided not to disturb her anymore. He would drop her off in Höör and they would never meet again. He toyed with the idea of giving her a name: Carola, who came from nowhere.

He asked where she would like to be dropped.

“I’m hungry,” she said. “Somewhere near a café.”

He stopped at a roadside restaurant. She smiled rather shyly, thanked him, and headed for the entrance. Wallander reversed — then suddenly had no idea what to do next. Where was he going? His mind was a blank. He was in Höör, he’d just dropped off a hitchhiker — but why was he here? He became increasingly panic-stricken. He tried to calm himself down, closed his eyes and waited for normality to return.

It was more than a minute before he remembered where he was going. Where did it come from, this sudden emptiness that overcame him? What was wiping his mind clean? Why couldn’t his doctors tell him what was happening to him?

Although it was five or six years since he had last visited the man he was on his way to see, he remembered how to get there. The road meandered through some woods, passed a few paddocks with Iceland ponies, then sank down into a hollow. The redbrick house was still standing, just as tumbledown as he remembered it from the last time. The only thing that seemed to have changed was that there was a shiny new mailbox beside the open gate, with space for post office vans and garbage trucks to turn around. The name “Eber” was written in large red letters on the box. Wallander switched off the engine but remained sitting at the wheel. He recalled the first time he had met Hermann Eber. It was more than twenty years ago, 1985 or 1986, on police business; Eber had entered Sweden illegally from East Germany. He had requested political asylum, and it had eventually been granted. Wallander was the first to interview him when he turned up at the police station in Ystad and claimed to be a refugee. Wallander could still recall their faltering conversation in English, and his suspicions when Hermann Eber said he was a member of the Stasi, the East German secret police, and feared for his life. Somebody else had taken over the case, and it was only later, when Eber had been granted a residence permit, that he contacted Wallander on his own initiative. He had become almost fluent in Swedish in an astonishingly short time, and he came to see Wallander in order to thank him. Thank me for what, Wallander had asked. Eber had explained how surprised he had been to discover that a police officer could be as friendly as Wallander was to a man from a foreign country. He had slowly realized that the malicious propaganda directed by East Germany toward neighboring countries was not reciprocated in those lands. He felt he had to thank somebody, he said. And Wallander was the person he had chosen for his symbolic gratitude. They started meeting socially now and then, because Hermann Eber’s great passion was Italian opera. When the Berlin Wall came down, Eber sat in Wallander’s apartment in Mariagatan, his eyes overflowing with tears, and watched the historical events unfolding on television. He had confessed to Wallander in a series of long conversations that he was no longer a passionate enthusiast of the political system in East Germany. He had begun to hate himself. He had been one of the men who had bugged, persecuted, and pestered his fellow citizens. He himself had been privileged, and had even shaken the hand of Erich Honecker at one of the sumptuous banquets put on by the state. He had felt so proud to have shaken the hand of the great leader. But afterward he wished he had never done it. In the end, his doubts about what he had been doing and an increasing conviction that East Germany was a political project condemned to death had become so great that he decided to defect. He chose Sweden merely because he felt his chances of fleeing there were good. He could easily acquire false ID papers and board one of the ferries to Trelleborg.

Eber’s worries about his past eventually catching up with him were very strong. Despite the fact that East Germany no longer existed, the people he had targeted were still there. It had become clear to Wallander that nobody could assuage Eber’s fear; it was a constant presence and would probably never disappear completely. As the years passed, Eber became increasingly reserved and withdrawn; their meetings became less frequent and eventually ceased altogether.

The last time they had seen each other was because Wallander had heard that his friend was ill. One Sunday afternoon he drove out to Höör in order to see how things were. Eber was the same as ever, possibly a bit thinner. He was about the same age as Wallander but seemed to be aging more quickly. Wallander had thought a lot about Hermann Eber’s fate on his drive back home after the failed visit, when they had sat and looked at each other without being able to think of anything to say.

The door of the redbrick house had been opened slightly. Wallander got out of his car.

“It’s only me,” he shouted. “Your old friend from Ystad.”

Hermann Eber appeared in the doorway. He was wearing an ancient tracksuit that Wallander suspected was one of the few garments he’d had with him when he fled from East Germany. The garden was full of trash. He wondered fleetingly if Eber had set up cunning man-traps around his house.

“You,” he said. “How long is it since you last came to visit me?”

“Many years. But when have you been to visit me? Do you even know that I’ve moved to the country?”

Eber shook his head. He was almost completely bald. His wandering eyes convinced Wallander that he was still afraid of a possible revenge attack.

Eber pointed at a decrepit-looking garden table and some rickety chairs. Wallander realized that Eber didn’t want to let him into the house. His place had always been a mess, but in the past he had invited Wallander inside anyway. Perhaps it’s in an even worse state now, Wallander thought. He sat down carefully on the chair that seemed least likely to collapse. Eber remained standing, leaning against the house. Wallander wondered if he still retained the acuity that had been his most characteristic trait. Eber was an intelligent man, even if he led a life that seemed at odds with his intellectual capacity. Several times he had surprised Wallander by turning up to meetings unwashed and smelly. He dressed oddly, and in the middle of winter often wore summer clothes. But Wallander had realized at an early stage that beneath this confusing and often repulsive surface was a clear head. The way he analyzed what was no longer an East German miracle had given Wallander insight into a social system and a view of politics that had previously been beyond his comprehension.

Hermann Eber had often reacted with reluctance and irritation when Wallander asked him questions about the work he did for the Stasi. It was still difficult, hurtful, a pain he was unable to shake off. But at times when Wallander had been sufficiently patient, Eber had eventually begun to talk about it. One day he had admitted, matter-of-factly, that for a while he had worked in one of the secret departments concerned exclusively with killing people. That was why Wallander had thought of him when Ytterberg called and told him about Louise von Enke’s pathology report.

When Eber appeared in the doorway he was carrying a bundle of papers, and behind both ears were pencils. All the years he had lived in Sweden, Eber had earned a living by writing crossword puzzles for various German newspapers. He specialized in very difficult puzzles, aimed at the most advanced solvers. Creating crosswords was an art — it wasn’t just a matter of fitting words into a grid with as few black squares as possible; there was always another dimension: a theme hard to detect, possibly associations with various historic figures. That is how he had described his work to Wallander.

He nodded at the papers Eber had in his hand.

“Some more brainteasers?”

“The most difficult I’ve done. A crossword puzzle in which the most elegant clues are linked with Classical philosophy.”

“But surely you must want people to solve your puzzles?”

Eber didn’t reply. It occurred to Wallander that the man sitting opposite him in the shabby old tracksuit dreamed of creating a crossword puzzle that nobody would ever manage to solve. Wallander wondered for a moment if Eber’s fear had driven him crazy, despite everything. Or perhaps it was living here in this hollow where the hills on all sides could be perceived as walls closing in on him.

He didn’t know. Hermann Eber was still at his core a complete stranger as far as Wallander was concerned.

“I need your help,” he said, putting the pathology report on the table and proceeding to explain calmly and thoroughly everything that had happened.

Eber put on a pair of dirty glasses. He studied the papers for a few minutes, then suddenly stood up and disappeared into the house. Wallander waited. Eber still hadn’t returned after fifteen minutes. Wallander wondered if he had gone to bed, or perhaps started to prepare a meal and forgotten about the guest waiting for him on the rickety garden chair. But he continued to wait, his impatience growing. He decided to give Eber five more minutes.

At that moment Eber reemerged. He had some yellowed documents in his hand and a thick book under his arm.

“This stuff belongs to a different world,” Eber said. “I had to search for it.”

“But you appear to have found something.”

“It was clever of you to come to me. I’m probably the only person who can give you the help you need. At the same time, I must tell you that this aroused many nasty memories. I started crying as I was searching. Did you hear that?”

Wallander shook his head. He thought Eber was exaggerating. There were no signs of tears in his face.

“I recognize the substances,” Eber resumed. “They have woken me up out of a Sleeping Beauty slumber that I would have preferred to remain in undisturbed for the rest of my life.”

“So you know what it is?”

“I think so. The ingredients, the synthetically produced chemical substances mentioned in the report, are exactly what I used to work with.”

He paused. Wallander waited. Eber didn’t like being interrupted. He had once told Wallander, when under the influence of several glasses of whiskey, that it had to do with all the power he once had as a high-ranking officer in the Stasi. Nobody in those days dared to contradict him.

Eber cradled the thick book in his hands, as if it were a holy writ. He seemed hesitant. Wallander would have to be careful. A blackbird perched on the rim of a plastic kiddie pool nearby. Eber immediately slammed the heavy book down onto the table. The blackbird flew off. Wallander remembered that Eber suffered from a mysterious fear of birds.

“Let’s hear it, then,” said Wallander. “What are these substances?”

“I dealt with them a thousand years ago. I thought they were out of my life for good. Now you turn up one lovely summer’s day and remind me of something I don’t want to remember.”

“What is it you want to forget?”

Eber sighed and scratched at where his hair used to be. Wallander knew it was important to keep a grip on him, otherwise he might disappear to spend endless hours composing his crossword puzzles.

“What is it you want to forget?” Wallander repeated.

Eber began rocking back and forth on his chair, but he said nothing. Wallander’s patience was stretched thin.

“I want to know if you can identify these substances,” he said sharply.

“I’ve dealt with them in the past.”

“That’s not a good enough answer. ‘Dealt with’? You have to be clearer than that! Don’t forget you once promised me you’d do me a favor when I asked for one.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

Eber shook his head, and Wallander could see that he was tortured by the situation.

“Take your time,” he said. “I need your answer, your views, and your thoughts. But there’s no hurry. I can come back later if you prefer.”

“No, no, stay! I just need time to find my way back into the past. It’s as if I’m being forced to dig out a tunnel that I’ve already refilled carefully.”

Wallander stood up.

“I’ll go for a walk,” he said. “I’ll take a closer look at the Icelandic horses.”

“Half an hour, that’s all I need.”

Hermann Eber wiped the sweat from his brow. Wallander walked out of the hollow and back to the nearest paddock.

After half an hour, it had started to get windy, and a bank of clouds was building up from the south. Hermann Eber was sitting motionless in the garden chair when Wallander opened the rusty gate. Now there was another book lying on the table, an old diary with brown covers. Eber started talking the moment Wallander sat down. When he was agitated, as he was now, his voice became shrill, almost strident. Wallander had several times wondered with distaste what it would have been like to be interrogated by Hermann Eber when he was still convinced that East Germany was a paradise on earth.

“Igor Kirov,” Eber began, “also known as ‘Boris.’ That was his stage name, the alias he used. A Russian citizen, the official liaison with one of the KGB’s special divisions in Moscow. He came to East Berlin a few months before the Wall went up. I met him several times, though I had no direct contact with him. But there was no doubt about his reputation: Boris knew his stuff. He had zero tolerance for irregularities or slapdash procedures. It was no more than a couple of months before several of the highest officials in the Stasi had been transferred or demoted. You could say he was the Russian star, the much-feared center of the KGB’s operations in East Berlin. Before he had been with us for six months, he had cracked Great Britain’s most efficient spy ring. Three or four of their agents were executed after secret and summary trials. They would normally have been exchanged for Soviet or East German agents imprisoned in London, but Boris went straight to Ulbricht and demanded that the British agents be executed. He wanted to send an unambiguous warning not only to foreign agents, but also to any East German citizens who might be contemplating treason. Boris had turned himself into a universally feared legend after less than a year in East Berlin. He apparently led a simple life. Nobody knew if he was married, if he had any children, if he drank, or even if he played chess. The only thing that could be said about him with any certainty was that he had a unique ability to organize effective cooperation between the Stasi and the KGB. When the end came, we in the Stasi were stunned. The whole of East Germany would have been, if events had been made public. But everything was hushed up, of course.”

“What happened?”

“One day he simply vanished. A magician had draped a cloth over his head and presto, he was no longer there! But obviously, nobody applauded. The big hero had sold his soul to the English, and of course to the U.S.A. as well. I don’t know how he managed to conceal the fact that he had been responsible for the execution of British agents. Perhaps he didn’t need to. Security organizations have to be cynical in order to operate efficiently. It was a slap in the face for both the KGB and the Stasi. Heads rolled. Ulbricht was summoned to Moscow and came back crestfallen, even though it was hardly his fault that Boris hadn’t been unmasked. Markus Wolf, the head of the Stasi, was very close to being left out in the cold. No doubt he would have been if he hadn’t issued an order that brings us back to why you’re sitting here today. An order that was given the highest priority.”

Wallander could guess what was coming next.

“Boris had to die?”

“Exactly. But not only that, it would have to look as if he had been stricken by remorse. He would have to kill himself and leave a suicide note in which he described his treachery as unforgivable. He would have to praise both the Soviet Union and East Germany, and with a large dose of self-contempt and an equally large dose of our doctored sleeping pills, he would have to lie down and die.”

“How was it done?”

“At that time I was working at a lab just outside Berlin — interestingly enough at a place not far from Wannsee, where the Nazis had assembled in order to decide how to solve the Jewish problem. One day a new man showed up.”

Eber broke off and pointed to the notebook with the brown covers.

“I saw you noticed it. I had to look up his name. My memory let me down, which it doesn’t normally. How’s your memory nowadays?”

“It’s okay,” said Wallander noncommittally. “Go on.”

Eber appeared to have quietly registered Wallander’s reluctance to talk about his memory. It seemed to Wallander that the perception of tone of voice and subtexts must be especially well developed in people who at some stage in their life have worked in the security services, where overstepping the mark or making an incorrect assessment could result in an appointment with a firing squad.

“Klaus Dietmar,” said Eber. “He had been transferred directly from the women swimmers, I know that for certain, even though he had never been their official coach. He was one of those behind the sports miracle. He was a small, slim man who moved without making a sound and had hands like a girl’s. People who misjudged him might have interpreted his bearing as a sort of apology for existing at all, but he was a fanatical Communist who no doubt prayed every night to Walter Ulbricht before switching off the light. He was the leader of a group to which I belonged. Our only task was to produce a substance that would kill Igor Kirov but leave no trace apart from what seemed to be that of an ordinary sleeping pill.”

Eber stood up and disappeared into his house. Wallander couldn’t resist the temptation to peer in through a window. He had been right in his assumptions. The room was in a state of absolute chaos. Every square inch was filled with newspapers, clothes, trash, dirty plates, and half-eaten meals. Some sort of path through all the mess could just about be discerned. The stench from inside the room seeped through the windows. The sun had disappeared behind a bank of clouds. Eber reappeared, adjusting his tracksuit pants. He sat down and scratched his chin, as if plagued by a sudden itch. Wallander had the distinct impression that he was sitting opposite somebody he would hate to change identity with. Just for a moment, he was endlessly grateful for being who he was.

“It took us about two years,” said Eber, contemplating his filthy nails. “Many of us thought the Stasi was committing far too many resources to the effort to nail Igor Kirov. But the Kirov affair was all about prestige. He had sworn allegiance to the holiest dogmas of the Communist church and would not be allowed to die in a state of sin. It didn’t take us all that long to find a chemical combination that corresponded to the most commonly prescribed sleeping pills available in England at that time. The problem was finding a moment when it would be possible to circumvent all the security protecting him. The most difficult part, of course, was getting past his own vigilance. He knew what he had done and was well aware of all the hounds baying for his blood.”

Eber suffered a sudden attack of coughing. There was a wheezing and rasping in his bronchial tubes. Wallander waited. The wind was getting stronger, and the back of his neck felt cold.

“Any agent knows that the most important thing in his or her life is to keep changing routines,” Eber continued once he had recovered. “That’s what Kirov did, of course. But he overlooked one tiny detail. And that mistake cost him his life. Every Saturday, at three o’clock, he went to a pub in Notting Hill and watched soccer on the television. He always sat at the same table, drinking Russian tea. He would arrive at ten to three, and leave as soon as the match was over. Our cat burglar, who could break into any building you care to name, kept him under constant surveillance for quite a while, and eventually he came up with a plan for how to eliminate Igor Kirov. The weak link was two waitresses who were sometimes replaced by temporary stand-ins. We could replace them with some of our own. The execution took place in December 1972. The waitresses we supplied served him the poisoned tea. In the report I read it was stated specifically that the last match Kirov watched was Birmingham City versus Leicester City. The result was a draw, one to one. He returned to his apartment and died an hour or so later in his bed. The British security service had no doubt that it was suicide. The letter they found seemed to be in his own handwriting, and his fingerprints were on it. There was great rejoicing in the East German secret police; Igor Kirov had finally met his fate.”

Hermann Eber asked a few questions about the dead woman. Wallander answered in as much detail as he could. But he was growing increasingly impatient. He didn’t want to sit here answering Eber’s questions. Eber seemed to detect his irritation.

“So you think that Louise died after swallowing the same substance that killed Igor Kirov all those years ago?”

“It seems so.”

“Which would mean that she was murdered? And that the assumed suicide was an illusion?”

“If the pathologist’s report is correct, that could be the case.”

Wallander was skeptical and shook his head. Such things simply couldn’t happen in the world as he knew it.

“Who makes stuff like this nowadays? Neither the Stasi nor East Germany exists any longer. You’re living here in Sweden, thinking up crossword puzzles.”

“Secret police organizations never die. They change names, but they are always there. Anybody who thinks there’s less spying in the world today just doesn’t get it. Don’t forget that quite a few of the old masters are still around.”

“Old masters?”

Eber seemed to be almost offended when he answered.

“Irrespective of what we did, no matter what people say about us, we were specialists. We knew what we were doing.”

“But why should Louise von Enke of all people be subjected to something like this?”

“That’s not a question I can answer.”

Wallander was feeling both tired and uneasy. He stood up and shook Hermann Eber’s hand.

“I’ll be back; you can count on that,” he said by way of good-bye.

“So I gather,” said Eber. “In our world, we are used to meeting again at the most unlikely times.”

Wallander went to his car and drove home. It started raining just as he came to the roundabout at the turnoff to Ystad. It was pouring by the time he ran from the car to his front door. Jussi was barking from his kennel. Wallander sat down at his kitchen table and watched the rain pattering on the windowpane. Water was dripping from his hair.

He had no doubt that Hermann Eber was right. Louise von Enke had not committed suicide. She had been murdered.

