The Man Who Smiled

Wallander had been wrong. It was only possible that Strom had something important to tell him.

"Nobody likes being made redundant," Wallander said.

"What would you know about that?"

"Not as much as you do, obviously."

Strom stubbed out his cigarette. "Let's spell it out," he said. "You need inside information about the castle. Information you can't get without advertising the fact that you're interested. And you don't want to do that. If you did you'd have just driven up and demanded an interview with Harderberg. I don't care why you want information without anybody knowing about it. What is important, though, is that I'm the only one who can supply you with it. In exchange for something I want from you."

Wallander wondered if this was a trap. Was Harderberg pulling Strom's strings? He decided not. Too risky, too easy for Wallander to see through it.

"You're right," he said. "There are things I want to know, and without it being noticed. What do you want in return?"

"Very little," Strom said. "A piece of paper."

"A piece of paper?"

"I have to think about my future," Strom said. "If I have one, it's not going to be in the private sector security service. When I got the job at Farnholm Castle, I had the impression that it was an advantage to be on bad terms with the Swedish police force. But, unfortunately, that can be a disadvantage in other circumstances."

"What do you want on this piece of paper?"

"A positive reference," Strom said. "On police headed paper. Signed by Bjork."

"That's not on," Wallander said. "It would obviously be a fake. You've never worked in Ystad. A check with National Headquarters and anyone could discover that you'd been kicked out of the force."

"You can perfectly well fix a reference, if you want to," Strom said. "I can deal with whatever they have in the National Police Archives myself, one way or another."

"How?"

"That's my problem. I don't want you to help in any way."

"How do you think I'm going to get Bjork to sign a cooked-up reference?"

"That's your problem. It could never be traced to you anyway. The world is full of forged documents."

"In that case you can fix it with no input from me. Bjork's signature could be forged."

"Of course it could," Strom said. "But the certificate would have to be a part of the system. In the computer database. That's where you come in."

Wallander knew Strom was right. He had once forged a passport himself. But still he found the idea objectionable.

"Let's say that I'll think about it," Wallander said. "Let me ask you a few more questions. We can regard your answers as sample goods. When I've heard what they are I can tell you whether I'll go along with you or not."

"I'm the one who'll decide whether enough questions have been asked," Strom said. "And we're going to sort this out here and now. Before you leave."

"I'll go along with that."

Strom lit another cigarette, then faced up to Wallander.

"Why is Harderberg doing a runner?"

"I don't know."

"Where's he going?"

"I don't know that either. Probably overseas."

"What makes you think that?"

"There've been quite a few visits recently from estate agents from abroad."

"What do you mean, foreign?"

"South America. Ukraine. Burma."

"Is the castle up for sale?"

"Harderberg generally hangs on to his properties. He won't be selling. Just because he's not living at Farnholm Castle doesn't mean that anybody else will be. He'll put it in mothballs."

"When's he going to move?"

"He could leave tomorrow. Nobody knows. But I reckon it will be pretty soon. Probably before Christmas."

Wallander had so many questions to ask, far too many. He couldn't make up his mind which ones were most important.

"The men in the shadows," he said eventually. "Who are they?"

Strom nodded in acknowledgment. "That's a pretty good way of describing them," he said.

"I saw two men in the entrance hall," Wallander said. "The night I visited Harderberg. But I also saw them the first time I went to the castle, and talked to Anita Karlen. Who are they?"

Strom contemplated the smoke rising from his cigarette. "I'll tell you," he said. "But it'll be the last sample you'll get."

"If your answer's right," Wallander said. "Who are they?"

"One of them is Richard Tolpin," Strom said. "He was born in South Africa. A soldier, mercenary. I don't think there's been a conflict or a war in Africa these last two decades where he hasn't been involved."

"On which side?"

"The side that paid better. But it looked like turning out badly at the start. When Angola kicked the Portuguese out in 1975 they captured about 20 mercenaries who were sent for trial. Fifteen of them were condemned to death. Including Tolpin. Fourteen of them were shot. I've no idea why they spared Tolpin. Presumably because he could be of use to the new regime."

"How old is he?"

"Young forties. Very fit. Karate expert. An excellent shot."

"And the other one?"

"From Belgium. Maurice Obadia. Also a soldier. Younger than Tolpin. Could be 34, maybe 35. That's all I know about him."

"What are they doing at Farnholm Castle?"

"They're called 'special advisers'. But they're just Harderberg's bodyguards. You couldn't find people who were more skilful, or more dangerous. Harderberg seems to enjoy their company."

"How do you know that?"

"Sometimes they have shooting practice in the grounds at night. Their targets are quite special."

"Tell me more."

"Dummies, big dolls, looking like people. They aim at their heads. And they usually score."

"Does Harderberg join in?"

"Yes. They sometimes keep going all night."

"Do you know whether either of them, Tolpin or Obadia, has a Bernadelli pistol?"

"I keep as far away from their guns as possible," Strom said. "There are some people you'd rather keep at arm's length."

"But they must have gun licences," Wallander said.

Strom smiled. "Only if they're resident in Sweden," he said.

"What does that mean? Farnholm Castle is in Sweden, surely?"

"There's something special about 'special advisers'," Strom said. "They've never set foot in Sweden. So you can't say that they are in this country."

Carefully he stubbed out his cigarette before he said: "There's a helicopter pad at the castle. It's always at night, the landing lights are switched on, a helicopter lands, sometimes two. They are off again before dawn. They fly low so they aren't tracked by radar. Whenever Harderberg is going to leave in his Gulfstream, Tolpin and Obadia disappear the night before by helicopter. Then they meet somewhere or other. Could be Berlin. That's where the helicopters are registered. When they come back, it's the same procedure. In other words, you could say they don't go through customs like ordinary folk."

Wallander nodded thoughtfully. "Just one more question," he said. "How do you know all this? You're confined to your bunker by the main gate. You can't possibly be allowed to roam about wherever you want."

"That's a question you'll never get the answer to," Strom said. "Let's just say it's a trade secret I don't want to pass on to anybody else."

"I'll fix that certificate for you," Wallander said.

"What do you know?" Strom said, with a smile. "I knew we'd strike a deal."

"You didn't know that at all," Wallander said. "When are you next on duty?"

"I work three nights in a row. I start tonight at 7.00."

"I'll be here at 3.00 this afternoon," Wallander said. "I'll have something to show you. Then I'll ask my question."

Strom stood up and checked through the curtains.

"Is there somebody following you?" Wallander asked.

"You can't be too careful," Strom said. "I thought you'd caught on to that."

Wallander went back to his car and drove to the police station. He paused in reception and asked Ebba immediately to summon a meeting of the investigation team.

"You look pretty stressed," Ebba said. "Has something happened?"

"Yes," Wallander said. "At long last something has happened. Don't forget Nyberg. I need him to be there."

Twenty minutes later they were ready to start, although Ebba hadn't been able to reach Hanson, who had left the building early that morning without saying where he was going. Akeson and Bjork came into the conference room just as Wallander had decided he could not wait for them any longer. Without mentioning the fact that he had done a deal with Strom, he described their exchanges at the house in Svartavagen. The listlessness that had characterised recent sessions with the team was noticeably reduced, even though Wallander could read the doubt in his colleagues' faces. He felt a bit like a football manager trying to convince his players that they were about to enter a boom period even though they had lost every match for the last six months.

"I believe in this," he said in conclusion. "Strom can be very useful to us."

Akeson shook his head. "I don't like it," he said. "The success of this investigation now seems to depend on a security guard who's been kicked out of the police force, but is nevertheless cast as our saviour."

"What choice do we have?" Wallander said. "Besides, I can't see that we're doing anything illegal. He was the one who came to us, not the other way round."

Bjork was more scathing. "It's out of the question. We can't use a disgraced police officer for a grass. There would be a major scandal if this went wrong and the media got on to it. The National Police Commissioner would have my guts for garters if I gave you the go-ahead."

"Let him carve me up instead," Wallander said. "Strom is serious. He wants to help. As long as we do nothing illegal, we're hardly risking scandal."

"I can see the headlines," Bjork said. "They're not nice."

"I see different headlines," Wallander said. "Something about two more murders the police haven't been able to solve."

Martinsson could see that the discussion was getting out of hand, and intervened. "It seems a bit odd that he didn't want anything in return for giving us a bit of help," he said. "Can we really believe that his being upset at having lost his job is sufficient reason for him to start helping the police whom he hates?"