23

Wallander took a piece of meat out of the refrigerator. Together with half a head of cauliflower, that would be his meal. When he sat down at the table and opened the newspaper he’d bought on the way home, he thought how, for as long as he could remember as an adult, he had always derived deep satisfaction from eating undisturbed while leafing through a newspaper. But on this occasion he had barely opened the paper when an enlarged photograph stared him in the face, with a dramatic headline. He wondered if he was imagining it — but no, it really was a picture of the hitchhiker he’d picked up. His astonishment increased as he read that the previous day she had killed her parents in the center of Malmö, in a residential block just off Södra Förstadsgatan, and had been on the run ever since. The police had no idea of her motive. But there was no doubt that she was the killer — her name was not Carola at all, but Anna-Lena. A police officer whose name Wallander thought he recognized described the murder as exceptionally violent, a frenzied attack culminating in a bloodbath in the little apartment the family had lived in. The police were now searching for the woman and had issued an APB. Wallander slid both the newspaper and his plate to one side. He asked himself once again if it could possibly be the same woman. Then he reached for the phone and dialed Martinsson’s home number.

“Come right away,” Wallander said. “To my house.”

“I’m bathing my grandchildren,” said Martinsson. “Can’t it wait?”

“No. It can’t wait.”

Exactly thirty minutes later Martinsson drove up to Wallander’s house. Wallander was standing at the gate, waiting for him. It had stopped raining and was looking much brighter. Martinsson was well acquainted with Wallander’s methods and had no doubt that something serious had happened. Jussi had been let out of his kennel and was leaping around Martinsson’s feet. With considerable difficulty, Wallander succeeded in making him lie down.

“I see you’ve taught him how to behave at last,” said Martinsson.

“Not really. Let’s go and sit in the kitchen.”

They went inside. Wallander pointed at the picture in the newspaper.

“I picked her up and drove her to Höör this morning,” he said. “She said she was on her way to Småland, but that might not be true, of course. The probability is that with a picture like this in the newspapers, somebody will have recognized her already. But the police should start looking there.”

Martinsson stared at Wallander.

“I seem to recall that as recently as last year we talked about the fact that we never pick up hitchhikers, you and I.”

“I made an exception this morning.”

“On the way to Höör?”

“I have a good friend there.”

“In Höör?”

“It’s possible that you don’t know where all my friends live. Why shouldn’t I have a good friend there? Don’t you have a good friend in the Hebrides? Every word I say is true.”

Martinsson nodded. He took a notebook out of his pocket. His pen wouldn’t write. Wallander gave him one that did, and placed a towel over his plate — several flies had settled on his food. Martinsson made a note of what the woman had been wearing, what she’d said, the exact times. He already had his cell phone in his hand when Wallander held him back.

“Maybe it would be best to say that the police received an anonymous tip?”

“I’ve already thought of that. We’d better not say that it was a well-known police officer from Ystad who gave a woman a lift and helped her to escape.”

“I didn’t know who she was.”

“But you know as well as I do what the papers will write. If the truth comes out. You’d be an excellent news item to liven up the summer.”

Wallander listened as Martinsson called the police station.

“The call was anonymous,” Martinsson said in conclusion. “I have no idea how he got my home number, but the man who called was sober and very credible.”

He hung up.

“Who isn’t sober at lunchtime?” wondered Wallander sarcastically. “Was that necessary?”

“When we catch that woman she’ll say that she thumbed a ride with an unknown man. That’s all. She won’t know it was you. Nor will anybody else.”

Wallander suddenly remembered something else his passenger had said.

“She said the driver of the car that had taken her to where I picked her up had been making a nuisance of himself. I forgot to mention that.”

Martinsson pointed at the photo in the newspaper.

“She looks good, even if she’s a murderer. Did you say she was wearing a short yellow skirt?”

“She was very attractive,” said Wallander. “Apart from her bitten nails. I can’t think of a bigger turnoff than that.”

Martinsson smiled at Wallander.

“We’ve more or less stopped all that,” he said. “Discussing women. There was a time when we never stopped talking about them.”

Wallander offered Martinsson coffee, but he declined. Wallander saw him off, then resumed his interrupted meal. It tasted good, but it didn’t fill him. He took Jussi for a long walk, trimmed a hedge at the back of the house, and reattached his mailbox to the gatepost, where it had been hanging askew. The whole time, he was chewing over what Hermann Eber had said. He was tempted to call Ytterberg but decided to wait until the following day. He needed time to think. A suicide was developing into a murder, in a way he didn’t understand. He began to feel once again that there was something he’d overlooked. Not only him, but all the others who were involved in the investigation. He couldn’t put his finger on it. It was just his intuition at work yet again, and he had become increasingly skeptical about its reliability.

Until now he had assumed that Håkan was the main character. But what if it was Louise? That’s where I have to start, he thought. I need to go through everything again, this time from a different perspective. But first he needed to sleep for a few hours in order to clear his mind. He undressed and got into bed. A spider scuttled along a beam in the ceiling. Then he fell asleep.

He had just finished breakfast at eight o’clock when Linda drove up to the gate. She had Klara with her. Wallander was annoyed at her coming so early in the morning. Now that he was on vacation, a rare occurrence, he wanted to spend his morning in peace.

They sat down in the garden. Wallander noticed that she had blue streaks in her hair.

“Why the blue streaks?”

“I think they’re attractive.”

“What does Hans say?”

“He also thinks they’re pretty.”

“Allow me to disagree. Why can’t he look after the baby if he’s home from work?”

“He felt compelled to go to the office today.”

She suddenly looked anxious; a shadow passed quickly over her face.

“Why is he worried?”

“There are things going on in the global finance sector that he doesn’t understand.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying either. ‘Things going on in the global finance sector’? But I don’t need to know any more about things that are beyond me.”

Wallander got up to pour a glass of water. Klara was crawling around happily on the grass.

“How’s Mona?”

“She’s lying low, doesn’t answer the phone. And when I ring her doorbell she doesn’t open up, even though I know she’s at home.”

“Is she still drinking?”

“I don’t know. Right now I don’t think I can take on responsibility for another child. I have enough on my plate with this one.”

A low-flying plane came roaring overhead, descending into Sturup Airport. When the noise had subsided, Wallander told Linda about his visit to Hermann Eber. He repeated their conversation in detail, and the thoughts that had occurred to him as a result. While he was becoming more convinced than ever that Louise had been murdered, he was at a complete loss as to why anyone would want to kill her. Could this quiet, retiring woman have had some sort of link with East Germany? A country that was dead and buried now?

Wallander paused. Klara was crawling around her mother’s legs. Linda shook her head slowly.

“I don’t doubt any of what you’ve told me — but what does it mean?”

“I don’t know. Right now I have only one question: Who was Louise von Enke? What is there about her that I don’t know?”

“What does anybody ever know about another person? Isn’t that what you’re always reminding me of? Telling me never to be surprised? Anyway, there is a connection with the former East Germany,” Linda said thoughtfully. “Haven’t I mentioned it?”

“You’ve only said that she was interested in classical German culture, and taught German.”

“What I’m thinking of goes further back than that,” Linda said. “Nearly fifty years. Before Hans was born, before Signe. You really should speak to Hans about this.”

“Let’s start with what you know,” said Wallander.

“It’s not a lot. But Louise was in East Germany at the beginning of the 1960s with a group of promising young Swedish swimmers and divers. It was some kind of sporting exchange. Louise used to coach up-and-coming young girls. Apparently she was a diver herself in her younger days, but I don’t know much about that. I think she went to East Berlin and Leipzig several times over a few years. Then it suddenly stopped. Hans thinks there’s a reason why.”

“What is it?”

“Håkan simply made it clear to her that the trips to East Germany had to stop. It wasn’t good for his military career to have a wife who kept visiting a country regarded as an enemy. You can well imagine that the Swedish top brass and politicians regarded East Germany as one of Russia’s nastiest vassals.”

“But you say you don’t know this for sure?”

“Louise always did what her husband told her to do. I think the situation in the early sixties simply became untenable. Håkan was on his way to the very top in the navy.”

“Do you know anything about how she reacted?”

“No, not a thing.”

Klara scratched herself on something lying on the ground and started screaming. Wallander couldn’t stand the sound of children screeching and went over to the dog kennel to stroke Jussi. He stayed there until Klara had quieted down.

“What did you used to do when I started crying?” Linda asked.

“My ears were more tolerant in those days.”

They sat in silence watching Klara investigate a dandelion growing in the middle of some stones.

“I’ve obviously been doing some thinking during the time the von Enkes have been missing,” Linda said then. “I’ve been ransacking my memory, trying to recall details of conversations and how they treated each other. I’ve tried to wheedle out of Hans everything he knows, everything he assumed I knew as well. Only a few days ago I had the impression that something didn’t add up, that he hadn’t told me the whole truth.”

“About what?”

“The money.”

“What money?”

“There is presumably a lot more money hidden away than I had known about. Håkan and Louise led a good life without any ostentatious luxury or excesses. But they could have lived in grand style if they’d wanted to.”

“What kind of sums are we talking about?”

“Don’t interrupt me,” she snapped. “I’m coming to that, but I’ll do it at my own speed. The problem is that Hans hasn’t told me everything he should have. That annoys me, and I know I’ll have to have it out with him sooner or later.”

“Does this mean you think the money has become vitally important in some new way?”

“No, but I don’t like Hans not telling me things. We don’t need to discuss it right now.”

Wallander raised his hands to signal an apology and asked no more questions. Linda suddenly discovered that Klara was trying to eat the dandelion and wiped her mouth clean, which set the baby off crying again. Wallander gritted his teeth and stayed where he was. Jussi paced up and down in his kennel, keeping an eye on things and looking as if he felt he’d been abandoned. My family, Wallander thought. We’re all here, apart from my sister, Kristina, and my former wife, who’s drinking herself to death.

The commotion was soon over, and Klara went back to crawling around on the grass. Linda was rocking back and forth on her chair.

“I can’t guarantee that it won’t collapse,” Wallander said.

“Granddad’s old furniture,” she said. “If the chair breaks, I’ll survive. I’ll just fall into your overgrown and untended flower bed.”

Wallander said nothing. He could feel himself getting annoyed at the way she was always scrutinizing what he did and pointing out his shortcomings.

“When I woke up this morning there was one question I couldn’t get out of my head,” she said. “It can’t wait, no matter how important this business of Louise and Håkan is. I don’t understand how I could have avoided asking it all these years. Not asking either you or Mom. Maybe I was scared of what the answer might be. Nobody wants to be conceived by accident.”

Wallander was on his guard immediately. Linda very rarely used the word “Mom” in connection with Mona. Nor could he remember the last time she had called him “Dad,” apart from when she was angry or being ironic.

“You don’t need to be frightened,” Linda went on. “I can see that I’ve worried you already. I only want to know how you met. The very first time my parents met. I simply don’t know.”

“My memory’s bad,” said Wallander, “but not that bad. We met in 1968 on a boat between Copenhagen and Malmö. One of the slow ferries, not a hovercraft, late one evening.”

“Forty years ago?”

“We were both very young. She was sitting at a table. The ferry was crowded, and I asked if I might join her, and she said yes. I’d be happy to tell you more another time. I’m not in the mood to root around in my past. Let’s get back to that money. What kind of sums are we talking about?”

“A few million. But you’re not going to avoid telling me about what happened when the ferry docked in Malmö.”

“Nothing happened then. I promise to tell you, later. Are you saying they had put aside a million or more? Where did they get it from?”

“They saved it.”

He frowned. That was a lot of money to put aside. He could never dream of saving such an amount.

“Could there be tax evasion or some other fraud?”

“Not according to Hans, no.”

“But you say he hasn’t been open with you about this money?”

“There’s no reason why he should have been. Until a couple of months ago it was up to his parents to decide what to do with their savings.”

“What did they do?”

“They asked Hans to invest it for them. Cautiously, no risky ventures.”

Wallander thought for a moment. Something told him that what he had just heard could be of considerable significance. Throughout his life as a police officer he had been reminded over and over again that money was the cause of the worst and most serious crimes people could commit. No other motive cropped up so often.

“Who oversaw their financial affairs? Both of them, or just Håkan?”

“Hans will know.”

“Then we must talk to him.”

“Not we. I. If I discover anything, I’ll let you know.”

Klara was yawning. Linda nodded to Wallander. He picked her up and laid her carefully on the garden hammock. She smiled at him.

“I try to picture myself in your arms,” said Linda. “But it’s hard.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t mean it negatively.”

A pair of swans came flying over the fields toward them. Father and daughter followed their progress and listened to the swishing sound they made.

“Is it really possible that Louise was murdered?” Linda wondered.

“The investigation will have to continue, of course. But I think there’s a lot of evidence now that suggests it is true.”

“But why? By whom? All that stuff about her having Russian secrets in her purse surely must be nonsense.”

“She had Swedish secrets in her purse. Intended for Russia. Listen properly to what I say.”

He expected her to be angry, but she merely nodded, acknowledging that he was right.

“There’s still an unanswered question,” said Wallander. “Where’s Håkan?”

“Dead or alive?”

“As far as I’m concerned, Håkan has become more alive now that Louise has been found dead. It’s not logical, I know; there’s no plausible explanation for my thinking that. Possibly my considerable experience as a police officer. But the indications are not clear, not even in that context. Nevertheless, I believe he’s alive.”

“Is he the one who killed Louise?”

“There’s nothing to suggest that.”

“But nothing to suggest that he didn’t, either?”

Wallander nodded. That was exactly what he had been thinking. She was following his train of thought.

Linda drove off with Klara half an hour later.

Wallander felt that one thing at least had become crystal clear. No matter what had happened, it had all begun with Håkan von Enke. And it was with him that everything would eventually come to a conclusion. Louise was a side issue.

But what it all meant, he had no idea. The only thing that struck him right now as being an incontestable fact was that Håkan von Enke had stood face-to-face with him in a side room during a birthday party on Djursholm, and seemed to be deeply troubled.

That’s where it all began, Wallander thought. It began with the troubled man.

24

One night in July.

Wallander sat there, pen in hand. The first line of the letter he had begun writing sounded like a bad film from the 1950s. Or perhaps a much better novel from a few decades earlier. The kind he recalled from his childhood home. From the library that had belonged to his maternal grandfather, who had died long before he was born.

Otherwise, the description was correct. It was now July, and it was nighttime. Wallander had gone to bed, then suddenly remembered that it would be his sister Kristina’s birthday in a few days’ time. It had become his custom to enclose with the birthday card the one letter he sent her every year. So he got out of bed — he wasn’t tired, after all, and this was a good excuse to avoid tossing and turning. He sat down at the kitchen table with stationery and a fountain pen, the latter a present from Linda for his fiftieth birthday. The opening words could stay as they were — “One night in July” — he wasn’t going to change a thing. It was a short letter. Once he had described his delight at Klara’s birth, he didn’t think he had much else to write about. His letters became shorter and shorter every year, he noticed grimly. It wasn’t much of a letter, but it was the best he could do. His contact with Kristina had culminated during the last few years of their father’s life. Since then they had never met, apart from once when he was in Stockholm and remembered to call her. They were totally different people, and had totally different memories of their childhood. After a short time the conversation would dry up and they’d stare at each other uncomprehendingly: did they really have nothing more to say to each other?

Wallander sealed the envelope and went back to bed. The window was ajar. In the distance he could hear the faint sound of music and a party in progress. There was a rustling sound from the grass outside the window. He had done the right thing in leaving Mariagatan, he thought. Out here in the countryside he could hear sounds he had never heard before. And smell country smells, even more of a novelty.

He lay awake, thinking about his visit to the police station earlier that evening. He hadn’t planned to go in, but since his computer wasn’t working he drove into Ystad at about nine o’clock. In the hope of avoiding on-duty colleagues, he used the basement entrance. He tapped in the entry code and reached his office without bumping into anybody. Voices could be heard from one of the offices he sneaked past. One of the speakers sounded very drunk. Wallander was glad he wasn’t the officer doing the interrogating.

Just before going on vacation he had made a big effort and reduced the piles of paper on his desk. It now looked almost inviting. He threw his jacket onto the guest chair and switched on the computer. While he waited for it to boot up he took out two folders he’d locked away in one of the desk drawers. One was labeled “Louise,” the other “Håkan.” The pen he’d used was faulty, and the names were smudged and unclear. He slid the first file to one side and concentrated on the second. He also thought about the conversation he’d had with Linda a few hours earlier. She had called while Klara was asleep and Hans had gone out to buy some diapers. Without going into unnecessary detail she had reported on what Hans had said when she asked him about his parents’ money, about his mother’s links with East Germany, and whether there was anything else he hadn’t told her about. He had been offended at first, thinking she didn’t trust him. She eventually succeeded in convincing him that all she was interested in was trying to find out what had happened to his parents. After all, it was looking very much as if murder might be involved. Hans had calmed down, understood her motivation, and answered as best he could.

Wallander took a folded sheet of paper out of his back pocket and smoothed it out to look over his notes.

It was only when Hans had started his present job that his parents had asked him to oversee their financial affairs. The amount of money involved was a bit less than 2 million kronor, which had now grown to more than 2.5 million. He was told that the money was their savings plus an inheritance from one of Louise’s relatives. He didn’t know how much was inherited and how much was saved. The relative in question was Hanna Edling, who died in 1976 and had owned a chain of ladies’ clothing shops in the west of Sweden. There were no tax irregularities, even though Håkan had moaned and groaned about what he considered to be the Social Democrats’ outrageous capital gains tax. Now that it had been abolished, Hans regretted that he hadn’t been able to tell Håkan that a few more kronor had been saved.

“Hans said his parents had a philosophy about money,” Linda had explained. “ ‘You shouldn’t talk about money, it should simply be there.’ ”

“If only,” Wallander had said. “That sounds like something well-heeled upper-class folk would say.”

“They are upper-class,” said Linda. “You know that. We don’t need to waste time discussing it.”