"He hates the police, no doubt about that," Wallander said. "But I still think we can trust him."

You could have heard a pin drop. Akeson poked at his upper lip, wondering what he ought to think. "Martinsson's question - you didn't answer it," he said.

"He didn't ask for anything in return," Wallander said, lying through his teeth.

"What exactly do you want us to do?"

Wallander nodded in the direction of Nyberg, who was sitting next to Hoglund. "Sten Torstensson was killed by bullets that were probably from a Bernadelli pistol. Nyberg says that's a rare weapon. I want Strom to find out whether one of those bodyguards has a Bernadelli. Then we can go to the castle and make an arrest."

"We can do that anyway," Akeson said. "People carrying guns, no matter what make they are, illegally resident in this country, that's good enough for me."

"But what then?" Wallander said. "We arrest them. We deport them. We've put all our eggs in one basket and then dropped it. Before we can point to those men as possible murderers we have to know whether either of them has a gun that could be the murder weapon."

"Fingerprints," Nyberg said. "That would be good. Then we can run a check with Interpol and Europol."

Wallander agreed. He had forgotten about fingerprints.

Akeson was still poking at his upper lip. "Is there anything else you have in mind?" he asked.

"No," Wallander said. "Not at the moment."

He knew he was walking a tightrope and could fall at any moment. If he went too far, Akeson would put a stop to any further contact with Strom, or at the very least hold things up. So Wallander did not mention everything he intended to do.

While Akeson continued to think the matter over, Wallander looked across at Nyberg and Hoglund. She smiled. Nyberg nodded almost imperceptibly. They've understood, Wallander thought. They know what I'm thinking. And they're with me.

At last Akeson stopped arguing with himself. "Just this once," he said. "But this once only. No more contact with Kurt Strom in future without first informing me. I'll want to know what you intend asking him before I approve of any more contributions from that gentleman. You can also expect me to say no."

"Of course," Wallander said. "I'm not even sure there will be any more times."

When the meeting was over Wallander took Nyberg and Hoglund into his office.

"I could tell that you had read my thoughts," he said when he had shut the door. "You didn't say anything, so I take it you agree with me that we should go a bit further than I led Akeson to believe."

"The plastic container," Nyberg said. "If Strom could find a similar one at the castle, I'd be more than grateful."

"Exactly," Wallander said. "That plastic container is the most important thing we've got. Or the only thing, depending on how you look at it."

"But how is he going to be able to get away with it if he does find one?" Hoglund said.

Wallander and Nyberg exchanged looks.

"If what we think is true, the container we found in Gustaf Torstensson's car was a substitute," Wallander said. "I thought we could give it back and replace it with the right one."

"I should have thought of that," she said. "Not thinking fast enough."

"I sometimes reckon it's Wallander who thinks too fast," Nyberg said quietly.

"I need it in a couple of hours," Wallander said. "I shall be seeing Strom again at 3.00."

Nyberg left, but Hoglund stayed behind. "What did he want?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," Wallander said. "He said he wanted a certificate to say that he wasn't a bad police officer, but I think there's more to it than that."

"What?"

"I don't know yet, but I have my suspicions."

"And you don't want to say what your suspicions are?"

"I'd rather not just yet. Not until I know."

Nyberg came to Wallander's office with the plastic container just after 2.00. He had put it inside two black rubbish bags.

"Don't forget the fingerprints," Nyberg said. "Anything at all.. . glasses, cups, newspapers."

Half an hour later Wallander put the container on the back seat of his car and set off for Sandskogen. The rain was coming in off the sea in squalls. When he got out of his car Strom was in the doorway, already in uniform. Wallander carried the black rubbish bags into the red house.

"What uniform's that?" he said.

"Farnholm's own uniform. I've no idea who made it up."

Wallander took the container out of the plastic bags. "Have you seen this before?" he said.

Strom shook his head.

"There's an identical one somewhere at the castle," Wallander said. "There could be more than one. I want you to exchange this for one of them. Can you get into the main building itself?"

"I do my rounds every night."

"You're quite sure you've never seen this before?"

"Never. I wouldn't even know where to start looking."

Wallander thought for a moment. "Is there a cold-storage room anywhere?"

"In the cellar."

"Look there. And don't forget the Bernadelli."

"That'll be more difficult. They always have their weapons with them, probably they take them to bed too."

"We need Tolpin and Obadia's fingerprints. That's all. Then you can have your certificate. If that's what you really want."

"What else would I want?"

"I believe what you really want is to show that you're not as bad a police officer as a lot of people think."

"You're wrong," Strom said. "I have to think about my future."

"It was just a thought."

"Same time tomorrow," Strom said. "Here."

"One more thing," Wallander said. "If anything goes wrong I'll deny all knowledge of what you're doing."

"I know the rules," Strom said. "If that's all, you might as well push off."

Wallander ran through the rain to his car. He stopped at Fridolf's cafe for a coffee and some sandwiches. It worried him that he had not told the whole truth at the morning meeting, but he knew he would be ready to concoct a certificate for Strom if that should prove to be necessary. His mind went back to Sten Torstensson, coming to ask for his help. He had turned him down. The least he could do now was to bring his murderers to light.

He sat in his car without starting the engine, watching the people hurrying through the rain. He thought of the occasion a few years back when he had driven home from Malmo while very drunk, and been stopped by some of his colleagues. They had protected him, and it had never been known about. That night he had not been an ordinary citizen: he had been a police officer, taken care of by the police force, instead of being punished, suspended or perhaps thrown out of the force. Peters and Noren, the officers who had seen him swerving all over the road and stopped him, had earned his loyalty. What if one day one of them tried to cash in on the favour they had done him?

In his heart of hearts Strom wanted to be back in the police force, Wallander was sure of it. The antagonism and hatred he displayed was only a superficial front. No doubt he dreamed of one day being a police officer again.

Wallander drove back to the station. He went to Martinsson's office, and found him on the phone. When he finished the call he asked Wallander how it had gone.

"Strom is going to look for an Italian pistol and he's going to collect some fingerprints," Wallander said.

"I find it hard to believe he's done that for nothing," Martinsson said.

"Me too," Wallander said. "But I suppose even somebody like Kurt Strom has a good side."

"He made the mistake of getting caught," Martinsson said. "And then he made another mistake by making everything seem so big and significant. Did you know he has a severely handicapped daughter, by the way?"

Wallander shook his head.

"His wife left him when the girl was very small. He looked after her for years. She has some form of muscle illness. But then it got so bad that she couldn't stay at home any longer, and she had to go into a special home. He still visits her whenever he can."

"How do you know all this?"

"I phoned Roslund in Malmo and asked him. I said I'd happened to bump into Strom. I don't think Roslund knew he works at Farnholm Castle, and I didn't mention it, of course."

Wallander stood staring out of the window.

"There's not much else we can do but wait," Martinsson said.

Wallander did not respond. It eventually dawned on him that Martinsson had said something. "I didn't hear what you said."

"All we can do is wait."

"Yes," Wallander said. "And right now there's nothing I find harder to do."

Wallander went back to his office, sat at his desk and contemplated the enlarged overview of Alfred Harderberg's worldwide empire they'd received from the fraud squad in Stockholm. He had pinned it to the wall.

What I'm looking at is really an atlas of the world, he thought. National boundaries have been replaced by ever-changing demarcation lines between different companies whose turnover and influence are greater than the budgets of many whole countries. He searched through the papers on his desk until he found the summary of the ten largest companies in the world that had been sent to him as an appendix by the fraud squad - they must have had a hyperactivity fit. Six of the biggest companies were Japanese and three American. The other was Royal Dutch/Shell, which was shared by Britain and Holland. Of those ten largest companies, four were banks, two telephone companies, one a car manufacturer and one an oil company. The other two were General Electric and Exxon. He tried to imagine the power wielded by these companies, but it was impossible for him to grasp what this concentration really meant. How could he when he did not feel he could get to grips with Harderberg's empire, even though that was like a mouse in the shadow of an elephant's foot compared with the Big Ten?

Once upon a time Alfred Harderberg had been Alfred Hansson. From insignificant beginnings in Vimmerby he had become one of the Silk Knights who ruled the world, always engaged in new crusades in the battle to outmanoeuvre or crush his competitors. On the surface he observed all the laws and regulations, he was a respected man who had been awarded honorary doctorates, he displayed great generosity and donations flowed from his apparently inexhaustible resources.

In describing him as an honourable man who was good for Sweden, Bjork had given voice to the generally accepted view.

What I'm really saying is that there is a stain somewhere, Wallander thought, and that smile has to be wiped from his face if we're going to nail a murderer. I'm trying to identify something which is basically unthinkable. Harderberg doesn't have a stain. His suntanned face and his smile are things we should, all of us Swedes, be proud of, and that's all there is to it.

Wallander left the police station at 6 p.m. It had stopped raining and the wind had died down. When he got home he found a letter among all the junk mail in the hall that was postmarked Riga. He put it on the kitchen table and looked hard at it, but did not open it until he had drunk a bottle of beer. He read the letter, and then, to be certain he had not misunderstood anything, read it through again. It was correct, she had given him an answer. He put the letter down on the table and pinched himself. He turned to the wall calendar and counted the days. He could not remember the last time he had been so excited. He had a bath, then went to the pizzeria in Hamngatan. He drank a bottle of wine with his meal, and it was only when he had become a bit tipsy that he realised he had not given a thought to Alfred Harderberg or Kurt Strom all evening. He was humming an improvised tune when he left the pizzeria, and then wandered about the streets until almost midnight. Then he went home and read the letter from Baiba one more time, just in case there was something in her English that he had misunderstood after all.

It was as he was about to fall asleep that he started thinking about Strom, and immediately he was wide awake again. Wait, Martinsson had said. That was the only thing they could do. He got out of bed and went to sit on the living-room sofa. What do we do if Strom doesn't find an Italian pistol? he thought. What happens to the investigation if the plastic container turns out to be a dead end? We might be able to deport a couple of foreign bodyguards who are in Sweden illegally, but that's about all. Harderberg, in his well-tailored suit, with that constant smile on his face, will depart from Farnholm Castle, and we'll be left with the wreckage of a failed murder investigation. We'll have to start all over again, and that will be very hard. We'll have to start examining every single thing that's happened as if we were seeing it for the first time.

He made up his mind to resign responsibility for the case if that did happen. Martinsson could take over. That was not only reasonable, it was also necessary. Wallander was the one who had pushed through the strategy of concentrating on Harderberg. He would sink to the bottom with the rest of the wreckage, and when he came up to the surface again it would be Martinsson who would be in charge.

When at last he went back to bed he slept badly. His dreams kept collapsing and blending into one another, and he could see the smiling face of Alfred Harderberg at the same time as Baiba's unfailingly serious expression.

He woke at 7 a.m. He made a pot of coffee and thought about the letter from Baiba, then sat down at the kitchen table and read the car adverts in the morning paper. He still had not heard anything from the insurance company, but Bjork had assured him that he could use a police car for as long as he needed to. He left the flat just after 9.00. The temperature was above freezing and there was not a cloud in the sky. He spent a few hours driving from one car showroom to another, and spent a long time examining a Nissan he wished he could afford. On the way back he parked the car in Stortorget and walked to the music shop in Stora Ostergatan. There was not much in the way of opera, and rather reluctantly he had to settle for a recording of selected arias. Then he bought some food and drove home. There were still several hours to go before he was due to meet Kurt Strom in Svartavagen.

It was 2.55 when Wallander parked outside the red doll's house in Sandskogen. When he knocked on the door there was no reply. He wandered around the garden, and after half an hour he started to get worried. Instinct told him something had happened. He waited until 4.15, then scribbled a note to Strom on the back of an envelope he had found in the car, giving him his phone numbers at home and at the station, and pushed it under the door. He drove back to town, wondering what he ought to do. Strom was acting on his own, and knew he had to take care of himself. He was perfectly capable of getting himself out of awkward situations, Wallander had no doubt, but even so, he felt increasingly worried. After establishing that nobody in the investigative team was still in the building, he went to his office and called Martinsson at home. His wife answered and told Wallander that Martinsson had taken his daughter to the swimming baths. He was about to phone Svedberg, but changed his mind and called Hoglund instead. Her husband answered. When she came to the phone, Wallander told her that Strom had failed to turn up at their rendezvous.

"What does that mean?" she said.

"I don't know," Wallander said. "Probably nothing, but I'm worried."

"Where are you?"

"In my office."

"Do you want me to come in?"

"That's not necessary. I'll phone you back if anything happens."

He hung up and carried on waiting. At 5.30 p.m. he drove back to Svartavagen and shone his torch on the door. The corner of the envelope was still sticking out underneath, so Strom had not been home. Wallander had his mobile phone with him, and dialled Strom's number at Glimmingehus. He let it ring for about a minute, but there was no answer. He was now convinced that something had happened, and decided to go back to the station and get in touch with Akeson.

He had just stopped at a red light on Osterleden when his mobile phone rang.

"There's a Sten Widen trying to get in touch with you," said the operator at the police switchboard. "Have you got his number?"

"Yes, I have," Wallander said. "I'll phone him now."

The lights had changed and the driver of a car behind him sounded his horn impatiently. Wallander pulled in to the side of the road, then dialled Widen's number. One of the stablegirls answered.

"Is that Roger Lundin?" she asked.

"Yes," Wallander said, surprised. "That's me."

"I was to tell you that Sten is on his way to your flat in Ystad."

"When did he leave?"

"A quarter of an hour ago."

Wallander made a racing start to beat the amber light and drove back to town. Now he was certain something had happened. Strom had not returned home, and Sofia must have contacted Widen and had something so important to tell him that Widen had felt it was necessary to drive to his flat. When he turned into Mariagatan there was no sign of Widen's old Volvo Duett. He waited in the street, wondering desperately what could have happened to Strom.

When Widen's Volvo appeared Wallander opened the door before Widen even had time to switch off the engine.

"What's happened?" he said, as Widen tried to extricate himself from the tattered safety belt.

"Sofia phoned," he said. "She sounded hysterical."

"What about?"

"Do we really have to be out here in the street?" Widen said.

"It's just that I'm worried," Wallander said.

"On Sofia's account?"

"No, Kurt Strom's."

"Who the hell is he?"

"We'd better go inside," Wallander said. "You're right, we can't stand out here in the cold."

As they went up the stairs Wallander noticed that Widen smelled of strong drink. He had better have a serious word with him on that score - one of these days when they had resolved who killed the two solicitors.

They sat at the kitchen table, with Baiba's letter still lying there between them.

"Who's this Strom?" Widen asked again.

"Later," Wallander said. "You first. Sofia?"

"She phoned about an hour ago," Widen said, pulling a face. "I couldn't understand what she was saying at first. She was off her rocker."

"Where was she calling from?"

"From her flat at the stables."

"Oh, shit!"

"I don't think she had much choice," Widen said, scratching his stubble. "If I understood her rightly, she had been out riding. Suddenly she comes across a dummy lying on the path ahead of her. Have you heard about the dummies? Life size?"

"She told me," Wallander said. "Go on."

"The horse stopped and refused to go past. Sofia dismounted to pull the dummy out of the way. Only it wasn't a dummy."

"Oh, hell!" said Wallander slowly.

"You sound as if you already know about it," Widen said.

"I'll explain later. Go on."

"It was a man lying there. Covered in blood."

"Was he dead?"

"It didn't occur to me to ask. I assumed so."

"What next?"

"She rode away and phoned me."

"What did you tell her to do?"

"I don't know if it was the best advice, but I told her to do nothing, to sit tight."

"Good," Wallander said. "You did exactly the right thing."

Widen excused himself and went to the bathroom. Wallander could hear the faint clinking of a bottle. When he came back Wallander told him about Strom.

"So you think he was the one there on the path?" Widen said.

"I'm afraid so."

Widen suddenly boiled over, and smashed his fist down on the table. Baiba Liepa's letter fluttered down to the floor.

"The police had bloody better get themselves out there right away! What the hell's going on at that castle? I'm not letting Sofia stay there a moment longer."

"That's exactly what we're going to do," Wallander said, getting to his feet.

"I'm going home," Widen said. "Call me as soon as you've got Sofia out of there."

"No," Wallander said. "You're staying here. You've been at the hard stuff. I'm not going to let you drive. You can sleep here."

Widen stared at Wallander as if he did not know what he was talking about. "Are you suggesting that I'm drunk?" he said.