Hans used to give them an investment report twice a year, informing them about gains and any losses. Occasionally Håkan would read something in the newspapers about attractive investment options, and he’d call Hans to pass on the tip. But he never checked on whether Hans had followed up. Louise displayed even less interest in what Hans was doing with their money — but on one occasion the previous year she had asked to withdraw 200,000 kronor from the invested capital. Hans was surprised, since it was very unusual for them to take out such a large sum. And it was mostly Håkan who wanted to withdraw money, for such things as a cruise, or a trip to the French Riviera for a few weeks. Hans asked what she wanted the money for, but she didn’t tell him, merely insisted that he do what she had requested.

“She also told Hans not to say anything about it to Håkan,” Linda added. “That was the strangest part. I mean, he’d have been bound to notice it sooner or later.”

“But there might not necessarily have been anything sinister about it,” Wallander suggested. “Maybe she wanted to surprise him?”

“Could be. But Hans also said it was the only time she ever spoke to him in a threatening tone of voice.”

“Is that the word he used? ‘Threatening’?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that a bit odd? Such a strong word?”

“I have no doubt that he chose the word carefully.”

Wallander made a note: threatening. If it was true, it threw new light on the woman who was always smiling.

“What did Hans have to say about East Germany?”

Linda stressed that she had tried in several ways to jog his memory, but without success. He vaguely remembered that when he was very young his mother had brought him some wooden toys from East Berlin. Nothing else. He couldn’t recall how long she had been away, nor why she had gone abroad. In those days they had a housekeeper, Katarina, and he often spent a lot more time with her than he did with his parents. Håkan had been at sea, and Louise had been teaching German at the French School and at one of Stockholm’s grammar schools — he couldn’t remember which one. It could well have been that they had occasionally been guests at a dinner party in a home where German was the first language. He had a vague memory of a man in uniform singing drinking songs in a foreign language at the dinner table.

“He really doesn’t remember anything else,” Linda said. “Which either means that there was nothing else for him to remember, or that Louise went out of her way to hide her East German adventures from him. But why would she want to do that?”

“Why indeed,” said Wallander. “It was never against the law for Swedes to visit East Germany. We did business with them just as we did with every other country. But on the other hand, it was much harder for East German citizens to visit Sweden. The Berlin Wall was built to prevent defections.”

“That was before my time. I can remember the wall being pulled down, but not when it was built.”

That was the end of the call. Wallander heard a door opening and closing somewhere in the background. He began working his way methodically through the material he had gathered concerning the disappearance of Håkan von Enke, and it seemed to him there was one conclusion. Experience indicated that von Enke had been missing for so long that in all probability he was dead, like his wife. But Wallander decided nevertheless to regard him as still alive, at least for the time being.

After a while Wallander slid the file to one side and leaned back in his chair. Perhaps when we were talking in that windowless room in Djursholm he already knew that he would soon go missing. Did he hope that I would read between the lines of what he said?

Wallander sat up straight. Everything was standing still. He was impatient; he wanted to move forward. He opened an Internet browser and began searching. He wasn’t really sure what he was looking for. He scrolled through all the information on the navy Web site. Step-by-step he followed Håkan von Enke’s career. He had climbed the ladder steadily, but more slowly than many of his contemporaries. After about an hour of surfing, Wallander came across a photograph taken at a reception at the office for foreign military attachés. There were a number of young officers in the picture, including Håkan. He was smiling directly at the camera. A confident, open smile. Wallander contemplated the old picture, trying to see something that would tell him who the troubled man he had met in Djursholm really was.

He stood up and opened the window slightly, then resumed his Internet research. He tried to use his imagination to find unexpected ways of getting information about Håkan von Enke’s life: he read about East Germany, and their naval maneuvers in the southern Baltic Sea that both Sten Nordlander and Håkan von Enke had talked about. He spent the most time on submarine incidents in the early 1980s. He occasionally noted down a name, an event, a thought; but he was unable to find any blots on Håkan von Enke’s record. Nor did he find anything out of the ordinary about Louise when he visited the Web site of the French School in Stockholm. Linda had chosen a man whose parents were prime examples of bourgeois decency and uprightness. On the surface, at least.

It was almost eleven-thirty when he started yawning. His surfing had taken him to the very limits of what might be interesting. But he suddenly paused and leaned toward the screen. There was an article from one of the evening papers, dating from early 1987. A journalist had dug up information about a private location in Stockholm where parties and receptions often took place, frequented by high-ranking naval officers. The parties were evidently shrouded in secrecy; only a few people were allowed to attend, and none of the officers the journalist had contacted was prepared to comment. But one of the waitresses, Fanny Klarström, had. She talked about the unpleasant, hate-filled conversations about Olof Palme that had taken place, and about the arrogance of the officers, and said that she had stopped working there because she was not prepared to put up with it any longer. Among those who used to attend the gatherings was Håkan von Enke.

Wallander printed out the two newspaper pages. There was also a photograph of Fanny Klarström. Wallander judged her to be about sixty at the time, which meant that she could still be alive. He also wrote down the name of the journalist, and noted that this was the second banquet hall he had come across in connection with Håkan von Enke. He folded the article and put it in his pocket.

There were occasionally rumors in circulation about secret associations and parties in certain police circles. Wallander had never been invited to anything of the sort, however. The nearest he could think of was an occasion a long time ago when Rydberg proposed that they meet once a month for good food and drink in the restaurant at Svaneholm Castle; but nothing had come of it.

Wallander switched off the computer and left the room. Halfway down the hall he turned, went back, and turned off the light. He left the police station the same way he had arrived, through the basement. He collected some dirty towels and shirts from his locker and took them home to wash.

He paused in the parking lot and breathed in the summer night. He was going to live for a long time yet. His will to live was still strong.

He drove home, slept, dreamed uneasily about Mona, but woke up refreshed. He got out of bed immediately, eager to make use of the unexpected energy he seemed to be filled with. It was barely eight o’clock by the time he picked up the telephone to try to track down the journalist who had written about the naval officers’ secret meetings over twenty years ago. After several failed attempts via directory assistance, he glanced ruefully at his broken computer and wondered whom to disturb, Linda or Martinsson. He chose the latter. One of the grandchildren answered. Wallander didn’t have much sensible conversation with the little girl before Martinsson took the phone.

“You’ve just been speaking to Astrid,” he said. “She’s three years old, has blazing red hair, and likes nothing better than to pull at the remaining few tufts of hair that I possess.”

“My computer has broken down. Can I ask you to look something up for me, please?”

“I’ll call you back in a couple of minutes.”

Five minutes later the phone rang. It was Martinsson. Wallander gave him the journalist’s name, Torbjörn Setterwall. It didn’t take Martinsson long to trace him.

“Three years too late,” said Martinsson.

“What do you mean by that?”

“That Torbjörn Setterwall has died. In some strange kind of accident in an elevator, it seems. He was fifty-four years old, and left a wife and three children. How can you die in an elevator?”

“Maybe it dropped down to the bottom of the shaft? Or he could have been squashed?”

“I wasn’t able to be of much assistance, I’m afraid.”

“I have another name,” said Wallander. “This one could be more difficult. And there’s a chance she could be dead as well.”

“What’s her name?”

“Fanny Klarström.”

“Another journalist?”

“A waitress.”

“Hmm. As you say, it could be more difficult. But her name isn’t among the most common, neither Fanny nor Klarström.”

Wallander waited while Martinsson began the search. He could hear him humming a tune as he tapped away at the keyboard. Martinsson was usually on the melancholy side, but he was obviously in a good mood. Let’s hope he stays that way, Wallander thought.

“I’ll get back to you,” Martinsson said. “This is going to take a while.”

In fact it took Martinsson less than twenty minutes. When he called back he was able to inform Wallander that eighty-four-year-old Fanny Klarström lived in Markaryd in Småland. She had an apartment of her own in a retirement home called Lillgården.

“How did you do it?” Wallander asked. “Are you sure it’s the right person?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’ve spoken to her,” said Martinsson, to Wallander’s astonishment. “I called her, and she told me she’d been a waitress for nearly fifty years.”

“Amazing. One of these days you must explain what you do that I can’t do.”

Wallander wrote down Fanny Klarström’s address and phone number. According to Martinsson, her voice had sounded old and rough, but she was clear in the head.

After the call he went out. The sun was blazing down from a clear blue sky. Kites were soaring in the upwinds, searching for prey at the edge of the fields. Wallander wondered what he wanted, apart from what he had already. Nothing, he thought. Perhaps to be able to afford to travel south when winter was at its coldest. A little apartment in Spain. But he dismissed that thought immediately. He would never feel comfortable there, surrounded by people he didn’t know speaking a language he would never be able to learn properly. In one way or another, Skåne would be his terminus. He would stay in his house for as long as possible. When he couldn’t manage that anymore, he hoped the end would come quickly. What scared him more than anything else was an old age spent simply waiting to die, a time when nothing of what had been his life was still possible.

He made a decision. He would drive to Markaryd and pay a visit to the waitress. He didn’t know what good a conversation might do, but he couldn’t shake off the curiosity that had been aroused by that newspaper article. He took out his old school atlas. Markaryd was only a few hours’ drive away.

He set off the next day, after speaking to Linda on the phone. She listened carefully to what he had to say. When he finished, she announced that she would like to go with him. He was annoyed and asked how she thought Klara would be able to cope with a car journey on what seemed set to become one of the summer’s hottest days.

“Hans is at home today,” she said. “He can look after his daughter. But you don’t want me to come. I can hear it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The fact that it’s true.”

It was true. Wallander had been looking forward to a drive all on his own, heading north toward the Småland forests. It was one of his simple pleasures, going for drives without company. He liked the freedom it gave him, being alone in the car, without the radio on, and with the possibility of stopping whenever it suited him.

He accepted that Linda had seen through him.

“Are we still on speaking terms?” he asked.

“Of course we are,” she said. “But sometimes you’re a bit weird for my taste.”

“You don’t choose your parents. If I’m weird, it’s because I inherited it from your grandfather, who really was a strange person.”

“Good luck. Let me know how it went. I must say, in all honesty, that you never give up.”

“Do you?”

She laughed softly.

“Never. I don’t even know how to spell those words.”

It was eleven o’clock when Wallander set off. By one he had gotten as far as Älmhult, where he had lunch in a crowded Ikea restaurant. The long line at the counter made him nervous and irritated. He ate far too quickly, and afterward took a wrong turn, so that he reached Markaryd an hour later than planned. The attendant at a gas station explained the best route to the sheltered accommodation at Lillgården. When he got out of the car, he was struck by how similar it looked to Niklasgården. The thought made him wonder if the man who had claimed to be Signe’s uncle had made another visit. He would find out about that as soon as he had time.

An elderly man in blue overalls was crouching over a lawn mower that had been turned upside down. He was poking at it with a stick, removing large chunks of compressed grass from the blades. Wallander asked about Fanny Klarström. The man stood up and stretched his back. He spoke with a broad Småland accent that Wallander found difficult to understand.

“Her apartment is right at the far end, on the ground floor.”

“How is she?”

The man looked at Wallander with an expression that was both searching and suspicious.

“Fanny is old and tired. Who are you?”

Wallander produced his police ID, and regretted it immediately. Why should he risk exposing Fanny to gossip about a policeman coming to visit her? But it was too late now. The man in the blue overalls studied the ID card carefully.

“You’re from Skåne, I can hear that. Ystad?”

“As you can see.”

“And you’ve come all the way here, to Markaryd?”

“I’m not actually on police business,” Wallander explained in as friendly a tone as he could muster. “It’s more of a personal visit.”

“That’s good for Fanny. She hardly ever has any visitors.”

Wallander nodded at the lawn mower.

“You should wear earplugs.”

“I don’t hear a thing. My ears were ruined when I worked as a miner as a young man.”

Wallander entered the building and set off along the hallway to the left. An old man was standing by a window, staring out at the back of a tumbledown building. Wallander shuddered. He stopped outside a door with a nameplate, beautifully painted with flowers in pastel shades.

Just for a moment he considered turning on his heel and leaving. Then he rang the bell.

25

When Fanny Klarström opened the door — immediately, as if she had been standing there for a thousand years, waiting for him — she gave him a broad smile. He was the longed-for visitor, he just had time to think before she ushered him into her room and closed the door.

Wallander felt as if he were entering a lost world.

Fanny Klarström smelled as if somebody had just lit a fire of alder wood right next to him. It was a smell Wallander remembered from the short time he had spent as a Boy Scout. His troop had gone for a hike. They had set up camp on the shore of a lake, probably Krageholm Lake, where Wallander had experienced several depressing happenings later in life, and lit a campfire made from newly sawn alder. But then, do alders really grow by lakes in Skåne? Wallander thought that was a question to answer later.

Fanny Klarström had wavy blue hair, and was tastefully made up — perhaps she was always ready to receive an unexpected visitor. When she smiled she displayed a beautiful set of teeth that made Wallander jealous. His own teeth had begun to need filling when he was twelve, and since then he had been fighting a constant battle with dental hygiene and dentists who seemed always to be tearing a strip off him. He still had most of his own teeth, but his dentist had warned him that they would soon start to fall out if he didn’t brush them more often and more efficiently. At the age of eighty-four, Fanny Klarström had all her teeth, and they shone brightly as if she were still a teenager. She didn’t ask who he was or what he wanted, but invited him in to her little living room, where the walls were covered in framed photographs. Well-tended potted plants and climbers stood on windowsills and shelves. There’s not a single grain of dust in this apartment, Wallander thought. He sat down on the sofa she had gestured toward, and said he would be delighted to accept a cup of coffee.

While she was in the little kitchen he wandered around the room, examining all the photographs. There was a wedding photo dated 1942: Fanny with a man with slicked-down hair in a formal suit. Wallander thought he recognized the same man in another photo, this time in overalls and standing on a ship, the picture being taken from the quay. He deduced from other photos that Fanny had only one child. When he heard the clinking of china approaching, he sat down on the sofa again.

Fanny served coffee with a steady hand; she retained the skill she had acquired during many years as a waitress and didn’t spill a drop. She sat down opposite him in a rather worn armchair. A speckled gray cat appeared from nowhere and settled on her knee. She raised her cup, and Wallander did the same before tasting the coffee, which was very strong. It went down the wrong way and made him cough so violently that tears came to his eyes. When he recovered, she handed him a napkin. He dried his eyes and noticed that “Billingen Hotel” was embroidered on it.

“Perhaps I should begin by telling you why I’m here,” he said.

“Friendly people are always welcome,” said Fanny Klarström.

She spoke with an unmistakable Stockholm accent. Wallander wondered why she had chosen to grow old in a place as far off the beaten track as Markaryd.

Wallander placed a printout of the newspaper article on the embroidered cloth that covered the table. She didn’t bother to read it, merely glanced at the two pictures. But she seemed to remember even so. Wallander didn’t want to jump in at the deep end, and began by expressing a polite interest in all the photos hanging on the walls. She had no hesitation in telling him about them, and in doing so summarized her whole life in a few words.

In 1941, Fanny — whose surname then was Andersson — met a young sailor by the name of Arne Klarström.

“We were madly in love,” she said. “We met on one of the Djurgården ferries, on the way back from the Gröna Lund amusement park. As I was going ashore at Slussen, I stumbled and fell. He helped me up. What would have happened if I hadn’t fallen? Anyway, you could say that I literally stumbled into the love of my life. Which lasted for exactly two years. We got married, I became pregnant, and Arne dithered and dallied and wondered if he dared to continue working on the convoy traffic, given the circumstances. It’s easy to forget how many Swedish sailors died when their ships were mined during those years, even though we were not directly involved in the war. But Arne no doubt felt he was invulnerable, and I could never imagine that anything would happen to him. Our son, Gunnar, was born in January 1943 — the twelfth, at six-thirty in the morning. Arne was on shore leave at the time, and so he saw his son just the once. Nine days later his ship was blown up by a mine in the North Sea. Nothing was ever found — no wreckage of the ship and no bodies of those on board.”

She paused, and looked at the photographs on the wall.

“Anyway,” she began again after a while, “there I was on my own, with a son to look after and the love of my life gone forever. I suppose I tried to find another man to live with. I was still young. But nobody could compare with Arne. He was my true love, my husband, no matter whether he was alive or dead. Nobody could ever replace him.”

She suddenly started crying, almost silently. Wallander felt a lump in his throat. He slid the napkin she had just given him toward her.

“I sometimes long to have somebody to share my sorrow with,” she said, still with tears in her eyes. “Maybe that’s why loneliness can feel so oppressive. Just think, having to invite a total stranger into your house so that you have somebody to cry with.”

“What about your son?” Wallander asked tentatively.

“He lives in Abisko. That’s a long way from here. He comes to see me once a year, sometimes alone, sometimes with his wife and some of his children. He keeps trying to persuade me to move there, but it’s too far north for me, too cold. Old waitresses get swollen feet and can’t cope with cold temperatures.”

“What does he do in Abisko?”

“Something to do with forestry. I think he counts trees.”

“But you have settled here in Markaryd?”

“I used to live here when I was a child, before we moved to Stockholm. I didn’t really want to leave. I moved back here to prove that I’m still just as obstinate as I always was. And it’s cheap. A waitress isn’t in a position to save up a fortune.”

“And you were a waitress for a long time, weren’t you?”

“For all those years, yes. Cups, glasses, plates, in and out, a conveyor belt that never stopped. Restaurants, hotels, and once even a Nobel Prize banquet. I remember having the great honor of serving Ernest Hemingway his meal. He actually looked at me once. I longed to tell him that he should write a book about the terrible fate of so many sailors during the Second World War, but of course I didn’t say a word. I think it was 1954. In any case, Arne had been dead for a long time by then. Gunnar was practically a teenager.”

“But sometimes you also worked in private banquet halls, is that right?”

“I liked to have a bit of variety. And I wasn’t the type to keep quiet when a restaurateur didn’t behave as he should. I used to speak out on behalf of my fellow workers, not just for myself, and of course, that meant I got the sack now and then. I was very active as a trade unionist in those days.”

“Let’s talk about this particular private party facility,” said Wallander, judging that the right moment had now arrived.

He pointed to the newspaper article. She put on a pair of glasses that had been hanging on a ribbon around her neck, glanced through the article, then slid it to one side.

“Let me start by defending myself,” she said with a laugh. “We were paid very well to serve those unpleasant officers. A poor waitress like me could earn as much for one evening there as I was normally paid for a whole month, if things turned out well. They were all drunk by the time they went home, and some of them used to hand out hundred-krona notes like a farmer spreading muck in his fields. It could add up to a considerable sum.”