"Not drunk, but you're over the limit. I don't want you getting into trouble."

Widen had left his car keys on the table. Wallander put them in his pocket. "Just to be on the safe side," he said. "I don't want you changing your mind while I'm gone."

"You must be out of your mind," Widen said. "I'm not drunk."

"We can argue about that when I get back," Wallander said. "I've got to go this very minute."

"I don't give a shit about your Kurt Strom," Widen said, "but I don't want anything to happen to her."

"I take it she's more than just a stablehand to you," Wallander said.

"Yes," Widen said. "But that's not why I don't want anything to happen."

"That's nothing to do with me," Wallander said.

"Too right. It isn't."

Wallander found a pair of unused trainers in his wardrobe. He had many times vowed to start jogging, but had never got round to it. He put on a thick sweater and a woollen cap, and was ready to leave.

"Make yourself at home," he said to Widen, who'd openly planted his whisky bottle on the kitchen table.

"You worry about Sofia, not about me," Widen said.

Wallander closed the door behind him, then paused on the dark staircase, wondering what to do. If Strom was dead, everything had failed. He felt as if he was back to where he had been the previous year, when death was waiting in the fog. The men at Farnholm Castle were dangerous, whether they smiled like Harderberg or skulked in the shadows like Tolpin and Obadia.

I've got to get Sofia out of there, he thought. I must phone Bjork and organise an emergency call-out. We'll bring in every police district in Skane if we have to.

He switched on the light and ran down the stairs. He rang Bjork from his car, but as soon as Bjork answered he switched off the phone.

I have to sort this out myself, he thought. I don't want any more dead bodies.

He drove to the police station and collected his handgun and a torch. He went to Svedberg's deserted office and switched on the light, then trawled through papers until he found the map of the Farnholm Castle grounds. He folded it and put it in his pocket. When he left the station it was 7.45. He drove to Malmovagen and stopped at Hoglund's house. He rang the bell, and her husband opened the door. He declined the offer to go inside, saying that he only wanted to leave her a message. When she came to the door she was in a dressing gown.

"Listen carefully," he said. "I'm going to break into Farnholm Castle."

"Strom?" she said.

"I think he's dead."

She turned pale and Wallander wondered if she was going to faint.

"You can't go to the castle on your own," she said, when she had recovered her composure.

"I have to."

"Why do you have to?"

"I have to sort this out myself," he said, annoyed. "Please stop asking questions. Just listen."

"I'm going with you," she said. "You can't go there by yourself."

She had made up her mind. There was no point in arguing with her.

"Alright, you can come," he said, "but you'll wait outside. I can use somebody I can be in radio contact with."

She ran up the stairs. Her husband ushered Wallander in and closed the door.

"This is what she warned me would happen," he said with a smile. "When I get back home, she's the one who'll be going out on business."

"This probably won't take very long," Wallander said, though he could hear how lame it sounded.

A couple of minutes later she came back down wearing a tracksuit.

"Don't wait up for me," she said to her husband.

Nobody to wait up for me, Wallander thought. Nobody. Not even a dozy cat among the plant pots on a window ledge.

They drove to the police station and collected two radio telephones.

"Maybe I should get a gun," she said.

"No," Wallander said. "You'll wait outside the perimeter. And you're for the high jump if you don't do exactly as I say."

They left Ystad behind. It was a clear, cold night. Wallander was driving fast.

"What are you going to do?" she said.

"I'm going to find out what's happened."

She can see through me, he thought. She knows I haven't a clue what I'm going to do.

They continued in silence and reached the turn-off to Farnholm Castle at about 9.30. Wallander drove on to a parking place for tractors, switched off his engine and also the lights. They sat there in the dark.

"I'll be in touch every hour," Wallander said. "If you hear nothing for more than two hours, phone Bjork and tell him to organise a full emergency call-out."

"You shouldn't be doing this, you know," she said.

"All my life I've been doing things I shouldn't be doing," Wallander said. "Why stop now?"

They tuned their radio telephones.

"Why did you become a police officer and not a vicar?" he said, looking into her eyes reflected in the dim light of the telephones.

"I was raped," she said. "That changed my whole life. All I wanted to do after that was to join the police force."

Wallander sat for a while in silence. Then he opened the door, got out and closed it quietly behind him. It was like entering another world. Hoglund was nowhere to hand any longer.

The night was very calm. For some reason he was struck by the thought that in two days it would be Lucia, and all Sweden would be occupied with blonde girls wearing a crown of burning candles on their heads, singing "Santa Lucia" and celebrating what used to be thought of as the winter solstice. He positioned himself behind a tree trunk and unfolded his map. He shone his torch on it and tried to memorise the key elements. Then he switched off the torch, put the map into his pocket and ran down the road leading to the castle gates. It would be impossible to climb the double fence of barbed wire. There was only one way in, and that was through the gates.

After ten minutes he paused to get his breath back. Then he made his way cautiously along the road until he could see the bright lights at the gates, and the bunker that guarded them.

I must do what they least expect, he thought. The last thing they'll be waiting for is an armed man trying to get into the castle grounds on his own.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He took his pistol out of his pocket. Behind the bunker was a narrow patch of shadow. He glanced at his watch: 9.57.

Then he made his move.

Chapter 17

The first call came after half an hour. She could hear his voice clearly, with no interference, as if he had not gone far from the car but was standing close by in the shadows.

"Where are you?" she said.

"I'm inside the grounds," he said. "Stand by for the next call in an hour from now."

"What's happening?"

But there was no answer. She thought there had been a temporary loss of contact and waited for him to call back, but then she realised that Wallander had switched off without replying to her question. There was no sound from the radio.

It seemed to Wallander that he was walking through the valley of the shadow of death. Nevertheless, getting in had been easier than he had ever dared to hope. He had sneaked swiftly to the narrow patch of shadow behind the bunker and been surprised to discover a small window. By standing on tiptoe he could see inside. There was only one person in the bunker, sitting in front of a bank of computer screens and telephones. Only one person, and a woman at that. She seemed to be knitting a child's jumper. Wallander could hardly believe his eyes. The contrast with what was happening within the gates was too great, almost impossible to grasp. Obviously she could not possibly suspect that there would be an armed man just outside, so he walked calmly round the bunker and tapped on the door, trying to make it as friendly a knock as possible. Just as he had thought, she opened the door wide, not anticipating any threat. She had her knitting in her hand, and looked at Wallander in surprise. It had not occurred to him to draw his pistol. He explained who he was, Inspector Wallander from the Ystad police, and even apologised for disturbing her. He ushered her gently back inside the bunker and closed the door behind them. He looked to see whether there was a security camera inside the bunker as well, but there was no sign of one, and invited her to sit down. At that point it dawned on her what was happening, and she started screaming. Wallander drew his pistol. Holding the gun in his hand worried him so much that he felt sick. He avoided aiming at her, but ordered her to be quiet. She looked scared to death, and Wallander wished he had been able to calm her down, said she could carry on knitting the jumper which was no doubt for one of her grandchildren. But he thought about Strom and Sofia, he thought about Sten Torstensson and the mine in Mrs Duner's garden. He asked if she had to keep reporting back to the castle, but she said she did not.

His next question was crucial. "Kurt Strom ought really to have been on duty tonight," he said.

"They phoned down from the castle and said I had to do his shift because he was ill."

"Who phoned?"

"One of the secretaries."

"Tell me exactly what she said, word for word."

"'Kurt Strom has been taken ill.' That's all."

As far as Wallander was concerned, he now had confirmation that everything had gone wrong. Strom had been unmasked, and Wallander had no illusions about the ability of the men around Harderberg to extract the truth from him.

He looked at the terrified woman. She was clinging to her knitting.

"There's a man just outside," he said, pointing to the window. "He's armed the same as me. If you sound the alarm after I've gone, you will not finish knitting that jumper."

He could see that she believed him.

"Whenever the gates open it's recorded up at the castle, is that right?" he said.

She nodded.

"What happens if there's a power cut?"

"A big generator cuts in automatically."

"Is it possible to open the gates by hand? Without it being registered by the computers?"

She nodded again.

"OK. Switch off the power supply to the gates," he said. "Open the gates for me, then close them behind me. Then switch the electricity back on."

He was sure she would do as he said. He opened the bunker door and shouted to the man who did not exist that he was coming out, that the gates were going to be opened and closed, and that everything was under control. She unlocked a box at the side of the gate to reveal a winch. When the gap was wide enough Wallander slipped through.

"Do exactly as I said. As long as you do, nothing will happen to you," he said.

Then he ran through the grounds towards the stables, picturing the route in his mind's eye from the map he had studied. All was very quiet, and when he was close enough to see the lights from the stables he paused and made the first call to Hoglund. When she started asking questions he switched off. He went on walking cautiously towards the stables. The flat where Sofia lived was in an annexe built on to the main building. He stood for a considerable time in the shadow of a little coppice, observing the stables and the area round about. Occasionally he heard scrapes and thuds from the stalls. A light was on in the annexe. He made himself think completely calmly. The fact that Strom had been shot did not necessarily mean that they had realised there was a connection between him and the new stablegirl. Nor was it certain that the call she had made to Widen had been tapped. The uncertainty was the best Wallander could hope for. He wondered if they would have contingency plans to deal with a man having broken into the castle grounds.

He stayed in the shadows under the trees for several more minutes, then crouched and ran as fast as he could to the door of the annexe. He expected at any moment to be hit by a bullet. He knocked on the door, trying the handle at the same time. It was locked. Then he heard her voice, sounding very frightened, and he said who he was: Roger. Sten's friend Roger. He couldn't remember the surname he'd come up with. But she opened the door and he noted the expression of surprise mixed with relief on her face. The flat comprised a small kitchen and a living room with an alcove for a bedroom. He indicated with a finger to his lips that she should be quiet. They sat in the kitchen, facing each other across the table. He could hear the thuds from the stalls very clearly now.

Wallander said: "I don't have a lot of time and I can't explain why I'm here. So just answer my questions, please, nothing else."

He unfolded the map and laid it on the table.

"There was a man lying on a path," he said. "Can you point to where?"

She leaned across and drew a little circle with her index finger on a track marked to the south of the stables.

"About there," she said.

"I have to ask you if you had seen the man before."

"No."

"What was he wearing?"

"I don't remember."

"Was it a uniform?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. My mind's a blank."

There was no point in his pressing her further. Her terror had affected her memory.

"Has anything else happened today, anything out of the ordinary?"

"No."

"Nobody's been here to talk to you?"

"No."

Wallander tried to work out what that meant. But the image of Strom lying there in the darkness forced all other thoughts from his mind.

"I'm going now," he said. "If anybody comes, don't tell them I've been."

"Will you come back?" she said.

"I don't know. But you don't need to worry, nothing's going to happen."

He peered out through a crack in the curtains, hoping the assurance he had just given her really would turn out to be true. Then he opened the door quickly and ran to the back of the building. He did not stop until he was in the shadows again. A slight breeze had started blowing. Beyond the trees he could see the powerful beams lighting up the dark red facade of the castle. He could also see lights in several of the windows on all floors.

He was shivering.

After thinking hard once more about the map he had lodged in his memory, he set off again, torch in hand. He passed the site of an artificial lake that had been drained of water. Then he turned left and began looking for the path. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had 40 minutes before he was due to contact Hoglund again.

Just as he was beginning to think he was lost, he found the path. It was about a metre wide, and he could see the tracks of horses' hooves. He stood still, listening. But it was silent everywhere, although the wind seemed to be getting stronger. He continued along the path, expecting to be grabbed at any moment.

After about five minutes he stopped. If she had indicated correctly on the map, he had walked too far. Was he on the wrong path? He went on, more slowly. After another hundred metres he was sure he must have passed the point she had marked by now.

He stood still, feeling uneasy.

There was no sign of Strom. The body must have been taken away. He turned and began to retrace his steps, wondering what to do next. He stopped again, this time because he needed a pee. He stepped into the bushes by the side of the path. When he had finished he took the map from his pocket and checked again, just to be certain that he had not mistaken the spot Sofia had circled, or taken the wrong path.

As he switched on the torch he caught sight of a naked foot. He gave a start and dropped the torch, which went out as it landed on the ground. He must have imagined it. He bent down to retrieve the torch. He switched it on again and found himself looking straight at Kurt Strom's dead face. It was ashen, the lips tightly clenched. Blood had drained away and coagulated on his cheeks. He had an entry wound in the middle of his forehead. Wallander thought about what had happened to Sten Torstensson. He stood up and hurried away. Leaned against a tree and threw up. Then he ran. He got as far as the empty lake and sank to his knees at its edge. Somewhere in the background a bird flew, clattering, from the top of a tree. He jumped down into the lake bed and crept to a corner. It was like being in a burial vault. He thought he could hear footsteps approaching and drew his pistol, but nobody appeared. He took a few deep breaths and forced himself to think. He was close to panic and felt that he would lose his self-control at any moment. Another 14 minutes and he was due to contact Hoglund. But he did not have to wait, he could call her now and ask her to phone Bjork. Strom was dead, shot through the head, and nothing was going to bring him back to life. They should call a full-scale emergency, Wallander would be waiting for them at the gates, and what would happen after that he had no idea.

But he did not make the call. He waited for 14 minutes and then reached for the radio telephone. She answered at once. "What's happening?" she said.

"Nothing yet," he said. "I'll call again in an hour."

"Have you found Strom?"

He switched off. Once again he was alone in the darkness. He had committed himself to do something, but did not know what. He had given himself an hour to fill without knowing how. Slowly he rose to his feet. He was freezing. He clambered up out of the lake bed and walked towards the light glimmering through the trees. He stopped where the trees came to an end and he found himself at the edge of the big lawn sloping up to the castle.

It was an impenetrable fortress, but somehow Wallander would have to force his way in. Strom was dead, but he could not be blamed for that. Nor could he be held responsible for the murder of Sten Torstensson. Wallander's guilt was different in kind, a feeling that he was going to let the side down once again, and when he could well be on the brink of solving the case.

There had to be a limit to what they were capable of doing, in spite of everything. They could not simply shoot him, an Ystad detective who was only doing his job. Then again, perhaps these people did not recognise any limits at all. He tried to unravel that conundrum, but he could not. Instead, he started making his way round to the back of the castle, a side of the building he had never seen. It took him all of ten minutes, despite walking briskly - not only because he was afraid, but also because he was so cold. He could not stop shivering. At the back of the castle was a half-moon-shaped terrace jutting out into the grounds. The left side of the terrace was in shadow: some of the hidden spotlights must have stopped working. There were stone steps from the terrace down on to the lawn. He ran as fast as he could until he was in the shadows again. He crept up the steps, his torch in one hand and his radio telephone in the other. The pistol was in his trouser pocket.

Suddenly he stopped dead and listened. What had he heard? It was one of his internal alarms going off. Something's wrong, he thought. But what? He pricked up his ears, but he could hear nothing apart from the wind coming and going. It's something to do with the light, he thought. I'm being drawn towards the shadows, and they are lying in wait for me.

When the penny dropped and he realised he had been tricked, it was too late. He turned to go back down the steps, but was blinded by a dazzling white light shining straight into his face. He had been lured into the shadowy trap, and now it had sprung. He held the hand holding the radio telephone over his eyes to keep out the light, but at the same time he felt himself being grabbed from behind. He tried to fight his way free, but it was too late. His head exploded and everything went black.

A part of his mind was conscious of what was happening all the time. Arms lifted him up and carried him, he could hear a voice speaking, somebody laughed. A door opened and the sound of footsteps on the stone terrace ceased. He was indoors, perhaps being carried up a staircase, and then he was set down on something soft. Whether it was the pain in the back of his head or the feeling of being in a room with the lights out, or at least dimmed, he did not know; but he came round, opened his eyes and found himself lying on a sofa in a very large room. The floor was tiled, possibly with marble. Several computers with flickering screens stood on an oblong table. He could hear the sound of air-conditioning fans and somewhere, out of his field of vision, a telex machine was clicking away. He tried not to move his head, the pain behind his right ear was too great. Then somebody started speaking to him, a voice he recognised, close by his side.

"A moment of madness," Harderberg said. "When a man does something that can only end with him being injured, or killed."

Wallander turned gingerly and looked at him. He was smiling. Further back, where the light barely penetrated, he could just make out the outlines of two men, motionless.

Harderberg walked round the sofa and handed him the radio telephone. His suit was immaculate, his shoes highly polished.