“Where was this place?”

“On Östermalm — doesn’t it say that in the article? It was owned by a man who had previously been associated with Per Engdahl’s Nazi movement. Despite his disgusting political views, he was a very good cook. He’d made a small fortune working as a chef for some high-ranking German officers who had fled to Argentina. They paid him well, he served them whatever food they asked for, said ‘Heil Hitler’ now and again, and at the end of the 1950s returned home and was able to buy that place on Östermalm. Everything I’ve just told you is what I was told by reliable sources.”

“And who might they be?”

She hesitated for a moment before answering.

“People who had been members of the Engdahl movement, but left,” she said.

Wallander was beginning to realize that he had not really understood Fanny Klarström’s background properly.

“Would I be correct in thinking that you weren’t only active in trade union circles, but that you also had political interests?”

“I was an active Communist. I suppose I still am, in a way. The idea of a world in which everybody has a common cause with everybody else is still the only ideal I can believe in. The only political truth that can’t be questioned, in my opinion.”

“Did that have anything to do with you applying for a job waiting on those officers?”

“I was asked to apply by the party. It was of some interest to know what conservative naval officers talked about among themselves. Nobody suspected that a waitress with swollen legs would remember what they said.”

Wallander tried to assess the significance of what he had just heard.

“Wasn’t there a risk that repeating what you had heard could be regarded as an impropriety?”

The tears had dried up now. She regarded him with some amusement.

“ ‘Impropriety’? Fanny Klarström has never been a spy, if that’s what you mean. I don’t understand why police officers always have to express themselves in such a complicated way. I spoke about it to my comrades in the party group, and that was all. Just as other people might talk about the attitudes of bus drivers or salesclerks. In the 1950s it wasn’t only the non socialists who regarded us Communists as potential traitors. The Social Democrats thought so as well. But of course, we weren’t anything of the sort.”

“Let’s forget that question, then. But I am a police officer, and justified in thinking along those lines.”

“It was over fifty years ago. Whatever was said and happened in those days must surely be out of date and of no interest now.”

“Not quite,” Wallander said. “History isn’t just something that’s behind us, it’s also something that follows us.”

She made no comment. He wasn’t sure whether she had understood what he meant. Wallander steered the conversation back to the newspaper article. He realized that Fanny Klarström had a pent-up need to talk to somebody, which meant there was a serious risk that their conversation could go on for a very long time.

Was his own future going to be similar? An aging, lonely old man who grabbed ahold of anybody he happened to come across and held on to them for as long as possible?

Fanny the waitress had a good memory. She remembered most of the men in uniform with their various insignia, gathered together on the fuzzy printout. Her comments were needle sharp, often malicious, and it was obvious to Wallander that she considered every word justified. There was, for instance, a Commander Sunesson who was always telling dirty jokes, which she described as “not funny, just coarse.” He had also been one of the most extreme Palme-haters, and the one who proposed quite openly various ways of liquidating the “Russian spy.”

“I have a horrible memory of Commander Sunesson,” she said. “Two days after Palme was shot down in a Stockholm street, these officers were booked for one of their dinners. Sunesson stood up and proposed a toast in gratitude for the fact that Olof Palme had finally had the sense to disappear from the land of the living and could no longer poison the air for all upright citizens. I recall his exact words, and I came close to pouring something over him. It was a terrible evening.”

Wallander pointed at Håkan von Enke.

“What do you remember about him?”

“He was one of the better ones. He didn’t drink too much, seldom said anything, just listened most of the time. He was also one of the most polite. He actually saw me, if I can put it like that.”

“What about the hatred of Palme? The fear of Russia?”

“They all shared that. They thought of course Sweden should be a member of NATO — it was a scandal that we steered clear of it. Many of them also thought that Sweden should acquire atomic weapons right away, that if only we could arm a few submarines with those weapons, it would be possible to defend the Swedish borders. All conversations were about the fight between God and the devil.”

“The devil came from the east?”

“And God the Father was also known as the U.S.A. There was evidently some kind of secret agreement in the 1950s between the government and the top military brass that American planes could cross Swedish borders whenever they liked. Our air-traffic controllers had certain codes that the Americans knew about and used. So all the Yanks needed to do was to take off from their bases in Norway and head for the Soviet Union. I recall discussing this with my friends and being upset about it.”

“But what about the submarines?”

“We talked about them all the time.”

“Including the one trapped in the shallows off Karlskrona? And the ones in the Hårsfjärden channel?”

Her reply surprised him.

“They were two entirely separate incidents.”

“How could that be?”

“A Russian submarine had run aground off Karlskrona. But there was never any confirmation of what was lurking under the surface at Hårsfjärden. That was no doubt intentional.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“They drank a few toasts to the poor captain — what was his name?”

“Gushchin.”

“Yes, that was it. Poor old Gus, they said. He was so drunk that his submarine got stuck on a Swedish rock. So at last they had the Russian submarine they’d always wanted to capture. Right? This proved beyond doubt that it was the Russians who were playing hide-and-seek inside Swedish territorial waters. But with regard to Hårsfjärden, there was nobody there who wanted to drink a toast to any Russian captain — do you get my meaning?”

“Are you suggesting that there weren’t any Russians lurking around under the surface at Hårsfjärden?”

“It was impossible to prove anything, one way or the other.”

Fanny Klarström continued talking enthusiastically about things Wallander didn’t know much about. He had never tried to conceal his extremely limited knowledge of history. Earlier in his life he simply hadn’t been all that interested. But now he was listening closely to what Fanny Klarström had to say.

“So Russia was the enemy,” Wallander said.

“None of our military men thought otherwise. Whenever the officers met they would talk to each other as if we were already at war with the Russians. Nobody gave a thought to the possibility that the U.S.A. could be just as big a threat.”

“What was the point of those dinners?”

“To eat and drink well, and to criticize the politicians who ‘represented a threat to Swedish sovereignty.’ Those were the precise words they always used. The main enemy was the Social Democrats. Even though everybody knew that Olof Palme was a staunch Democrat, he was always referred to in these circles as a ‘Communist.’ ”

Despite Wallander’s protests, Fanny went to make more coffee. He already had a stomachache. When she came back he explained the real reason for his visit to Markaryd.

“Wasn’t there something in the papers about that couple’s disappearance?” she asked when he had finished his account.

“The woman, Louise, was recently found dead just outside Stockholm.”

“Poor woman. What happened?”

“She was probably murdered.”

“Why?”

“We don’t have an answer to that yet.”

“And the man is that officer in the picture there?”

“Yes, Håkan von Enke. If you can remember anything else about him, I’d like to hear it.”

She thought hard, studying the photograph.

“He’s difficult to remember,” she said eventually. “I think I’ve already told you everything I can recall. Maybe that in itself says something about him? He hardly ever made a fuss, just sat there quietly. He wasn’t one of those who drank a lot and couldn’t stop talking. I remember him always having a smile on his face.”

Wallander frowned. Could her memory be completely wrong?

“Are you sure he was always smiling? My impression is that he was a very serious man.”

“I may be wrong. But I’m quite certain he wasn’t one of the awful warmongers. On the contrary, my memory is that he was one of the tiny minority who sometimes spoke up for peace. I no doubt remember that because it interested me.”

“What did?”

“Peace. I was one of those who demanded that Sweden renounce nuclear weapons as early as the 1950s.”

“So Håkan von Enke spoke up for peace?”

“As I recall, yes. But it was a long time ago.”

Wallander could see that she really was doing her best. He sipped at his coffee, trying to avoid actually drinking any, and nibbled on a cookie. And then he lost a filling. The tooth started hurting immediately. He wrapped the filling in a paper napkin and put it in his pocket. It was the middle of summer; his dentist would no doubt be on vacation and Wallander would be referred to some emergency center. He was irritated by the thought that his body was starting to fall to pieces. Once the most important parts stopped working, it would be all over.

“America.” Fanny Klarström interrupted his train of thought. “I knew there was something else.”

There was an incident that had stuck in her memory and made a deep impression; that was why she remembered it so clearly.

“It was one of the last times I worked at those banquets. There was evidently a request to see young ladies in short skirts rather than old ones with swollen legs. It didn’t bother me because I couldn’t have coped much longer with serving drinks and meals to those people. They used to have their meetings on the first Tuesday of every month. It must have been 1987, in March. I remember that because I’d broken the little finger of my left hand and wasn’t able to work for quite a while. I started again that very evening. They always used to finish up with coffee and brandy or whatever in a drab little room with leather chairs and dark bookcases. I remember because I’ve always enjoyed reading. Sometimes when I arrived early for one of the banquets, before starting to set the tables I would go to that room and look at the books. I soon discovered to my surprise that they were fakes — just covers with nothing inside. The owner or maybe the interior designer he’d hired had evidently bought them from some stage props supplier. I remember that my respect for those people suffered another significant blow.”

She sat up straight in the armchair, as if in an attempt to prevent herself from losing the thread again.

“Suddenly one of the officers started talking about spies,” she continued. “I was going around with a bottle of very expensive cognac at the time, filling their glasses. It wasn’t unusual for them to talk about spies. Wennerström was a popular topic. Several of them announced that they would willingly kill him with their own hands, once the liquor got them talking. I recall an admiral, von Hartman I think his name was, suggesting that Wennerström be throttled slowly with a balalaika string. Then Håkan von Enke started talking. He asked why nobody seemed to be worried that spies for the U.S.A. might be active in Sweden. That aroused a furious reaction. It deteriorated into a very unpleasant argument, during which several of the officers called his loyalty into question. Of course they were all drunk, with the possible exception of von Enke. In any case, he was so angry that he stood up and stormed out of the room. That had never happened before, during all the years I had been serving them. I don’t know if he ever came back, because the young, attractive waitresses took over. I remember the incident well because my friends and I had always thought the same. If the Russians had spies in Sweden, which they doubtless did, you could be sure that the Americans were active as well. But these officers refused to believe that. Or at least, if they did, they preferred not to say so.”

She stood up in order to serve him more coffee. Wallander smiled and placed his hand over his cup. When she sat down again, he couldn’t help seeing her swollen legs and varicose veins. He could just imagine her, serving the officers in the banquet hall.

“Anyway, that’s what I remember,” she said. “Could it be of some use?”

“Definitely,” said Wallander. “Every piece of information increases the possibility of our being able to work out what happened.”

She took off her glasses and studied him.

“Is he dead as well?”

“We don’t know.”

“Could he be the one who killed her?”

“We don’t know that either. But of course, anything is possible.”

“That’s what usually happens,” she said with a sigh. “Men kill their wives. They sometimes claim they intended to kill themselves as well, but there are a lot who don’t have the courage.”

“Yes,” said Wallander. “That often happens. Men can prove to be very cowardly when the chips are down.”

She suddenly started crying again, a trickle of almost invisible tears running down her cheeks. Wallander felt a lump in his throat once again. Loneliness is not a pretty thing, he thought. She sits here among all her silent photos, and her only company is her memories.

“It’s never happened before, me crying like this,” she said, drying her cheeks. “But he keeps coming back to me, my husband, more and more often, the older I get. I think he’s waiting for me down there in the depths; he’s tugging at me. I’ll soon be going to accompany him. I get the feeling that I’ve lived my life now. But it keeps going nevertheless. A tired old heart, still beating away; but my dark night is somebody’s day.”

“That rhymes,” said Wallander.

“I know,” she said, then burst out laughing. “An old woman thinking poetic thoughts in her hours of loneliness.”

Wallander stood up and thanked her for her hospitality. She insisted on accompanying him to his car, despite the fact that he could see her legs were hurting. The man with the lawn mower was no longer there.

“Summer brings longing,” she said as they shook hands. “My husband has been gone for over sixty years, but I can still feel an intense longing for him, just like when we first met. Can a policeman experience anything like that?”

“Oh yes,” said Wallander. “He most certainly can.”

She waved as he drove away. That’s a person I will never see again, he thought. He left the village and shook off the melancholy of his visit to Fanny Klarström, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her comment that men kill their wives and then are too cowardly to kill themselves. That Håkan von Enke might have killed Louise was one of the first thoughts Wallander had had after his meeting with Hermann Eber. There was no obvious motive, no proof, no clues. It was just a possibility among many others. But he had the feeling that, having heard Fanny Klarström say what she did, he should take another look at that fragile hypothesis. As he drove through the Småland forests, he tried to think of a series of events that would lead to Louise’s being killed by her husband.

He arrived home without having made any real progress.

But that night he lay awake for a long time thinking about Fanny Klarström before finally falling asleep.

26

Wallander was still asleep when the phone rang. It was his father’s old phone that he had rescued for sentimental reasons when the old man’s house in Löderup had been cleared out before being sold. He considered letting it ring and ring, but eventually he got up and answered. It was one of the new women in the police station reception; Ebba, who had been there since time immemorial, had now retired and moved with her husband to an apartment in central Malmö, where their children lived. Wallander couldn’t recall the new receptionist’s name — maybe it was Anna, but he wasn’t sure.

“There’s a woman here asking for your address,” she said. “I only let people have it with your permission. She’s from abroad.”

“Of course,” said Wallander. “All the women I know are from abroad.”

He stayed at the phone, and on his third attempt managed to pin down a dentist who could treat him an hour later.

It was almost noon when he got back home from the dentist’s. He had started thinking about lunch when there was a knock on the door. When he answered it, he knew immediately who it was, even though she had changed. Baiba Liepa from Riga, Latvia. There was no doubt she was the one standing on his doorstep, older and paler.

“Good God!” he said. “So you were the lady asking for my address?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“How could you ever disturb me?”

He embraced her, and could feel that she had become very thin. It had been over fifteen years since their brief but torrid love affair. And it must have been ten years since they were last in touch. Wallander had been drunk and called her in the middle of the night. Needless to say, he regretted it later, and resolved never to contact her again. But now, with her standing there in front of him, he could feel his emotions bubbling over. Their affair had been the most passionate experience of his life. Being with her had put his protracted relationship with Mona into perspective. He had experienced sensual pleasure with Baiba greater than he had previously thought possible. He had been keen to start a new life and wanted to marry her, but she turned him down. She didn’t want to live with another police officer, and risk becoming a widow again, which she had already been through.

Now they were facing each other in his living room. He still found it difficult to believe that it really was her who had reappeared from somewhere far away in time and space.

“I never imagined this would happen,” he said. “That we would meet again.”

“You never got in touch.”

“No. I didn’t. I wanted what was over and done with to be over and done with.”

He ushered her to the sofa and sat down beside her. He suddenly had the feeling that everything was not as it should be. She was too pale, too thin, too tired and awkward in her movements.

She read his mind, as she always had, and took his hand.

“I wanted to see you again,” she said. “You are convinced that people are gone forever, but then you wake up one day and realize that you can never break away entirely from people who have been especially important in your life.”

“There’s some special reason why you’ve come here now,” said Wallander.

“I’d like a cup of tea,” she said. “Are you sure I’m not disturbing you?”

“There’s only me and a dog,” said Wallander. “That’s all.”

“How’s your daughter?”

“Do you remember her name?”

Baiba looked offended. Wallander recalled how easily she had taken offense.

“Do you really think I’ve forgotten about Linda?”

“I suppose I thought that you’d erased everything to do with me.”

“That was something about you that I never liked — you always made such a drama out of everything. How could anybody possibly ‘erase’ somebody they’d once been in love with?”

Wallander was already on his way to the kitchen, to make tea.

“I’ll come with you,” she said, standing up.

When Wallander saw what an effort it was for her, he realized that she was ill.

She filled a saucepan with water and put it on the stove, giving the impression that she was immediately at home in his kitchen. He took out the cups he had inherited from his mother, the only items that remained to preserve her memory. They sat down at the kitchen table.

“This is a lovely house you have here,” she said. “I remember you used to talk about moving out to the country, but I didn’t believe you’d ever do it.”

“I didn’t believe it either. Not to mention that I’d ever get myself a dog.”

“What’s her name?”

“It’s a he. Jussi.”

Their conversation died out. He eyed her without making it obvious. The bright sunshine coming in through the kitchen window emphasized her emaciated features.

“I never left Riga,” she said à propos of nothing. “I’ve managed to trade up to a better apartment twice, but I could never even think about living out in the country. When I was a child I was sent to live with my grandparents for a few years, in extreme poverty that I always associate with the Latvian countryside. Maybe it’s an image that no longer applies today, but I can’t shake it off.”

“You were working at the university when we were together. What are you doing now?”

She didn’t respond, but took a sip of tea and then slid her cup to one side.

“I’m actually a qualified engineer,” she said. “Have you forgotten that? When we met I was translating scientific literature for the technical college. But I don’t do that anymore. Not now that I’m ill.”

“What’s the nature of your illness?”

She answered quietly, as if what she was saying wasn’t all that important.

“I’m dying. I have cancer. But I don’t want to talk about that right now. Do you mind if I lie down for a while? I’m taking painkillers that are so strong, I find it hard to stay awake.”

She headed for the sofa, but Wallander ushered her into his bedroom. He had changed the sheets only a couple of days ago. He smoothed out the bed before she lay down. Her head almost disappeared into the pillow. She smiled wanly, as if she had recalled something.

“Haven’t I been in this bed before?”

“Of course you have. It’s an old bed.”

“I’ll take a nap. Just an hour. They said at the police station that you were on vacation.”

“You can sleep here for as long as you like.”

He wasn’t sure if she had heard him, or if she had already fallen asleep. Why has she come here to visit me? he wondered. I can’t cope with any more death and misery, any more wives drinking themselves to death, any more mothers being murdered. He regretted that thought the moment he had it. He sat down very carefully at the end of the bed and looked at her. The memory of their affair returned and upset him so much that he started shaking. I don’t want her to die, he thought. I want her to live. Maybe now she’s prepared to give living with a policeman another go.

Wallander went out and sat on one of the garden chairs. After a while he let Jussi out of his kennel. Baiba’s car was an old Citroën with Latvian plates. He switched on his cell phone and saw that Linda had called. He called her back, and she sounded pleased when she heard his voice.