"It's three minutes past midnight," Harderberg said. "A few minutes ago somebody tried to contact you. I've no idea who it was, of course, and I don't care. But I assume somebody is waiting for you to get in touch. You'd better do that. I don't need to tell you, I am sure, that you shouldn't attempt to raise the alarm. We've had enough madness for one day."

Wallander called her up and she answered immediately.

"Everything's OK," he said. "I'll report again an hour from now."

"Have you found Strom?" she said.

He hesitated, unsure of what to say. Then he noticed that Harderberg was nodding at him encouragingly.

"Yes, I've found him," Wallander said. "I'll call again at 1.00."

Wallander put the radio on the sofa beside him.

"The woman police officer," Harderberg said. "I take it that she's in the vicinity. We could find her if we wanted to, of course. But we don't."

Wallander gritted his teeth and stood up.

"I have come in order to inform you," he said, "that you are suspected of being an accessory to a number of serious crimes."

Harderberg observed him thoughtfully. "I waive my right to have a solicitor present. Please go on, Inspector Wallander."

"You are suspected of being an accessory to the deaths of Gustaf Torstensson and his son Sten Torstensson. Furthermore, you are now also suspected of being implicated in the death of your own chief of security, Kurt Strom. In addition, there is the attempted murder of the solicitors' secretary, Mrs Duner, and of myself and Police Officer Hoglund. There are a number of other possible charges, including ones connected to the fate of the accountant Borman. The Public Prosecutor will have to sort out the details."

Harderberg sat down slowly in an armchair. "Are you saying that I am under arrest, Inspector Wallander?" he said.

Wallander felt on the point of fainting, and sat again on the sofa. "I don't have the necessary papers," he said. "But that doesn't affect the basic circumstances."

Harderberg leaned forward in his armchair, chin resting on one hand. Then he leaned back again and nodded. "I'll make things easy for you," he said. "I confess."

Wallander stared at him, unable to believe his ears.

"You're absolutely right," Harderberg said. "I admit to being guilty on all counts."

"Including Borman?"

"Including Borman, of course."

Wallander could feel his fear creeping up on him again, but this time colder, more threatening than before. The whole situation was out of kilter. He was going to have to get out of the castle.

Harderberg watched him attentively, as if trying to read Wallander's thoughts. To give himself time to work out how he could get an SOS to Hoglund without Harderberg realising, Wallander started asking questions, as if they'd been in an interrogation room. But still he could not tell what Harderberg was up to. Had he known Wallander was in the grounds from the moment he passed through the gate? What had Strom given away before he was killed?

"The truth," Harderberg said, interrupting Wallander's train of thought. "Does it exist for a Swedish police officer?"

"Establishing the line between a lie and a fact, the real truth, is the basis of all police work," Wallander said.

"A correct answer," Harderberg said approvingly. "But it's wrong all the same. Because there's no such thing as an absolute truth or an absolute lie. There are just agreements. Agreements that can be entered into, kept or broken."

"If somebody uses a gun to kill another human being, that can hardly be anything but a factual happening," Wallander said.

He could hear a faint note of irritation in Harderberg's voice when he answered. "We don't need to discuss what's self-evident," he said. "I'm looking for a truth that goes deeper than that."

"Death is deep enough for me," Wallander said. "Gustaf Torstensson was your solicitor. You had him killed. The attempt to disguise the murder as a car accident failed."

"I'd be interested to know how you reached that conclusion."

"A chair leg was left lying in the mud. The rest of the chair was in the car boot. The boot was locked."

"So simple! Pure carelessness."

Harderberg made no attempt to conceal the look he gave the two men skulking in the shadows.

"What happened?" Wallander said.

"Torstensson's loyalty began to waver. He saw things he shouldn't have seen. We were forced to ensure his loyalty, once and for all. Occasionally we amuse ourselves here at the castle with shooting practice. We use mannequins, tailors' dummies, as targets. We put a dummy in the road. He stopped. He died."

"And thus his loyalty was ensured."

Harderberg nodded, but seemed to be miles away. He jumped to his feet and stared at rows of figures that had appeared on one of the flickering computer screens. Wallander guessed they were share prices from some part of the world where it was already daytime. But then, did stock exchanges open on Sundays? Perhaps the figures he was checking were to do with quite different financial activities.

Harderberg returned to his armchair.

"We couldn't be sure how much his son knew," he said, as if he had never paused. "We kept him under observation. He went to visit you in Jutland. We couldn't be sure how much he had told you. Or Mrs Duner, come to that. I think you have analysed the circumstances very skilfully, Inspector Wallander. But of course, we saw right away that you wanted us to think you had another lead you were following. I'm hurt to think that you underestimated us."

Wallander was beginning to feel sick. The coldblooded indifference that oozed from the man in the armchair was something he had never encountered before. Nevertheless, his curiosity led him to ask more questions.

"We found a plastic container in the car," he said. "I suspect it was substituted for another one when you killed him."

"Why would we want to substitute it?"

"Our technicians could prove that it had never contained anything. We assumed that the container itself was of no significance: what was important was what it was meant to be used for."

"And what was that, pray?"

"Now you're asking the questions," Wallander said. "And I'm expected to answer them."

"It's getting late," Harderberg said. "Why can't we give this conversation a touch of playfulness? It's quite meaningless, after all."

"We're talking about murder," Wallander said. "I suspect that plastic container was used to preserve and carry transplant organs, cut out of murdered people."

Just for a moment Harderberg stiffened. It was gone in a flash, but Wallander noticed it even so. That clinched it. He was right.

"I look for business deals wherever I can find them," Harderberg said. "If there's a market for kidneys, I buy and sell kidneys, just to give one example."

"Where do they come from?"

"From deceased persons."

"People you've killed."

"All I have ever done is buy and sell," Harderberg said patiently. "What happens before the goods come into my hands is no concern of mine. I don't even know about it."

Wallander was appalled. "I didn't know people like you existed," he said in the end.

Harderberg leaned quickly forward in his armchair. "That was a lie," he said. "You know perfectly well such people exist. I'd go as far as to say that, deep down, you envy me."

"You're mad," Wallander said, making no attempt to conceal his disgust.

"Mad with happiness, mad with rage, yes, OK. But not plain mad, Inspector. You have to understand that I'm a passionate human being. I love doing business, conquering a rival competitor, increasing my fortune and never needing to deny myself anything. It's possible that I'm a restless Flying Dutchman, always seeking something new. But more than anything else I'm a heathen in the correct sense of the word. Perhaps Inspector Wallander is familiar with the works of Machiavelli?"

Wallander shook his head.

"Christians, according to this Italian thinker, say the highest level of happiness is to be attained through humility, self-denial and contempt for everything human. Heathens, on the other hand, see the highest level of goodness in mental greatness, bodily strength and all the qualities that make human beings frightening. Wise words that I always do my best to live up to."

Wallander said nothing. Harderberg looked at the two-way radio and then at his watch. It was 1 a.m. Wallander called Hoglund, thinking that now he really had to work out how to convey to her his SOS. But yet again he told her that all was well, everything under control. She could expect him to be in touch again at 2 a.m.

Wallander made calls each hour through the night, but he could not get her to see that what he really wanted was for her to sound the alarm and send as many officers as possible to Farnholm. He had realised that they were alone in the castle, and that Harderberg was only waiting until dawn before leaving not just his castle but also his country, along with the still shadows in the background, the men who did his bidding and killed whoever he pointed a finger at. The only staff left were Sofia and the woman at the entrance gate. The secretaries had gone, all the ones Wallander had never seen. Perhaps they were already in another castle elsewhere, waiting for Harderberg?

The pain in Wallander's head had eased, but he was very tired. He had come so far and now he knew the truth, but he felt that that was not enough. They would leave him at the castle, possibly tied up, and when eventually he was discovered or managed to free himself, they would be up in the clouds and away. What had been said during the night would be denied by the lawyers Harderberg employed to defend him. The men who had actually pointed the guns, the ones who had never crossed Sweden's borders, would be no more than shadows against whom no prosecutor would be able to bring charges. They would never be able to prove anything, the investigation would crumble away through their fingers, and Harderberg would in the eyes of the world go on being a respectable citizen.

Wallander had the truth in his possession, he had even been told that Borman had been killed because he had discovered the link between Harderberg and the County Council fraud. And thereafter they had not dared to take the risk that Gustaf Torstensson would start seeing things he should not see. He had done, despite all their efforts to prevent it; but there again, it did not really matter. The truth would eventually consume itself, because the authorities would never be able to arrest anybody for this series of appalling crimes.

What Wallander would recall in the future, what would stay in his mind for a very long time to come as a horrifying reminder of what Harderberg was like, was something he said shortly before 5.00 that morning, when for some reason or other they had started talking about the plastic container again, and the people who were killed so that their body parts could be sold.

"You have to understand that it's but a tiny part of my activities. It's negligible, marginal. But it's what I do, Inspector Wallander. I buy and sell. I'm an actor on the stage governed by market forces. I never miss an opportunity, no matter how small and insignificant it is."

Human life is insignificant, then, Wallander had thought. That's the premise on which Harderberg's whole existence is based.

Then their discussions were over. Harderberg had switched off the computers, one after the other, and disposed of some documents in a shredder. Wallander had considered running away, but the motionless shadows in the background had never left. He had to admit defeat.

Harderberg stroked the tips of his fingers over his lips, as if to check that his smile was intact. Then he looked at Wallander one last time.

"We all have to die," he said, making it sound as if there were one exception: himself. "Even the span of a detective inspector has a limit. In this case, at my deciding." He checked his watch before continuing. "It will shortly be dawn, even though it is still dark. Then a helicopter will land. My two assistants will board it, and so will you. But you will only be in it for a short time. Then you will have an opportunity to see if you can fly without mechanical aids."

He never took his eyes off Wallander as he spoke. He wants me to beg for my life, Wallander thought. Well, he's going to be disappointed. Once fear reaches a certain point, it is transformed and becomes its opposite. That's one thing I've learned.

"Investigating the innate ability of human beings to fly was thoroughly researched during the unfortunate war in Vietnam," Harderberg said. "Prisoners were dropped, but at a great height, for a brief moment, they recovered their freedom to move, until they crashed into the ground and became a part of the greatest freedom of all." He stood up and buttoned his jacket. "My helicopter pilots are very skilful," he said. "I think they'll manage to drop you so that you land in Stortorget in Ystad. It will be an event that is recorded for ever in the annals of the town's history."

He's going clean off his rocker, Wallander thought.

"We must now go our different ways," Harderberg said. "We have met twice. I think I shall remember you. There were moments when you came close to displaying acumen. In other circumstances I might have been able to find a place for you."

"The postcard," Wallander said. "The postcard Sten Torstensson somehow sent from Finland when he was actually with me in Denmark."

"It amuses me to copy handwriting," Harderberg said. "It could be said that I'm rather good at it. I spent a few hours in Helsinki the day young Torstensson was with you in Jutland. I had a meeting - not a successful one, I'm afraid - with senior people at Nokia. It was like a game, like sticking a twig into an anthill. A game where the aim is to cause confusion. That's all."

Harderberg held out his hand to Wallander, who was so amazed that he shook it.

Then he turned on his heel and was gone.

Harderberg dominated the whole room whenever he was present. Now that the door had closed behind him there was nothing left. Wallander thought he left a sort of vacuum behind him.

Tolpin was leaning against a pillar, watching Wallander. Obadia was sitting, staring straight ahead.

Wallander refused to believe that Harderberg had given orders for him to be thrown out of a helicopter above the centre of Ystad. But he knew he would have to do something.

The minutes passed. Neither of the men moved.

So, he was to be thrown out, alive, to plummet on to the rooftops, or possibly on to the paving stones in Stortorget. Having to accept that led immediately to panic. It paralysed him, spreading through his body like poison. He could hardly breathe. He tried desperately to think.

Obadia slowly raised his head. Wallander could hear the faint noise of an engine rapidly coming closer. The helicopter was on its way. Tolpin gestured that it was time to go.

By the time they had emerged from the castle, there was still no hint of dawn light, but the helicopter was standing on the pad, its rotors unhurriedly spinning. The pilot was ready to take off the moment they climbed aboard. Wallander was still trying desperately to fashion a way of escaping. Tolpin was walking in front of him, Obadia a few paces behind with a pistol in his hand. They had almost reached the helicopter. Its rotor blades were still slicing the chilly night air. Wallander saw a pile of old broken-up concrete at one corner they were to pass to get to the pad: somebody had been repairing cracks but had not yet cleared away the debris. Wallander slowed down so that Obadia came momentarily between him and Tolpin. Wallander bent down and used his hands as shovels to scoop up as much of the concrete chunks as he could and hurled it up at the rotors. He heard loud, cracking bangs as fragments of concrete flew all around them. For just a moment Tolpin and Obadia thought that somebody was shooting at them and lost sight of what was happening behind them. Wallander flung himself with all his strength at Obadia and succeeded in wrestling his pistol from his grasp. He took a few steps backwards, stumbled and fell. Tolpin stared wide-eyed at what was going on without it properly sinking in, but now he reached into his jacket for his weapon. Wallander fired and hit him in the hip. Obadia hurled himself at Wallander, who fired again. He did not see where he had hit him, but Obadia fell, screaming with pain.

Wallander scrambled to his feet. The pilots might also be armed. But when he pointed the pistol at the open door of the helicopter, he could see only one young man there, and he had his hands above his head. Wallander examined the men he had shot. Both were alive but unlikely to go far. He pocketed Tolpin's pistol, then he walked up to the helicopter. The pilot still had his hands up. Wallander shouted that he should fly away. He took a few paces backwards and watched the helicopter take off then disappear over the roof of the castle, its searchlights probing the dark sky.

He seemed to be seeing everything through a fog. When he rubbed his cheek with his hand, it was covered in blood. A concrete chip had hit him in the face without his noticing it.

Then he ran towards the stables. Sofia screamed when she saw him. He tried to smile, but his face was stiff from his wound.

"Everything's alright," he said, trying to get his breath back. "But I've got to ask you to do something. Phone for an ambulance. There are two men with bullet wounds lying on the helipad. Once you've done that, I won't ask you to do anything more for me. You can go back to Sten and take him up on his promise. It's all over here now."

Then he remembered Harderberg. Time was very short.

As he ran from the stables he slipped in the mud churned up by the horses' hooves and fell. He struggled to his feet and ran towards the gates. He wondered if he would get there in time.

She had got out of the car to stretch her legs, and looked up to see him coming towards her. He saw the horrified expression on her face and realised how alarming he must look. He was covered in blood and mud, his clothes torn. But he had no time to explain. Only one thing mattered, and that was preventing Harderberg from leaving the airport. He shouted to her to get back into the car. Before she had closed her door he had reversed on to the road. He forced the car through the gears, slamming the accelerator hard down, and ignored the red light as he swung into the main road.

"What's the fastest way to Sturup?" he said.

She found a map in the glove pocket and told him the route. We won't make it, he thought. It's too far, we don't have enough time.

"Phone Bjork," he said, pointing at the car phone.

"I don't know his home number," she said.

"Then ring the bloody police station and find out, for God's sake!" he yelled. "Use your head!"

She did as she was told. When the officer on duty wondered if it could not wait until Bjork had come in for work, she too started shouting. The moment she had it, she dialled the number. "What shall I say?" she said.

"Tell him Harderberg's about to leave the country in his aircraft, and for good," Wallander said. "Bjork has to arrange to have him stopped. He has half an hour maximum to do it in."

When Bjork answered, Wallander listened as Hoglund repeated word for word what he had said. She listened to the response in silence then handed the phone to Wallander.

"He wants to speak to you."

Wallander took the phone in his right hand and eased the pressure on the accelerator.

"What do you mean, I have to stop Harderberg's jet?" Bjork's voice rasped over the phone.

"He arranged the murders of Gustaf and Sten Torstensson. Strom is dead too."

"Are you absolutely sure about what you're saying? Where are you right now? Why is the sound so bad?"

"I'm on my way from Farnholm Castle. I don't have time to explain. Harderberg is on his way to the airport now. He must be stopped immediately. If that plane takes off and he leaves Swedish air space, we've lost him."

"I have to say this all sounds very odd," Bjork said. "What have you been doing at Farnholm Castle till this time in the morning?"

Wallander realised that Bjork's questions were perfectly reasonable from his point of view. He wondered how he would have reacted if he had been in Bjork's place.

"I know it sounds outlandish," he said, "but this time you have to take the risk of believing me."

"I shall have to consult Akeson," Bjork said.

Wallander groaned. "There really is no time for that. You've heard what I said. There are police officers at Sturup. They have to be told to stop Harderberg."