“I just wanted to tell you that Hans has been awarded a bonus. Several hundred thousand kronor. That means we can rebuild the house.”

“Did he really earn that kind of money?” Wallander wondered, with a trace of cynicism in his voice.

“Why shouldn’t he?”

Wallander told her that Baiba had come to visit him. Linda listened to what he said about the woman now lying asleep in his bed.

“I’ve seen pictures of her,” said Linda when he’d finished. “You’ve spoken about her. But according to Mom she was just a Latvian prostitute.”

Wallander was furious.

“Your mother can be a terrible person sometimes. Making a claim like that is shameful. In many ways Baiba has all the qualities that Mona lacks. When did she say that?”

“How do you expect me to remember?”

“I think I’ll call her and tell her never to be in touch with me again.”

“What good would that do? She was probably jealous. People say things like that when they’re jealous.”

Reluctantly, Wallander acknowledged that she was right, and calmed down. Then he told her that Baiba was seriously ill.

“Has she come to say good-bye, then?” she asked. “That sounds sad.”

“That was my first reaction too. I was surprised and pleased to see her. But it only took a few minutes for me to feel depressed again. I seem to be surrounded by nothing but death and misery nowadays.”

“You always have been,” Linda said. “That was one of the first things they warned us about at the police academy — the kind of working life that lay ahead. But don’t forget that you have Klara.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s the feeling of old age that’s creeping up and sticking its claws into the back of my neck. Wherever I look, my circle of friends is thinning out. When Dad died, I became next in line, if you get my meaning. Klara is at the end of that line, but I’m right at the front.”

“If Baiba has come to see you, it’s because you mean a lot to her. That’s the only important thing.”

“Come by,” said Wallander. “I want you to meet the only woman who has really meant anything to me.”

“Apart from Mona.”

“That goes without saying.”

Linda thought for a while before speaking.

“I have a friend visiting at the moment,” she said. “Rakel — do you remember her? She’s a police officer in Malmö. She and Klara get along well.”

“Aren’t you going to bring Klara with you?”

“I’ll come on my own, very shortly.”

It was almost three o’clock by the time Linda swung into the drive and had to slam on the brakes in order to avoid running into Baiba’s car. Wallander always thought she drove far too fast, but on the other hand he was relieved whenever she didn’t use her motorcycle. He frequently told her so, but the only response he ever got was a loud snort.

Baiba had woken up and had a sip of water and another cup of tea. She spent a long time in the bathroom. When she came out she seemed to be less tired than before. Without her knowing, Wallander had watched her injecting herself in the thigh. For a brief moment he glimpsed her nakedness and felt despondency welling up inside him at the thought of all that was now over, never to be repeated, never to be experienced again.

It was an important moment for him when Baiba and Linda greeted each other. It seemed to Wallander that he could now see the Baiba he had met so many years ago in Latvia.

Linda embraced her as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and said she was pleased to meet the love of her father’s life at long last. Wallander felt embarrassed but also pleased to see them together. If Mona had been there, despite his current anger with her, and if Linda had been carrying Klara in her arms, the four most important women in his life, in a way the only ones, would have been gathered in his house. A big day, he thought, in the middle of summer, at a time when old age is sneaking up closer and closer.

When Linda heard that Baiba still hadn’t had anything to eat, she sent Wallander into the kitchen to make an omelette and went with Baiba out to the garden. He could hear Baiba laughing through the open window. That made his memories even stronger, and his eyes filled with tears. He worried that he seemed to be growing sentimental — a state he had virtually never experienced before, except when he was drunk.

They ate outside, moving with the shade. Wallander spent most of the time listening as Linda asked questions about Latvia, a country she had never visited. Just for a short time, a family is being resurrected, he thought. It will soon be over. And the question, the most difficult question of all to answer, is what will be left?

Linda stayed for just over an hour before announcing that she needed to go home. She had brought a photo of Klara with her, and she showed it to Baiba.

“She might grow up to look just like her grandfather,” Baiba said.

“God forbid!” said Wallander.

“Don’t believe him,” said Linda. “There’s nothing he’d wish for more. I hope to see you again,” she said as she stood up to go home.

Baiba didn’t reply. They hadn’t talked about death.

Baiba and Wallander remained in the garden and started talking about their lives. Baiba had a lot of questions to ask, and he answered as best he could. Both of them still lived alone. Some ten years earlier Baiba had tried to enter into a relationship with a doctor, but she had given up after six months. She had never had any children. Wallander couldn’t tell if she regretted that or not.

“Life has been good,” she said forcefully. “When our borders finally opened up, I was able to travel. I lived frugally, wrote several newspaper articles, and I was a consultant for a firm that wanted to establish itself in Latvia. I earned the most money from a Swedish bank that is now the biggest in the country. I went abroad twice a year, and I know so much more about the world we live in than I did when we met. I’ve had a good life. Lonely, but good.”

“My torture has always been waking up alone,” said Wallander, then wondered if what he had just said was really true.

Baiba laughed as she replied.

“I’ve always lived alone, apart from that short time with the doctor. But that doesn’t mean I’ve always woken up alone. You don’t need to be celibate simply because you’re not in a steady relationship.”

Wallander felt pangs of jealousy at the thought of strange men lying by Baiba’s side in her bed. But he didn’t say anything.

Baiba suddenly started talking about her illness. As ever, she was objective.

“It started with my feeling constantly tired,” she said. “I soon suspected there was something more ominous behind the weariness. At first the doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with me. Burnout, old age; nobody had the right answer. I eventually visited a doctor in Bonn that I’d heard about, a man who specializes in cases that other doctors have failed to diagnose. After a few days giving me various tests and taking samples, he was able to tell me that I had a rare cancerous tumor in my liver. I traveled back to Riga with a death sentence stamped invisibly in my passport. I admit that I leaned on all the contacts I had and was operated on remarkably quickly. But it was too late; the cancer had spread. A few weeks ago I was told that I now have metastases in my brain. It’s taken less than a year. I won’t last until Christmas; I’ll die in the fall. I’m trying to spend the time I have left doing what I want to do more than anything else. There are a few places in the world I want to visit again, a few people I want to see again. You are one of them — perhaps the one I’ve wanted to see most of all.”

Wallander burst into tears, sobbing violently. She took his hand, which made matters even worse. He stood up and walked around to the back of the house. When he had pulled himself together, he returned.

“I don’t want to bring you sorrow,” she said. “I hope you understand why I was compelled to come here.”

“I have never forgotten the time we spent together,” he said. “I’ve often wanted to relive it. Now that you’re here, I have to ask you a question. Have you ever had any regrets?”

“You mean that I said no when you asked me to marry you?”

“It’s a question I think about all the time.”

“Never. It was right then, and it must remain right now, after all these years.”

Wallander said nothing. He understood. Why should she have considered marrying a foreign policeman when her husband, also a police officer, had just been murdered? Wallander remembered how he had tried to persuade her. But if the roles had been reversed, how would he have reacted? What would he have chosen to do?

They sat for a long time in silence. In the end Baiba stood up, stroked Wallander’s hair, and went back into the house. Since he could see that her pain had started again, he assumed she was giving herself another injection. When she didn’t come back, he went inside to investigate. She had fallen asleep on his bed. She didn’t wake up until late in the afternoon, and once she had overcome her initial confusion about where she was, her first question was if she could stay the night before catching a ferry to Poland the next morning and driving back to Riga.

“That’s too far for you to drive,” said Wallander firmly. “I’ll go with you, drive you home. Then I can fly back.”

She shook her head and said she wanted to go home on her own, just as she had come. When Wallander tried to insist, she became annoyed and shouted at him. But she stopped immediately and apologized. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hand.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “How long does she have? When is Baiba going to die? If I had the least suspicion that my time was up now I wouldn’t have stayed. I wouldn’t even have come in the first place. When I feel that the end is imminent and unavoidable, I won’t prolong the torture. I have access to both pills and injections. I intend to die with a bottle of champagne by my bed. I’ll drink a toast to the fact that despite everything, I was able to experience the singular adventure of being born, living, and one day disappearing into the darkness once again.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

Wallander immediately wished he could bite his tongue. How could he put a question like that to someone who was dying? But she didn’t take offense. He realized with a mixture of despair and embarrassment that she had no doubt long ago grown used to his clumsiness.

“No,” said Baiba. “I’m not afraid. I have so little time. I can’t waste any of it on thoughts that would only make everything worse.”

She got out of bed and made a tour of the house. She paused at the bookcase, noticing a book on Latvia that she had given him.

“Have you ever opened it?” she asked with a smile.

“Lots of times,” said Wallander.

It was true.

Afterward, Wallander would remember the time spent in Löderup with Baiba as a room in which all the clocks seemed to have stopped, all movement ceased. She ate very little, spent most of the time in bed with a blanket over her, occasionally injecting herself, and wanted him to be near her. They lay side by side, talked now and then, were just as often silent when she was too tired to converse or had simply fallen asleep. Wallander also dozed off from time to time but woke up with a start after a few minutes, unused to having somebody so close to him.

She told him about the years that had passed, and the astonishing developments that had taken place in her homeland.

“We had no idea in the days you and I were together what was going to happen,” she said. “Do you remember the Soviet Black Berets who took potshots all over Riga for no obvious reason? I can admit now that in those days I didn’t believe the Soviet Union would ever loosen its grip on us. I imagined the oppression would only increase. The worst of it was that nobody ever knew who could be trusted. Did your neighbors have anything to gain by you being free, or did that frighten them? Which of them were reporting to the KGB, which was everywhere, like a giant ear that nobody could get away from? Now I know I was wrong, and I’m grateful for that. But at the same time, nobody knows what the future holds for Latvia. Capitalism doesn’t solve the problems of socialism or the planned economy, nor does democracy solve all the economic crises. I think that right now we are living beyond our resources.”

“Isn’t there talk of Baltic tigers?” Wallander asked. “States that are as successful as countries in Asia?”

She shook her head with a bitter expression on her face.

“We’re living on borrowed money. Including Swedish money. I don’t claim to be a particularly knowledgeable or perceptive economist, but I’m quite sure that Swedish banks are lending large sums of money in my country with far too little security. And that can only end one way.”

“Badly?”

“Very badly. For the Swedish banks too.”

Wallander thought back to the years at the beginning of the 1990s, when they had had their affair. He recalled how scared everybody was. So much had happened in those days that he still didn’t understand. Superficially, a major political development had drastically altered Europe, and hence the balance of power between the U.S.A. and the Soviet Union. Until he traveled to Riga to try to solve the case of the dead men in a rubber dinghy that drifted ashore near Ystad, it had never occurred to him that three of Sweden’s nearest neighbors were occupied by a foreign power. How could it be that so many of his generation, born in the late 1940s, had never truly comprehended that the Cold War actually was a war, with occupied and oppressed nations as a result? During the 1960s it often seemed that distant Vietnam lay closer to the Swedish border than did the Baltic countries.

“It was difficult to understand for us as well,” said Baiba in the middle of the night, when the first light of dawn was beginning to change the color of the sky. “Behind every Latvian was a Russian, we used to say. But behind every Russian there was somebody else.”

“Who?”

“Even in the Baltic countries, the way the Russians thought was dictated by what the U.S.A. was doing.”

“So behind every Russian was an American, is that right?”

“You could put it like that. But nobody will really know until Russian historians tell us the full truth of everything that happened in those days.”

Somewhere during this rambling conversation, their unexpected meeting came to an end. Wallander fell asleep. The last time he’d checked his watch it said five o’clock. When he woke up over an hour later, Baiba had left. He ran outside, but her car was no longer there. Under a stone on the garden table was a photograph. The picture had been taken in 1991, in May, at the Freedom Monument in Riga. Wallander remembered the occasion. Somebody who happened to be passing had taken it for them. They were both smiling, huddled up close, Baiba with her head resting on his shoulder. Next to the photograph was a scrap of paper that seemed to have been torn out of a diary. There was nothing written on it, just a drawing of a heart.

Wallander thought he should drive to Ystad right away, to the quay where ferries to Poland came and went. He was already in the car and had started the engine when he realized that this was the last thing she would want him to do. He went back into the house and lay down on the bed, where he could still smell her body.

He was tired out, and fell asleep. When he woke up a few hours later, he recalled what she had said. Behind every Russian there was somebody else. She had given him something to think about that might be relevant to Håkan and Louise von Enke. Behind every Russian there was somebody else.

Who, he wondered, was standing behind them? And which of them was standing behind the other? He didn’t know the answer, but could see that it was important.

He went out into the garden, got the ladder the chimney sweep always used, and climbed up onto the roof with a pair of binoculars in his hand. He could see the white ferry heading for Poland. A large part of the most important and happiest time in his life was on board and would never return. He felt a combination of sorrow and pain that he had difficulty coping with.

He was still on the roof when the garbage truck arrived. But the man who collected the bags of trash didn’t notice Wallander, perched up there like a crow.

27

Wallander watched the garbage truck drive away. The Poland ferry had vanished in a bank of fog drifting in toward the Scanian coast. His thoughts scared him. Baiba was close to the brink of the abyss at the edge of the unknown. She had said she had a few months, no more.

He suddenly seemed to see himself as he really was. A man filled with self-pity, a thoroughly pathetic figure. He sat there on his roof, and the only truly important thing as far as he was concerned was that Baiba was going to die, not him.

In the end he climbed down and took Jussi for a walk, which was more of an escape. He was who he was, he finally concluded. A man, good at his job, even astute. All his life he had tried to be part of the forces of good in this world, and if he had failed, well, he wasn’t the only one. What else could a person do but try his best?

The sky had clouded over. Expecting it to start raining at any moment, he walked with Jussi through fields where the grass had recently been cut, or was lying fallow, or was waiting for the combine. He tried to think a new thought after every fifty strides but couldn’t manage it. It was a game he used to play with Linda when she was a child. Now he tried to think thoughts about his life, about Baiba’s courage in the face of the inevitable, and about the courage he was sure he lacked himself. He walked slowly along the edge of fields, allowing Jussi to roam freely.

Wallander had worked up a sweat, and he sat down by the side of a small pond surrounded by rusty remains of old agricultural machines. Jussi sniffed at the water, drank, then came to lie down at Wallander’s side. The clouds had begun to disperse; it wasn’t going to rain after all. Wallander could hear emergency sirens in the distance. Fire engines this time, not an ambulance or some of his colleagues. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up Baiba. The sirens were coming closer; they were behind him now, on the road leading to Simrishamn. He turned around. The binoculars he’d had with him on the roof were still hanging around his neck. The sirens were very loud and clear now. He stood up. Could one of his neighbors’ houses be on fire? He hoped it wasn’t the house occupied by the Hanssons, an old couple: Elin was practically immobile, and her husband, Rune, could barely walk with the aid of a walking stick. The sirens were getting closer and closer. He raised the binoculars and saw to his horror two fire engines coming to a halt outside his own house. He started running, with Jussi ahead of him on the path. He occasionally stopped to view his house through the binoculars. Every time, he expected to see flames shooting through the roof, where he had been sitting not long ago, or smoke belching from shattered windows. But there was none of that. Only the fire engines, whose sirens were now silent, and firemen swarming around.

When he arrived at the house, his heart threatening to burst through his chest, fire chief Peter Edler was stroking Jussi, who had arrived first by a large margin. He smiled grimly when Wallander came staggering up. The firemen were preparing to leave. Peter Edler was about the same age as Wallander, a freckled man with a slight Småland accent. They sometimes met in connection with an investigation. Wallander had great respect for him, and appreciated his dry humor.

“One of my men knew you lived here,” said Edler, continuing to stroke Jussi.

“What happened?”

“That’s what I should be asking you.”

“Is the place on fire?”

“Apparently not. But it could easily have been.”

Wallander stared uncomprehendingly at Edler.

“I went for a walk about half an hour ago.”

Edler nodded toward the house.

“Come in and take a look.”

The stench of burned rubber that hit Wallander when he entered the building was strong, almost choking. Edler led him into the kitchen. The firemen had opened a window to let the fumes out. On one of the stove’s burners was a frying pan, and next to it a charred rubber place mat. Edler sniffed at the frying pan, from which smoke was still rising.

“Fried egg? Sausage?”

“Egg.”

“You went out for a walk without turning off the stove. Not only that, but you left a place mat on a burner. How careless can a detective get?”

Edler shook his head. They went outside again. The firemen were already in the trucks, waiting for their leader.

“It’s never happened to me before,” said Wallander.

“It had better not happen again.”

Edler looked around, admiring the view.

“So you moved out to the country in the end. To be honest, I never thought you’d get around to it. You have a lovely view.”

“You haven’t moved yourself?”

“We’re still in the same house in the middle of town. Gunnel wants to move out to the country, but I don’t. Not as long as I’m still working.”

“How long to go?”

Edler shuddered and looked miserable. He smacked the shiny helmet he was holding in his hand against his thigh, as if it were a gun.

“As long as I can, or am allowed to. I might be able to keep going for a few more years, but then I’ll be on the scrap heap as well. What I’ll do then, I have no idea. I can’t just sit at home doing crossword puzzles.”

“You could try writing them,” said Wallander, thinking of Hermann Eber.

Edler looked at him in surprise, but didn’t ask what he meant. It almost seemed as if he hoped Wallander’s future would turn out to be as grim as his own.

“Maybe we could form a team? Start a little company and travel around telling people how to protect themselves from burglary and fire?”

“Is it possible to protect yourself from burglary?”

“Hardly. But you can teach people some simple methods of making thieves think twice before targeting your house or apartment.”

Edler eyed him doubtfully.

“Do you really believe what you’re saying?”

“I’m trying to. But thieves are like children. They learn quickly.”

Edler shook his head at Wallander’s highly dubious comparison, and climbed into his fire truck.

“Remember to turn off your burners,” he said by way of farewell. “But it was smart of you to have a first-rate fire alarm installed that’s linked directly to us. Your house could have burned down. Then you’d have had to cope with the nightmare of a smoldering ruin in the middle of summer.”

Wallander didn’t respond. It was Linda who had insisted on the fire alarm. She had paid for it, given it to him as a Christmas present and made sure it was installed.

He fed Jussi and was just about to start his lawn mower when Linda drove up. She didn’t have Klara with her. He could see right away that she was upset. He assumed she had passed the fire engines on the way here.

“What were fire engines doing on your road?” she asked.

“They’d taken a wrong turn,” he lied. “There was a short circuit in a neighbor’s barn.”

“Which barn?”

“The Hanssons’.”

“Who are they?”

“What does it matter? You don’t know where their house is anyway.”

She suddenly threw her purse at him as hard as she could. He managed to duck and was hit only on the shoulder. He picked it up, furious.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Why the hell do I have to stand here while you tell me boldfaced lies!”

“I’m not telling you lies.”

“The fire brigade was here! I stopped and spoke to your neighbor. He said you were standing next to two fire engines.”

“I forgot to switch off one of the burners.”

“Did you fall asleep?”

Wallander pointed out into the fields, from where only a few minutes ago he had come racing back; he could still feel the pain in his leg muscles.

“I was out with Jussi.”

Without a word, Linda grabbed her purse out of his hand and went into the house. Wallander considered getting into his car and driving off. Linda would go on and on about his lie, and then about his incredible carelessness. She would continue to be upset, and that in turn would make him angry. Indeed, he was already well on the way there. He didn’t know what she had in her purse, but it had been heavy, and his shoulder hurt. He felt even more agitated when he thought about the fact that this was the first time she had ever used physical violence toward him.

Linda came out again.

“Do you remember what we talked about a few weeks ago? That day when it was pouring rain, and I was here with Klara?”

“How can I be expected to remember everything we say to each other?”

“We talked about how she could come here and stay with you when she was a bit older.”

“Let’s stay calm and talk things through,” Wallander said. “You arranged the installation of a fire alarm. Now we know it works. The house didn’t burn down. I forgot to turn off a burner. Has that never happened to you?”

She answered without hesitation.

“Not since Klara was born, no.”

“I don’t think it ever happened to me either when you were little.”

The argument died away. They were both good fencers, but neither had the strength to deliver a fatal blow. Linda sat down on one of the garden chairs. Wallander remained standing, afraid her fury might boil over again. She looked at him, clearly worried.

“Are you starting to become forgetful?”

“I’ve always been forgetful, to a certain extent. Maybe it would be better to say that I’m absentminded.”

He sat down, tired of hiding the truth.

“Sometimes whole chunks of time just disappear. Like ice melting away.”

“What do you mean?”

Wallander told her about his trip to Höör. But he left out the part about the hitchhiker.

“I suddenly had no idea why I was there. It was like being in a brightly lit room when somebody turns off the light, without warning. I don’t know how long I was in pitch darkness. It was as if I didn’t even know who I was anymore.”

“Has that ever happened before?”

“Not as badly. But I’ve gone to a doctor, a specialist in Malmö, and she says I’m just overworked. That I think I’m a dashing young thirty-year-old who can still do everything I used to be able to do.”

“I don’t like what I’m hearing. Go see another doctor.”

He nodded but didn’t say anything. She stood up and disappeared into the house, emerging eventually with two glasses of water. Wallander suddenly asked if the police had found the woman from Malmö who killed her parents.

“I heard she was arrested in Växjö. Someone had given her a ride and become suspicious. He treated her to a cup of coffee at a roadside café outside the town and called the police. She tried to stab herself through the heart with a knife she had with her, but she didn’t succeed.”

“Have you ever wanted to kill me?” he asked, relieved to hear that his own part in her flight hadn’t come to light. Martinsson had kept his word and said nothing.

“Of course,” she said, and burst out laughing. “Plenty of times. Most recently a few minutes ago. I hope the old man doesn’t live until he’s gaga, I keep thinking. Every child occasionally wishes her parents were dead. How often have you wanted to kill me?”

“Never.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.”

“I can console you by telling you that Mona’s the one I’ve had in my sights more often. But naturally, I’m horrified at the thought of one day no longer having you two around. Incidentally, Hans and I managed to persuade Mona to go to a clinic for treatment.”

Jussi caught sight of a hare in the field and started barking. They sat in silence and watched his vain attempts to break out of his kennel. The hare ran off, and Jussi quieted down.

“I came for another reason,” she said out of the blue.

“Don’t tell me something’s happened to Klara?”

“No, she’s fine. Hans is at home with her today. I make him accept his responsibilities. I think he enjoys it, actually. Klara is about as far away from the stressful banking world as you can get.”

“But something else must have happened?”

“I was in Copenhagen yesterday evening. With a couple of friends. We went to a concert — Madonna, the idol of my youth. It was terrific. Afterward we had a late dinner, then went our separate ways. I was staying at the posh Hotel d’Angleterre — the firm Hans works for gets a corporate rate. I was in a good mood and not all that sleepy, so I went for a walk along Strøget. There were a lot of people out. I sat down on a bench, and that was when I saw him.”

“Saw who?”

“Håkan.”

Wallander held his breath and stared at her. She was quite certain, he could see that; she had no hesitation.

“It wasn’t just his face, which I only caught a glimpse of. It was the way he walked, shoulders back, short rapid strides.”

“Describe in detail exactly what you saw.”

“I’d sat down on a bench in a little square on Strøget, I don’t know what it’s called. He was coming from Nyhavn and had already passed me when I noticed him. First I recognized his hair from behind, then the way he walked, and finally his overcoat.”

“His overcoat?”

“Yes.”

“But there must be thousands of overcoats that look like his?”

“Not Håkan’s overcoat. It’s a thin, dark blue coat sort of like a sailor’s raincoat. I can’t describe it any better than that. But that’s what I saw.”

“So what did you do?”

“Just imagine! A concert with Madonna, two old friends, dinner, a summer night, no squealing baby, no boyfriend — and suddenly I catch sight of Håkan. I sat there transfixed for about fifteen seconds, then I hurried after him. But it was too late. There was no sign of him. There were people everywhere, side streets, taxis, restaurants. I walked all the way along Strøget as far as the city hall at Rådhuspladsen, and then back again. But I couldn’t find him.”

Wallander emptied his glass of water. Even if what he’d just heard sounded implausible, he knew that Linda was sharp-eyed and was rarely wrong when it came to identifying people.

“Let’s take a step back,” he said. “If I understood you correctly he’d already passed by the bench where you were sitting before you noticed him. But you said you caught a glimpse of his face. So he must have turned around?”

“Yes, he looked over his shoulder.”

“Why would he do that?”

She frowned.

“How would I know?”

“It’s a simple question. Did he expect to find somebody following him? Was he worried? Did he do it automatically, or had he heard something?”

“I think he was checking to make sure he wasn’t being followed.”

“You think?”

“I can’t know for sure. But yes, I think he was checking to make sure there wasn’t somebody behind him.”

“Did he seem scared? Worried?”

“I can’t answer that.”

Wallander considered her answer. He still had questions.

“Could he have seen you?”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?”

“If he had, he’d have looked at the bench. But he didn’t.”

“Have you told Hans?”

“Yes. He was upset and said that I must have been imagining things.”

“Will you make sure that he hasn’t been meeting his father in secret?”

She nodded, without speaking.

The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and there was a rumble of thunder in the distance. They went inside. Wallander wanted Linda to stay for a meal, but she said she needed to go home. She was just about to leave when the clouds opened, and it started pouring. The parking area in front of the house was transformed into a mud bath. Wallander decided that before the week was out he would order several loads of gravel so that nobody would need to wade through the mud whenever it rained.

“I’m positive,” she said. “It was Håkan. Very much alive in Copenhagen.”

“So we know one thing,” Wallander said. “Håkan hasn’t suffered the same fate as his wife. He’s alive. That changes everything.”

Linda nodded. They both knew they could no longer rule out the possibility that Håkan had killed his wife. But they shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe there was some other reason he had gone into hiding. Was he on the run from something or somebody?

They stood there in silence, each of them lost in thought. The rain died away as quickly as it had started.

“What was he doing in Copenhagen?” Wallander asked. “For me there’s only one plausible answer to that question.”

“To meet Hans. That’s what you’re thinking. Maybe to solve money problems? But I’m convinced that Hans isn’t lying to me.”

“I believe you. But there’s no reason to think they’ve had contact already. That might happen tomorrow.”

“In that case he’ll tell me.”

“Maybe,” said Wallander thoughtfully.

“Why shouldn’t he?”

“Loyalty. What if his father says he can’t breathe a word to anybody, not even to you, about their meeting? And that he gives Hans a reason that he dare not question?”

“I’ll notice if he’s hiding something from me.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned,” said Wallander, testing the wet and soggy ground with one foot, “it’s that you should never believe you know all that much about other people’s thoughts and ideas.”

“So what should I do?”

“Say nothing for the moment. Ask nothing. I have to think about what this implies. So do you. But I’ll talk to Ytterberg.”

He accompanied her to the car. She held on to his arm so as not to slip.

“You should do something about this parking area,” she said. “Have you thought about spreading some gravel around?”

“It had occurred to me,” said Wallander.

She had already gotten into her car when she began talking about Baiba again.

“Is it really that bad? That she’s going to die?”

“Yes.”

“When did she leave?”

“Early this morning.”

“Will you see her again?”

“She came here to say good-bye. She has cancer and will die before long. I think you can work out how that feels without any help from me.”

“It must have been awful.”

Wallander turned away and walked around the corner of the house. He didn’t want to burst out crying — not because he didn’t want to display weakness in front of his daughter, but for his own sake. He simply didn’t want to think about his own death, which was basically the only thing that frightened him. He remained there until he heard her start the car and drive away. She had realized that he wanted to be left alone.

When he went back into the kitchen, he sat in the chair opposite where he usually sat at mealtimes.

He thought about what Linda had said about Håkan von Enke. They were back to square one.

28

Wallander clambered up the rickety ladder leading to the attic. A musty smell of damp and mold hit him hard. He was aware that one of these days he would have to have the whole roof removed and replaced. But not yet. Maybe in a year or, with a bit of luck, two.

He knew roughly where he had put the cardboard box he was looking for, but another one caught his eye first. In a box supplied by the moving company in Helsingborg was his collection of LPs. During all the years he had lived in Mariagatan, he had a record player on which he could listen to them, but it had finally broken, and he hadn’t been able to find anybody to repair it. It had been taken away with the rest of the trash when he moved, but he had kept the records and stored them in the attic. He sat down and thumbed through his old albums. Every sleeve contained a memory, sometimes clear and comprehensive, just as often a flickering image of faces, smells, emotions. In his late teens he had been an almost fanatical fan of The Spotnicks. He had their first four records, and he recognized the title of every song. The music and the electric guitars echoed inside him. Also in the box was a record featuring Mahalia Jackson, which he had once been astonished to receive as a present from one of the silk knights who bought his father’s paintings. The man probably spent his life peddling paintings and gramophone records. Wallander remembered carrying a canvas to the man’s car and being given the record in return. The gospel songs had made a big impression on him. Go down, Moses, he thought, and he could see in his mind’s eye his first record player, with the speaker in the lid making a rasping sound.

He suddenly found himself sitting there with an Edith Piaf record in his hands. The album cover, in black and white, was a close-up of her face. Mona, who hated The Spotnicks, had given him that LP — she preferred other Swedish groups such as Streaplers and Sven-Ingvars, but her great favorite was the French chanteuse. Neither she nor Wallander understood a word of what Piaf sang, but her voice fascinated them both.

After Piaf came a record featuring the jazz musician John Coltrane; where had he gotten that one? He couldn’t remember. When he took it out of the sleeve he saw that it had barely been played. He tried hard, but the record didn’t speak to him. He couldn’t hear a single note from Coltrane’s saxophone.

Right at the back of the box were two opera LPs: La Traviata and Rigoletto. Unlike the Coltrane, these records were almost worn out.

He remained there, sitting on the attic floor, wondering if he should take the box downstairs and buy a new record player so that he could listen to them. But in the end he slid the box to one side. The music he listened to nowadays was on cassette or CD. He didn’t need those scratchy vinyl LPs anymore. They belonged to the past, and they could stay there in the darkness of the attic.

He found the box he was looking for and brought it down to the kitchen. He took out of it a large number of Legos, and spread them out over the table. He had given the Legos to Linda when she was a little girl — he’d won them in a raffle.

He’d gotten the idea from Rydberg. They’d been sitting at his kitchen table late one evening in spring, not long before Rydberg died. Ystad and the surrounding area had been subjected to a series of robberies by a masked man with a sawed-off shotgun. In order to organize the incidents and in the hope of finding a pattern, Rydberg had produced a pack of cards and used it to trace the robber’s movements. The unknown villain had been the jack of spades. It had taught Wallander a way of seeing how a criminal went about his business, possibly even how he thought. When he had tried out the Rydberg method himself a few years later, he used Lego pieces instead of playing cards. But he had never told Rydberg.

He arranged figures to represent Håkan and Louise, various dates, places, and events. A fireman in a red helmet was Håkan; Louise was a little girl Linda had called Cinderella. He placed a group of marching Lego soldiers on one side; they were the unanswered questions he now considered the most important. Who was pretending to be Signe’s uncle? Why had her father emerged from the shadows? Where had he been and why had he hidden himself away?

He remembered that he needed to call Niklasgården. He did so and was informed that nobody had been to visit Signe. Neither her father nor some unknown uncle.

He sat there at the kitchen table with a Lego in his hand. Somebody isn’t telling the truth, he thought. Of all the people I’ve spoken to about Håkan and Louise von Enke, there’s one who’s not being straight with me. He or she is either lying or distorting the truth by holding back information. Who? And why?

The phone rang. He took it out into the garden. It was Linda. She came straight to the point.

“I talked to Hans. He felt like I was pressuring him. He got annoyed, and stormed out. When he comes back, I’ll apologize.”

“That’s something Mona never did.”

“What? Storm out or apologize?”

“She often stormed out. That was always the last card she played whenever we had an argument. A slammed door. When she came back she never apologized.”

Linda laughed. She’s on edge, Wallander thought. They probably argue a lot more often than she wants me to know.

“According to Mona it was the other way around,” she said. “It was you who slammed the door, you who never apologized.”

“I thought we’d already agreed that Mona sometimes says things that aren’t true,” Wallander said.

“You do exactly the same. Neither of my parents is a thoroughly honest person.”

Wallander reacted angrily.

“Are you? Thoroughly honest?”

“No. But I’ve never claimed to be.”

“Get to the point!”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Wallander decided on the spur of the moment, not without a certain amount of pleasure, to tell a lie.

“I’m cooking.”

She saw through him right away.

“In the garden? I can hear birds singing.”

“I’m having a barbecue.”

“You hate barbecues.”

“You don’t know everything I hate and don’t hate. What is it you want to tell me?”

“Hans has had no contact with his father. Nor have there been any transactions in the family bank accounts apart from the withdrawals made by Louise before she disappeared. Hans is dealing with all the mail now. No money has been taken out at the bank, nor in any other way.”

Wallander suddenly realized that this was more important than he’d first thought.

“So what has Håkan been living on while he’s been hidden away? He turns up in Copenhagen, but obviously he doesn’t need any money because he doesn’t contact his son, nor does he make any withdrawals. That seems to suggest that somebody is helping him. Or could he have bank accounts that Hans doesn’t know about?”

“That’s possible. Hans has lots of contacts in the banking world; he’s looked into it and hasn’t found anything. But there are lots of ways of hiding money.”

Wallander said nothing. He didn’t have any more questions. But he was now beginning to wonder seriously if Håkan von Enke’s not needing money might be a significant clue. Klara started crying.

“I have to go now,” Linda said.

“I can hear that. So you believe we can rule out any secret contacts between Hans and his father, yes?”

“Yes.”

She hung up. Wallander put down the phone and moved over to the garden hammock. He rocked back and forth, with one foot on the ground. In his mind’s eye he could see Håkan von Enke walking along Strøget. He was walking fast, stopping now and then to turn around before continuing on his way. And then he disappeared, possibly down a side street, or into the mass of people on Strøget.

Wallander woke up with a start. It had started raining, and drops were falling on his bare foot that was resting on the ground. He stood up and went inside. He closed the door behind him, but then he paused. He could sense some sort of connection, still very vague, but nevertheless something that could shed light on where Håkan von Enke had been since he disappeared. An escape hatch, Wallander thought. When he vanished, he knew what he was going to do. He fled from his walk along Valhallavägen to a place where nobody would be able to find him. Wallander now felt quite sure that Louise had not been prepared for her husband’s disappearance; her worry had been genuine. No proof had come to light, no facts, only this feeling that he found persuasive.

Wallander went to the kitchen. The stone floor felt cold under his bare feet. He was moving slowly, as if he was afraid that the thoughts might disappear. The Legos were on the table. He sat down. An escape hatch, he thought again. Everything planned, well organized — a submarine commander knows how to arrange his environment down to the last detail. Wallander tried to envisage the escape hatch. He had the feeling that he knew where Håkan von Enke was hiding. He had been close by, without noticing.

He leaned over the table and arranged a line of Legos. Everybody who had ever had anything to do with Håkan and Louise. Sten Nordlander; their daughter, Signe; Hans; Steven Atkins in his house near San Diego. But also the others who had been more peripheral. He arranged them in a line, one after the other, and thought about who could have helped von Enke, who might have been able to supply everything needed, including money.

This is what I’m looking for, Wallander thought. An escape hatch. The question is, is Ytterberg thinking along the same lines, or is he playing with different Legos? He picked up his cell phone and dialed the number. It was raining harder now, pelting against the tin-plate windowsills. Ytterberg answered. It was a bad connection. Ytterberg was outside, in the street.

“I’m at an outdoor café,” Ytterberg said. “I’m just about to pay. Can I call you back?”

He did so twenty minutes later when he had returned to his office in Bergsgatan.

“I’m the type that thinks it’s easy to get back to work again after a vacation,” Ytterberg said in response to Wallander’s question about how he felt, after being off.

“I can’t say I share that view,” said Wallander. “Going back to work means being faced with a desk overloaded with files passed on by others who have left cheerful little Post-it notes about how pleased they are to be going on vacation.”

He started by reporting on his meeting with Hermann Eber. Ytterberg listened carefully and had several questions. Then Wallander told him about Håkan von Enke’s return. He passed on what Linda had told him; he was even more convinced now that she really saw him.

“Could your daughter have been mistaken?”

“No. But I understand why you ask. It’s astonishing.”

“So there’s no doubt at all that it was him?”

“No. I know my daughter. If she says it was him, it was him. Not a doppelgänger, not somebody who looked like him — it was Håkan von Enke.”

“What does your future son-in-law have to say?”

“That his father hadn’t gone to Copenhagen in order to visit him. There’s no reason not to believe him.”

“But is it really plausible to think that he wouldn’t make contact with his son?”

“Whether it’s plausible or not I can’t say. But I don’t think Hans is stupid enough to try to mislead Linda.”

“Mislead his partner, or mislead your daughter?”

“The mother of his child. If that makes a difference.”

They talked for a while about what von Enke’s reappearance could imply. As far as Ytterberg was concerned, it meant above all else that he would have to reconsider what role Håkan von Enke might have played in the death of his wife.

“I don’t know what you’ve been thinking,” said Ytterberg, “but I always assumed that he was dead as well. Ever since his wife’s body was discovered on Värmdö, at least.”

“I’ve had my doubts,” said Wallander. “But if I’d been in charge of the investigation I’d probably have thought the same thing.”

Wallander told him briefly, but nevertheless in detail, his thoughts about von Enke’s escape hatch.

“Those secret documents we found in Louise’s purse made me think,” Ytterberg said. “Since von Enke was in hiding, it was reasonable to think that he was involved as well, that they were working together.”

“As spies?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time in Sweden that a man and his wife had been caught spying. Even if only one of them was directly involved.”

“I assume you’re referring to Stig Bergling and his wife?”

“Are there any others?”

It occurred to Wallander that Ytterberg occasionally assumed an arrogant tone of voice that Wallander would never have tolerated under normal circumstances. If somebody in the police station in Ystad had asked him ironic questions like that he would have been furious. But he let it pass — Ytterberg was probably not always aware of how he sounded.

“Do you know anything about what was on the microfilms? Defense secrets, armaments, foreign policy?”

“I have no idea. But I get the impression that our Säpo colleagues are worried. They’re insisting that we hand over every single document linked to this investigation, not that there are very many. I’ve been summoned to a meeting later today with a Commander Holm, who is evidently a bigwig in the military intelligence service.”

“I’d be interested to hear what questions he asks you.”

“That’s always a good way of finding out what people know already. In other words, you want to know what questions he doesn’t ask?”

“Exactly.”

“I promise to let you know.”

The next morning after breakfast he checked all the burners carefully before going out for a walk with Jussi, who ran off like a shot into the lifting mist. He felt clearer in the head than he had in a very long time. Nothing seemed excessively difficult, and his zest for life was strong. He suddenly started running, challenging the lethargy that had filled him for the last few months. He kept running until he was thoroughly out of breath. The sun was warming things up now. He took off his sweaty shirt, made a face when he saw his protruding belly, and decided, as he had so often before, to start dieting.

On the way back to the house his cell phone started ringing. Somebody was speaking in a foreign language, a woman, but her voice was very faint, almost completely drowned out by a veritable storm of crackling and noise. After three or four seconds the line went dead. Wallander thought it could have been Baiba. He thought he recognized her voice, despite the background noise. But whoever it was didn’t call back, so he went home and sat out in the garden with a cup of coffee.

It was going to be a lovely summer’s day. He decided to go for a picnic, all on his own. He had always thought one of the best things in life was settling down among the sand dunes and having a nap in the sunshine after eating the meal he’d brought with him from home. He started packing a basket, which was a souvenir from his childhood home. His mother used to use it for keeping balls of wool, knitting needles, and half-finished sweaters. Now he filled it with sandwiches, a thermos, two apples, and a few copies of the Swedish Policeman magazine that he hadn’t gotten around to reading. It was eleven o’clock when he once again checked the burners before locking the door. He drove out to Sandhammaren and found a place among the dunes and stunted trees. When he had finished eating and reading the magazines, he wrapped himself in a blanket and was soon fast asleep.

He woke up feeling cold. The sun had gone behind a cloud, the air was chilly, and he had cast off the blanket. He rolled himself up inside it again, and folded his jacket to serve as a pillow. The sun soon reemerged, and he remembered a dream he had had many years ago, a recurring dream that always vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. He was involved in some erotic game with a faceless black woman. He had never had a relationship with a dark-skinned woman, apart from an incident during a visit to the West Indies when he had drunk himself silly one evening and taken a prostitute back to his hotel room. Nor had he particularly lusted after any such relationship. But then that black woman had turned up in his dreams, only to vanish again after a few months.

A storm was brewing on the horizon. He packed everything into the basket and went back to the car. When he came to Kåseberga he drove down to the harbor and bought some smoked fish. He had just gotten back home when his cell phone started ringing again. It was the same woman as before, but this time the reception was much better and he could hear right away that it wasn’t Baiba. The woman was speaking broken English.

“Kurt Wallander?”

“Speaking.”

“My name is Lilja. You know who I am?”

“No.”

The woman suddenly burst out crying. She screamed into his ear. He was scared stiff.

“Baiba,” she yelled. “Baiba.”

“What about her? I know her.”

“She dead.”

Wallander was standing with the bag of fish from Kåseberga in his hand. He dropped it.

“She’s dead? She was here only a couple of days ago!”

“I know. She was my friend. But now she dead.”

Wallander could feel his heart pounding. He sat down on the stool just inside the front door. He eventually managed to piece together the confused and anguished message that Lilja was trying to convey. Baiba had been only a few miles outside Riga when she drove off the road at high speed and crashed into a stone wall, wrecking the car and killing herself. She had died on the spot; that was something Lilja repeated over and over again, as if it might prevent Wallander from sinking into a bottomless pit of sorrow. But it was in vain, of course. The despair welling up inside him was something he had never experienced before.

They were suddenly cut off, without warning, before Wallander could get Lilja’s phone number. He waited for her to call him again, still sitting on the stool in the hall. Only when it became clear that she was unable to get through did he move into the kitchen. He left the bag with the smoked fish lying on the floor. He had no idea what to do next. He lit a candle and placed it on the table. She must have been driving nonstop, he thought. From the ferry when it docked in Poland, through Poland, through Lithuania, and then almost all the way to Riga. Had she fallen asleep at the wheel? Or had she driven into the wall on purpose, intending to kill herself? Wallander knew that fatal car accidents involving nobody but the driver were often suicides. A former secretary who used to work in the Ystad police station, a divorcée with a drinking problem, had chosen that way out only a few years ago. But he didn’t think Baiba would do anything like that. Somebody who decides to travel around to say good-bye to her friends and lovers would hardly be likely to set up a car crash to bring her life to a close. She must have been tired and lost control; that was the only explanation he could think of.

He picked up his cell phone to call Linda — he didn’t feel capable of coping with what had happened on his own. There were times when he needed to have other people on hand. He dialed the number, but then hung up when her phone started ringing. It was too soon; he didn’t have anything to say to her. He threw his phone onto the sofa and went out to Jussi, let him out of his kennel, sat down on the ground and started stroking him. The phone rang. He rushed indoors. It was Lilja. She was calmer now. He asked her questions and got a clearer picture of what had happened. There was also something else he wanted to ask about.

“Why are you calling me? How did you know that I exist?”

“Baiba asked me to.”

“Asked you to do what?”

“To call you when she was dead. But I didn’t think it would be quickly like this. Baiba thought she would live until Christmas.”

“She told me she hoped to live until the fall.”

“She said different things to different people. I think she wanted us to have the same uncertainty that she had.”

Lilja explained who she was, an old friend and colleague who had known Baiba since they were teenagers.

“I knew about you,” she said. “One day Baiba rings and she says: ‘Now he is here in Riga, my Swedish friend. I take him to the café in Hotel Latvia this afternoon. Go there and you will see him.’ I went there, and I saw you.”

“Perhaps Baiba mentioned your name. I think so. But we never met, is that right?”

“Never. But I saw you. Baiba always thought much of you. She loved you.”

She burst out crying again. Wallander waited. Thunder was rumbling in the distance. He could hear her coughing, and blowing her nose.

“What happens now?” he asked when she picked up the phone again.

“I don’t know.”

“Who are her closest relations?”

“Her mother, and brothers and sisters.”

“If her mother is still alive she must be very old. I don’t remember Baiba ever talking about her.”

“She is ninety-five years. But she is clear in the head. She knows her daughter is dead. They had hard relations since Baiba was child.”

“I want to know when the funeral will take place,” Wallander said.

“I promise to call you.”

“What did she say about me?” Wallander asked in the end.

“Not much.”

“But she must have said something?”

“Yes. But not much. We were friends, but Baiba never allowed anybody very close.”

“I know,” he said.

When the call was over, he lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling where a patch of damp had appeared a couple of months ago. He lay there for quite a while before returning to the kitchen table.

Shortly after eight he called Linda and told her what had happened. He found it very difficult, and could feel a sense of mounting desperation.

29

On July 14, at eleven o’clock in the morning, Baiba Liepa’s funeral took place at a chapel in central Riga. Wallander had arrived the previous day on a flight from Copenhagen. When he disembarked he recognized the airport immediately, even though the terminal had been rebuilt. The Soviet military planes that had been visible all over the place at the beginning of the 1990s were no longer there, and from the windows of the taxi taking him into Riga he noted that there had been a lot of changes. The billboards were different; the façades had been newly painted; the sidewalks had been repaired. But pigs were still rooting around in dunghills next to tumbledown farmhouses, and in the center of town the old buildings were still standing. The main difference was the large number of people in the streets, their clothes, and the cars lining up at red lights and at turnoffs to centrally located parking lots.

Warm rain was falling over Riga the day Wallander returned. Lilja, whose surname was Blooms, had called and given him the details of Baiba’s funeral. His only question had been whether his presence might somehow be regarded as inappropriate.

“Why should it be?”

“Perhaps there are circumstances within the family that I don’t know about?”

“Everybody knows who you are,” said Lilja Blooms. “Baiba told about you. You were never a secret.”

“The question is what she said.”

“Why are you so worried? I thought you and Baiba were in love? I thought you would be married. We all thought that.”

“She didn’t want to.”

He could tell that what he’d said surprised her.

“We thought it was you who backed out. She said nothing. It was long before we understood it was over. But she never wanted to talk about it.”

It was Linda who had persuaded him to go to the funeral. When he called her she had jumped into her car and come over. She was so upset that she had tears in her eyes when she walked through his front door. That helped him to mourn Baiba openly. He sat there for a long time, reminiscing to his daughter about the time he and Baiba had spent together.

“Baiba’s husband, Karlis Liepa, had been murdered,” he said. “It was a political murder. Tensions between the Russians and the Latvians were running high in those days. That was why I went to Riga, to assist in the murder investigation. Needless to say, I had no idea about the political chasms that opened up the country. Looking back, that could well be the moment when I began to understand what the world looked like during the Cold War. It was seventeen years ago.”

“I remember you going,” said Linda. “I was in college at the time, and I didn’t know what I wanted to do with myself. Although deep down I think I realized that I wanted to become a police officer.”

“I seem to recall that you talked about all kinds of possibilities, but never that one.”

“That should have made you suspicious. I can’t believe you had no idea what I was thinking!”

“Nor did I have any idea about Baiba when Karlis Liepa came to the police station in Ystad.”

Wallander remembered the details very clearly. Apart from his chain-smoking, which aroused vehement protests from all the nonsmokers, Karlis Liepa had been a calm, reserved man, and Wallander had gotten along well with him. One evening, during a heavy snowstorm, he had taken Liepa back to his apartment in Mariagatan. He had produced a bottle of whiskey, and to his delight had discovered that Liepa was almost as interested in opera as he was himself. They had listened to a recording of Turandot with Maria Callas as the snow whirled about in the strong winds blowing through the deserted streets of Ystad.

But where was that record now? It hadn’t been among those he had found in the attic the previous day. The question was solved when Linda told him she had it at home.

“You gave it to me in the days when I was dreaming of becoming an actress,” she said. “I thought of putting on a one-woman show depicting the tragic fate of Maria Callas. Can you imagine? If there’s anything I’m totally different from, it’s a Greek opera singer.”

“With bad nerves,” Wallander added.

“What was Baiba? A teacher?”

“When I met her she was translating technical literature from English. I think she did a bit of practically everything.”

“You must go to her funeral. For your own sake.”

It wasn’t all that straightforward, but she convinced him in the end. She also made sure that he bought a new dark suit, accompanied him to a tailor’s in Malmö, and when he expressed his astonishment at the price she explained that it was a high-quality suit that would last him for the rest of his life.

“You’ll be attending fewer weddings,” Linda said. “But at your age, the number of funerals increases.”

He muttered something inaudible and paid. Linda didn’t press him to repeat whatever it was he had said.

He clambered out of the taxi and carried his little suitcase into the reception area at the Hotel Latvia. He noted right away that the café where Lilja Blooms had seen him and Baiba together was no longer there. He checked in and was given room 1516. When he got out of the elevator and stood in front of the door, he had the feeling that this was the very room he’d stayed in the first time he went to Riga. He was quite sure that the figures 5 and 6 had been part of the room number then as well. He unlocked the door and went in. It didn’t look at all like what he remembered. But the view from the window was the same, a beautiful church whose name he had forgotten. He unpacked his bag and hung up his new suit. The thought that it was in this hotel, and possibly even in this very room, that he first met Baiba filled him with almost unbearable pain.

He went to the bathroom and rinsed his face. It was only twelve-thirty. He had no plans, but thought he might take a walk. He wanted to mourn Baiba by remembering her as she was when he met her for the first time.

A thought suddenly struck him, a thought he had never dared to confront before. Had his love for Baiba been stronger than the love he had once felt for Mona? Despite the fact that Mona was Linda’s mother? He didn’t know, and would never be sure.

He went out and strolled through the town, had a meal in a restaurant even though he wasn’t especially hungry. That evening he sat in one of the hotel bars. A girl in her twenties came up and asked him if he wanted company. He didn’t even answer, merely shook his head. Shortly before the hotel restaurant closed, he had another meal, a spaghetti dish that he hardly touched. He drank red wine, and felt tipsy when he stood up to leave the table.

It had been raining while he ate, but it was clear now. He retrieved his jacket and went out into the damp summer evening. He found his way to the Freedom Monument, where he and Baiba had once had their photograph taken. A few youths on skateboards were practicing their skills on the flagstones in front. He continued his walk, and didn’t arrive back at the hotel until very late. He fell asleep on top of the bed without taking off anything but his shoes.

The next morning he put on his funeral suit and went down to the dining room for breakfast, despite the fact that he wasn’t hungry.

He had bought two half-bottles of vodka at Kastrup Airport. He had one of them in his inside pocket. As the elevator conveyed him down to the dining room, he unscrewed the top and took a swig.

When Lilja Blooms came in through the glass doors, Wallander was already in the reception area, waiting for her. She went over to him right away. Baiba must have shown her pictures of him, he thought.

Lilja was short and plump, and her hair was cropped. She didn’t look anything like what he had imagined. He thought she would look more like Baiba. When they shook hands, Wallander felt embarrassed, without knowing why.

“The chapel isn’t far from here,” she said. “It’s only a ten-minute walk. I have time for a cigarette. You can wait here.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Wallander.

They stood in the sun outside the hotel, Lilja wearing sunglasses and holding a cigarette in her hand.

“She was drunk,” she said.

It was a moment before Wallander realized what she was referring to.

“Baiba?”

“She was drunk when she died. The autopsy made that clear. She had a lot of alcohol in her blood when she crashed her car.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“So do I. All her friends are astonished. But then, what do we know about the thoughts of a person who is going to die?”

“Are you saying that she committed suicide? That she crashed the car on purpose? Drove into that stone wall?”

“There’s no point in worrying about it — we’ll never know for certain. But there were no skid marks on the road. A motorist behind her said that she wasn’t driving unusually fast, but that the car was wobbling all over the road.”

Wallander tried to picture the last moments of Baiba’s life. He couldn’t be sure about what had happened, whether it was an accident or suicide. But another thought struck him. Could Louise von Enke’s death also have been an accident, and not murder or suicide after all?

He never followed that thought through because Lilja stubbed out her cigarette and announced that it was time to set off. Wallander excused himself, paid a visit to the men’s room in reception, and took another swig of the vodka. He examined himself in the mirror. What he saw was a man on his way into old age, worried about what was in store for him in life.

They came to the chapel. The darkness inside was all the more intense because the sunshine had been so bright. It was some time before Wallander’s eyes adjusted.

When they did, he had the feeling that Baiba Liepa’s funeral was a sort of rehearsal for his own. It scared him, and almost made him stand up and leave. He should never have gone to Riga; he had nothing to do there.

But he remained seated nevertheless, and thanks mainly to the vodka, he didn’t even start crying, not even when he saw how upset Lilja Blooms was by his side. The coffin was like a desert island, washed up in the sea — the last resting place for a person he had once been in love with, Wallander thought.

For some unknown reason, he suddenly saw Håkan von Enke in his mind’s eye. He felt annoyed, and he brushed aside the thought.

He was beginning to feel drunk. It was as if the funeral had nothing to do with him. When it ended, and Lilja Blooms hastened over to express her condolences to Baiba’s mother, Wallander took the opportunity to slip out of the chapel. He didn’t give a backward glance, but went straight to the hotel and asked the desk clerk to help him change his flight. He had planned to stay until the next day, but now he wanted to leave as soon as possible. There were seats available on an afternoon flight to Copenhagen. He packed his suitcase, kept his funeral suit on, and left the hotel in a taxi, afraid that Lilja Blooms might come looking for him. He sat outside the terminal building for nearly three hours before it was time for him to pass through security.

He continued drinking on the plane. When he came to Ystad, he took a taxi home and almost fell out of the car. As usual, Jussi was being looked after by the neighbors, and he decided to leave him there until the next day.

He collapsed into bed and slept soundly. When he woke up shortly before nine the next morning, he regretted having fled from the chapel without even having said good-bye to Lilja. He would have to call her soon and try to make a plausible excuse. But what on earth would he say?

Although he had slept well, Wallander felt sick. He couldn’t find any aspirin, despite searching through the bathroom and all the drawers in the kitchen. Since he couldn’t face driving to Ystad, he asked his neighbor if she had any. She did, and he dissolved one in a glass of water and drank it in her kitchen. She gave him a few extra to take home with him.

When he got back, he put Jussi in his kennel. The light on the answering machine was blinking when he entered the house. Sten Nordlander had called again. Wallander got his cell phone and called him. He could hear the wind howling around Nordlander when he answered.

“I’ll call you back,” he said. “I have to find a spot sheltered from the wind.”

“I’m at home.”

“Give me ten minutes. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Wallander sat down at the kitchen table to wait. Jussi wandered around his kennel, sniffing to see if he had been visited by any mice or birds. He occasionally glanced at the kitchen window. Wallander raised his hand and waved to him, but Jussi didn’t react; he couldn’t see anything, but he knew that Wallander was in the house somewhere. Wallander opened the window. Jussi immediately started wagging his tail and stood up on his hind legs, resting his front paws on the bars.

The phone rang. It was Sten Nordlander. He had found a sheltered spot; there was no sound of any wind.

“I’m on a little island, not much more than a bare rock, not far from Möja,” he said. “Do you know where that is?”

“No.”

“At the outer edge of the Stockholm archipelago. It’s very beautiful.”

“I’m glad you called,” said Wallander. “Something has happened. I should have contacted you. Håkan has turned up.”

Wallander summarized what had happened.

“Amazing!” said Nordlander. “I thought about him when I stepped ashore here on the skerry.”

“Any particular reason?”

“He liked islands. He once told me about an ambition he’d had when he was young: he wanted to visit every island in the world.”

“Did he ever try to achieve it?”

“I don’t think so. Louise wasn’t keen on sea voyages.”

“Did that cause any problems?”

“Not that I know of. He was very fond of her, and she of him. But dreams can be of value even if you don’t have an opportunity to turn them into reality.”

The connection was poor; the skerry was at the very limit of the coverage area. They agreed that he would call Wallander again once he was back on the mainland.

Wallander slowly put the phone down on the table and sat motionless. He suddenly had the feeling that he knew where Håkan von Enke was. Sten Nordlander had shown him the direction he should be following.

He couldn’t be sure, and he had no proof. Nevertheless, he knew.

He thought about a book he’d seen in Signe von Enke’s bookcase, along with the books about Babar. The Sleeping Beauty. I’ve been lost in a deep sleep, Wallander thought. I should have realized long ago where he was. I’ve only just woken up.

Jussi started barking. Wallander went out and gave him some food.

The following day, early in the morning, he got into his car. The farmer’s wife looked surprised when he turned up with Jussi yet again.

She asked how long he was going to be away. He told her the truth.

He didn’t know. He had absolutely no idea.

30

The boat he rented was an open plastic craft, barely eighteen feet long, with an Evinrude outboard motor, seven horsepower. The proprietor had also lent him a sea chart. He had chosen that particular boat because it was not so big that it would be difficult to row, which he suspected he would need to do. When he signed the contract he produced his police ID. The man gave a start.

“Everything’s fine,” Wallander said. “But I need a spare can of gas. I might be able to return the boat tomorrow, but then again, I might need it for a few more days. Anyway, you have my credit card number. You know you’ll be paid.”

“A police officer,” said the man. “Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s just that I’m going to surprise a good friend on his fiftieth birthday.”

Wallander hadn’t prepared his lie in advance. But he was used to inventing excuses, and they came automatically now.

The boat was jammed between two big motor cruisers, one of them a Storø. There was no electric ignition, but it started the moment Wallander pulled the cord. The boat owner, who spoke with a Finnish accent, guaranteed that the engine was reliable.

“I use it myself when I go fishing,” he said. “The problem is, there are hardly any fish. But I go fishing even so.”

It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Wallander had arrived at Valdemarsvik an hour earlier. He’d eaten at what appeared to be the only restaurant in the village, then found his way to the boat-rental establishment just a couple of hundred yards away, on one side of the long inlet known as Valdemarsviken. Wallander had packed a backpack containing, among other things, two flashlights and some food. He’d also taken warm clothes, despite the fact that it was a warm afternoon.

On the way up to Östergötland he had driven through several downpours of rain. One of them, just outside Ronneby, was so heavy that he’d been forced to pull into a rest stop and wait until it passed. As he listened to the pattering on the car roof and watched the water cascading down his windshield, he began to wonder if he really had judged the situation correctly. Had his instinct let him down, or — as it had so often before — would it turn out to be right after all?

He stayed in the rest stop, lost in thought, for almost half an hour before the rain stopped. He set off again and eventually came to Valdermarsvik. It was clear now, and there was hardly any wind. The water in the inlet was ruffled only occasionally by a light breeze.

There was a smell of mud. He remembered it from the last time he was here.

Wallander started the outboard motor and set out. The man who had rented him the boat stood for some time, watching him, before returning to his office. Wallander decided to leave the long inlet before darkness fell. Then he would moor somewhere and enjoy the summer twilight. He had tried to work out the current phase of the moon, without success. He could have called Linda, but since he didn’t want to reveal where he was going nor why he was making this trip, he didn’t. Once he had left the inlet he would call Martinsson instead. If he decided to call anyone, that is. The task he had set himself wasn’t dependent on whether the night was dark or moonlit, but he wanted to know exactly what was in store for him.

When he glimpsed the open sea between the islands ahead of him, he let the engine turn over while he studied the sea chart in its plastic cover. Once he had established precisely where he was, he selected a place not too far from his final destination where he could moor and wait for dusk to fall. But it was already occupied by several boats. He continued and eventually found a small island, not much more than a rock with a few trees, where he could row to the beach, having first detached the outboard motor. He put on his jacket, leaned against one of the trees, and took a drink of coffee from his thermos. Then he called Martinsson. Once again it was a child who answered, possibly the same one as last time. Martinsson took the phone from her.

“You’re a lucky man,” he said. “My little granddaughter has become your secretary.”

“The moon,” said Wallander.

“What about it?”

“You’re asking too quickly. I haven’t finished yet.”

“I’m sorry. But I can’t take my eyes off the grandchildren; they need watching all the time.”

“I understand that, and I wouldn’t disturb you unless it was necessary. Do you have a calendar? What phase is the moon in right now?”

“The moon? Is that what you’re asking about? Are you out on some sort of astronomical adventure?”

“I could be. But can you answer my question?”

“Hang on a minute.”

Martinsson put down the receiver. It was obvious from Wallander’s voice that he wasn’t going to receive any sort of explanation.

“It’s a new moon,” he said when he returned to the phone. “A thin little crescent. Assuming you’re still in Sweden and not some other part of the world.”

“I’m still in Sweden. Thank you for your help,” said Wallander. “I’ll explain it all one of these days.”

“I’m used to waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For explanations. Including from my children when they don’t do as I tell them. But that was mainly when they were younger.”

“Linda was just the same,” said Wallander, in an attempt to appear interested. He thanked Martinsson again for his help regarding the moon, and hung up. He ate a couple of sandwiches, then lay down with a stone as a pillow.

The pains came from nowhere. He was lying there, looking up at the sky and listening to seagulls screeching in the distance, when he felt a stab of pain in his left arm, which then spread to his chest and stomach. At first he thought he must be lying on a sharp edge of stone, but then he realized that the pains were coming from inside his body, and he suspected that what he had always dreaded had now come to pass. He’d had a heart attack.

He lay completely motionless, stiff and terrified, and held his breath, afraid that if he tried to breathe he would use up the rest of his heart’s ability to beat.

The memory of his mother’s death suddenly came vividly into his mind. It was as if her last moments were being played out by his side. She had been only fifty years old. His mother had never worked outside the home, but had always struggled to maintain her marriage to her temperamental husband, whose income could never be relied on, and look after their two children, Kurt and Kristina. They had been living in Limhamn at the time, sharing a house with a family that Wallander’s father couldn’t stand. The father was a train conductor who never hurt a fly, but once, in the friendliest possible way, he asked Wallander’s father if it might be relaxing to paint some other motif rather than the same old landscape over and over again. Wallander had overheard the conversation. The conductor, whose name was Nils Persson, had used his own working life as an example. After a long period driving back and forth between Malmö and Alvesta, he was very pleased when he was transferred to an express route that went to Gothenburg, and sometimes even as far as Oslo. Wallander’s father had naturally reacted furiously. After that it had been Wallander’s mother who tried to smooth things over and make living alongside the other family not completely intolerable.

Her death had come suddenly one afternoon in the early fall of 1962. She had been in their little garden, hanging up laundry. Wallander had just come home from school and was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich. He had looked out of the window and seen her hanging up sheets with a bunch of clothespins in her hand. He had returned to his sandwich. The next time he looked out, she was on her knees, clutching at her chest. At first he thought she had dropped something, but then he watched her fall over onto her side, slowly, as if she were trying hard not to. He ran outside, shouting her name, but she was beyond help. The doctor who performed the autopsy said she had suffered a massive heart attack. Even if she had been in a hospital when it happened, they wouldn’t have been able to save her.

Now he could see her in his mind’s eye, a series of blurred, jerky images as he tried to keep his own pains at arm’s length. He didn’t want his life to end early like hers had, and least of all now, all alone on a little island in the Baltic Sea.

He said silent, agitated prayers — not really to any god, but more to himself, urging himself to resist, to not allow himself to be dragged down into eternal silence. And he eventually realized that the pains were not getting any worse; his heart was still beating. He forced himself to remain calm, to act sensibly, to not sink into a desperate and blind panic. He sat up gingerly and felt for his cell phone, which he had left next to his backpack. He started to dial Linda’s number but changed his mind. What would she be able to do? If he really had suffered a heart attack, he should be calling the emergency number.

But something held him back. Perhaps it was the feeling that the pain was receding? He carefully moved his left arm and found a position in which the pain was less, as well as other positions where it was worse. That was not in accordance with the symptoms of a serious heart attack. He sat up slowly and took his pulse. It was seventy-four beats per minute. His normal rate was somewhere between sixty-six and seventy-eight. Everything was as it should be. It’s stress, he thought. My body is simulating something that can afflict me if I don’t take it easy.

He lay down again. The pain faded away even more, even if it was still present, nagging away, a sort of background threat.

An hour later he was convinced that he hadn’t in fact suffered a heart attack. It had been a warning. He thought, I should stop kidding myself that I’m an irreplaceable police officer and take a proper vacation. Perhaps he should go home, call Ytterberg and tell him what conclusions he had drawn. But he decided to stay on. He had come a long way, and he was keen to establish if his suspicions were justified or not. No matter what the outcome, he could then hand the matter over to Ytterberg and not bother with it anymore.

He felt very relieved. It was a sort of positive affirmation of life that he hadn’t experienced for years. He had an urge to stand up and roar in the direction of the open sea. But he remained seated, leaning against the tree trunk, watching the boats passing and relishing the smell of the sea. It was still warm. He lay down with his jacket draped over him and fell asleep. He woke up after about ten minutes. The pains had almost gone altogether now. He stood up and started walking around the little island. On one side, facing south, the rock formed an almost vertical cliff. It was strenuous, skirting it at the very edge of the water.

He suddenly stopped dead. There was a small, narrow creek about twenty yards ahead. A boat had anchored at its entrance, and a dinghy had been beached on the rocks. A couple was lying at the edge of the water, making love. He pressed himself against the cliff, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to watch. They were young — barely twenty years old, he guessed. He stared as if bewitched at their naked bodies before gathering the strength to drag himself away and retrace his steps as quietly as possible. A few hours later, as twilight was at last beginning to creep up on the island, he saw the motor cruiser with the dinghy bobbing along behind it sailing past. He stood up and waved. The couple on board waved back.

In a way he was jealous of them. But his thoughts were far from gloomy. His own earliest erotic experiences had been just like most other people’s — uncertain, disappointing, bordering on the embarrassing. He had never really believed his friends’ descriptions of their escapades and conquests. It was only after he met Mona that sex had become a serious pleasure as far as he was concerned. During their early years together their sex life was beyond his wildest dreams. He had achieved considerable satisfaction with a handful of other women, but nothing like what he and Mona experienced at the beginning of their relationship. The big exception in his life was, of course, Baiba.

But he had never made love to a woman on a rock by the open sea. The nearest he had been to something as risky as that was when he had been slightly tipsy and managed to entice Mona into a bathroom on a train. But they had been interrupted by angry pounding on the door. Mona had found it embarrassing in the extreme, and insisted angrily that he promise never again to try to engage her in such erotic adventures.

And he never had. Toward the end of their long relationship and marriage, their sexual desire had ebbed — although it returned in spades for Wallander when she told him she wanted a divorce. But she had no longer accepted his advances. Her door was locked, once and for all.

Suddenly he seemed to see his life mapped out before his very eyes. Four decisive moments. The first was when I rebelled against my dominating father and became a police officer, he thought. The second was when I killed a man in the line of duty, and didn’t think I could take any more, but in the end decided not to resign from the police force. The third was when I left Mariagatan, moved out to the country, and got Jussi. The fourth was probably when I finally accepted that Mona and I could never live together again. That was probably the most difficult to negotiate. But I’ve made my choices; I haven’t hemmed and hawed and then realized one day that it was too late. I have nobody but myself to thank for that. When I see the bitterness in a lot of people around me, I’m glad I’m not one of them. Despite everything, I’ve tried to take responsibility for my life, and not merely allowed it to float away at the mercy of whatever current came along.

As dusk fell, so the mosquitoes arrived to plague him. But he had remembered to take mosquito repellent, and he pulled the hood of his anorak over his head. There weren’t many motor cruisers to be heard now, plying the surrounding channels and straits. A lone yacht was heading for the open sea.

Shortly after midnight, with the mosquitoes whining around his ears, he left the island. He followed the increasingly dark silhouettes of the islands lining the route he had planned with the aid of his sea chart. He was traveling slowly, constantly checking to make sure he didn’t deviate from his course. When he was approaching his goal he reduced his speed still further, and eventually he switched off the engine completely. A gentle evening breeze had begun to blow. He tilted up the motor, set up the oars, and started rowing. He occasionally paused and tried to peer through the darkness, but he couldn’t see any light, and that worried him. There should be a light, he thought. It shouldn’t be dark.

He rowed up to the beach and climbed cautiously out of the boat. There was a scraping noise as he pulled it over the shingle. He tied the painter around some of the alders growing on the shore. He had taken the flashlights out of his backpack before he beached the boat, and now he put one of them in his pocket. He held the other one in his hand.

But there was something else that he was groping for, among the sandwich wrappings and the spare clothes. He had also packed his service pistol. He had hesitated until the very last moment, but eventually he made up his mind and put it in his backpack, along with a full magazine. He wasn’t at all sure why he had done this. There was nothing to suggest that he was exposing himself to immediate physical danger.

But Louise is dead, he had thought. And Hermann Eber convinced me that she was murdered. Until I have more information, I have to assume that the culprit could be Håkan, even if I have neither proof nor motive.

He loaded the pistol and checked that the safety catch was on. Then he switched on the flashlight and checked that the blue filter he had placed over the lens was still in place. The light was very pale, and would be difficult to detect by anybody not on his guard.

He listened through the darkness. The noise from the sea drowned out other sounds. He put his backpack back into the boat, then checked the painter and made sure that the boat was securely moored. He began walking slowly and carefully away from the shore. The brushwood was dense near the water’s edge. He had been walking for only a few yards when he stepped into a spiderweb, and he started flailing with his arms when he realized that an enormous spider was clinging to his anorak. He could cope with snakes, but not spiders. Instead of fumbling through the brush, he decided to walk along the shore in the hope of finding somewhere where it was less overgrown. After about fifty yards he came to a place where the remains of an old slipway could be made out. Since he had never been ashore on this island before, and had seen it only from a boat, he was finding it difficult to orient himself. The last time he was here they had passed by on the other side, facing west. This time he had landed on the east side, hoping that this was what you might call the rear of the island.

His cell phone started ringing in one of his pockets. He cursed under his breath as he pulled and tugged at his clothes in an effort to find it, dropping the flashlight in the process. He counted at least six rings before he finally succeeded in switching it off. He could see from the display that it was Linda who had been trying to reach him. He put the phone in his breast pocket and closed the zipper. The ringing had sounded like an alarm in his ears. He listened hard, but there was nothing to be seen or heard in the darkness. Only the surging of the sea.

He continued cautiously on his way until he could make out the outline of the house shrouded in darkness. He stationed himself behind an oak tree, but he couldn’t see any trace of a light. I got it wrong, he thought. There’s nobody here. My deduction was simply wrong.

But then he noticed a faint gleam of light seeping out from between a lowered blind and a window frame. When he came closer he could see more faint glows from other windows as well.

He walked as quietly as he could around the house. The windows were blacked out, as if it were wartime and all lights had been extinguished in order to confuse the enemy. I am the enemy, Wallander thought.

He pressed his ear against the wooden wall and listened. He could hear the murmur of voices, and occasionally music. From a television set or a radio, he couldn’t be sure which.

He withdrew into the shadows again and tried to make up his mind about what to do next. He had planned only as far as the point where he now found himself. Now what? Should he wait until the next morning before knocking on the door and waiting to see who answered?

He hesitated. He was annoyed by his indecision. What was he afraid of?

He had no time to answer that question. He felt a hand on his shoulder, gave a start, and turned around. Even though this was the reason he had set out on his journey, he was still surprised to see Håkan von Enke standing there in the darkness, wearing a tracksuit jacket over a pair of jeans. He was unshaven and in need of a haircut.

They stared at each other without speaking, Wallander with his flashlight in his hand, von Enke barefoot on the wet soil.

“I suppose you heard the phone ringing?” Wallander said.

Von Enke shook his head. He seemed to be not only scared, but rueful.

“I have alarms set all around the house. I’ve spent the last ten minutes trying to work out who tracked me to this island.”

“It’s only me,” said Wallander.

“Yes,” said Håkan von Enke. “It’s only you.”

They went into the house. It was only when everything was lit up that Wallander noticed that von Enke was also armed. He was carrying a pistol, tucked into his waistband.

What’s he afraid of? Wallander thought. Who is he hiding from?

The surging of the sea could no longer be heard. Wallander contemplated the man who had been missing for such a long time.

They sat down and said nothing for a while. Eventually they began talking, hesitantly. Slowly, approaching each other with maximum caution.