"Ring me back in a quarter of an hour," Bjork said. "I'll get in touch with Akeson right away."

Wallander was so furious that he almost lost control of the car.

"Wind down that bloody window!" he said.

She did as he said. Wallander threw the telephone out.

"Now you can close it again. We'll have to sort this out by ourselves."

"Are you certain it's Harderberg?" she said. "What's happened? Are you wounded?"

Wallander ignored the last two questions.

"I'm certain," he said. "I also know we will never ever get him if he leaves the country."

"What are you going to do?"

He shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "In fact, I haven't the slightest bloody idea. I'll have to think of something."

But as they approached Sturup 40 minutes later, he still had no idea what he was going to do. With tyres screeching, he pulled up at the gates to the right of the airport building. The better to see, he clambered on to the roof of the car. All around passengers arriving for early flights paused to see what was going on. A catering truck inside the gates blocked his view. Wallander waved his arms and cursed in an attempt to attract the driver's attention and get him to move the truck. But the man behind the wheel had his head buried in a newspaper and was oblivious to the man on the roof of the car, ranting and raving. Then Wallander drew his pistol and shot straight up into the air. There was immediate panic among the watching crowd. People ran off in all directions, abandoning suitcases on the pavement. The driver of the truck had reacted to the shot and grasped that Wallander wanted him to move out of the way.

Harderberg's Grumman Gulfstream was still there. The pale yellow light from the spotlights was reflected by the body of the jet.

The two pilots, on their way to the aircraft, had heard the shot and stopped in their tracks. Wallander jumped off the car roof so that they would not be able to see him. He fell, hitting his left shoulder hard against the road. The pain made him even more furious. He knew Harderberg was somewhere inside the yellow airport building and he had no intention of letting him get away. He raced towards the entrance doors, stumbling over suitcases and trolleys, Hoglund a few paces behind him. He still had his pistol in his hand as he ran through the glass doors and headed for the airport police offices. As it was early on a Sunday morning there were not many people in the terminal. Only one queue had formed at a check-in desk, for a charter flight to Spain. As Wallander came charging up, covered in blood and mud, all hell broke loose. Hoglund tried to reassure people, but her voice was drowned in the uproar. One of the police officers on duty had been out to buy a newspaper, and saw Wallander approaching. The pistol in his hand was the first thing he had seen. The officer dropped the paper and started feverishly keying in the door code, but Wallander grabbed him by the arm before he had finished.

"Inspector Wallander, Ystad police," he shouted. "There's a plane we have to stop. Dr Alfred Harderberg's Gulfstream. There's no bloody time to lose!"

"Don't shoot," gasped the terrified police officer.

"For heaven's sake, man!" Wallander said. "I'm a police officer myself. Didn't you hear what I said?"

"Don't shoot," the man said, again. Then he fainted.

Wallander stared in exasperation at the wretched man lying in front of him on the ground. Then he started belting on the door with his fists. Hoglund had caught up.

"Let me try," she said.

Wallander looked round, as if expecting to see Harderberg at any moment. He ran over to the big windows overlooking the runways.

Harderberg was walking up the steps into the aeroplane. He ducked ever so slightly then disappeared inside. The door closed immediately.

"We're not going to make it!" Wallander yelled to Hoglund.

He raced out of the terminal again. She was at his side all the way. He noticed that a car belonging to the airport was on its way in through the gates. He made one final effort and managed to squeeze through the gap before the gates closed. He banged on the boot and shouted for the car to stop, but the driver was obviously frightened out of his wits and accelerated away. Hoglund was still outside the gates. She had not quite made it before they closed. Wallander flung out his arms in resignation. The Gulfstream was taxiing towards the runway. There were only 100 metres left before it would turn, accelerate and take off.

Right next to where Wallander was standing stood a tractor for towing baggage trailers. He had no choice. He climbed up, switched on the engine and steered towards the runway. He could see in his side mirror a long snake of trailers being towed along behind. He had not seen that they were connected to the tractor, but it was too late to stop now. The Gulfstream was just arriving at the runway and its engines were screaming. The baggage trailers had started tipping over as he cut across the grass between the apron and the runway.

Now he had reached the runway, where the black tyre marks made as the aircraft braked looked like wide cracks in the asphalt. He drove straight towards the Gulfstream, which was pointing its nose at him. When there were 200 metres still to go, he saw the plane begin to roll towards him. By then he knew he had managed it. Before the jet had got up enough speed to take off, the pilots would have to stop in order not to smash into the tractor.

Wallander applied the brakes, but something was wrong with the tractor. He pushed and pulled and slammed down his foot, but nothing happened. He was not moving fast, but the momentum was such that the nose wheel would be wrecked when the aircraft collided with the tractor. Wallander jumped off as the last trailers spilled loose, colliding with one another.

The pilots had switched off the engines to avoid an inferno. Wallander was struck on the head by one of the trailers, and rose unsteadily to his feet. He could scarcely see through the blood trickling into his eyes. Strangely, he was still holding the pistol in his hand.

As the door of the aeroplane opened and the steps were lowered, he could hear an armada of sirens approaching.

Wallander waited.

Then Harderberg emerged from the plane and walked down the steps on to the runway. It seemed to Wallander that he looked different. He saw what it was. The smile had disappeared.

Hoglund jumped out of the first of the police cars to reach the aircraft steps. Wallander was busy wiping the blood out of his eyes with his torn shirt.

"Have you been hit?" she said.

Wallander shook his head. He had bitten his tongue, and found it hard to speak.

"You'd better phone Bjork," she said.

Wallander stared at her. "No," he said. "You can do that. And deal with Dr Harder berg."

Then he started to walk away. She hurried to catch up.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going home to bed," Wallander said. "I'm a bit on the tired side. And rather sad. Even if it turned out alright in the end."

Something in his voice discouraged her from saying more.

Wallander continued to walk away. For some reason, nobody tried to stop him.

Chapter 18

On the morning of Thursday, December 23, Wallander went rather reluctantly to Osterportstorg in Ystad and bought a Christmas tree. It was distinctly misty - there was not going to be a white Christmas in Skane in 1993. He spent a considerable time examining the trees, not at all sure what he really wanted, but in the end he picked one just about small enough to put on his table. He took it home and then spent ages searching in vain for a stand he distinctly remembered having: probably it disappeared when he and Mona had divided up their possessions after the divorce. He made a list of the things he needed to buy for Christmas. It was obvious that for the last few years he had been living in a state of increasing squalor. Every cupboard was bare. The list he made filled a whole page of A4. When he turned over to continue on the next page, he found there was something written there already. Sten Torstensson.

He recalled that this was the very first note he had made in the case, that morning at the beginning of November, almost two months ago, when he had decided to go back to work. He remembered sitting at this table and being intrigued by the death notices in Ystad Allehanda. Now, everything had changed. That November morning seemed an age away.

Alfred Harderberg and his two shadows had been arrested. Once the Christmas holiday was over Wallander would get down to the investigation that seemed likely to keep on going for a very long time.

He wondered what would happen to Farnholm Castle.

He also thought he ought to phone Widen and find out how Sofia was faring, after all she had been through.

He stood up, went to the bathroom and examined himself in the mirror. His face looked thinner. But he had also aged. No-one could now avoid seeing that he was approaching 50. He opened his mouth wide and peered gloomily at his teeth. Despondent or annoyed, he couldn't make up his mind which, he decided he would have to make an appointment with the dentist in the new year. Then he returned to his list in the kitchen, crossed out the name Sten Torstensson, and noted that he would have to buy a new toothbrush.

It took him three hours, in the pouring rain, to buy all the things on his list. He had to resort to hole-in-the-wall machines twice to draw out more money, and he was outraged that everything was so expensive. He slunk home shortly before 1 p.m. with all his carrier bags, and sat down at the kitchen table to check his list. Needless to say, he had forgotten something: a stand for his Christmas tree.

The phone rang. He was supposed to be on holiday over Christmas, so he did not expect it to be from the police station. But when he picked up the receiver, it was Ann-Britt Hoglund's voice he heard.

"I know you're on holiday," she said. "I wouldn't have phoned if it wasn't important."

"When I joined the force many years ago, one of the first things I learned was that a police officer is never on holiday," he said. "What do they have to say about that at Police Training College nowadays?"

"Professor Persson did talk about it once," she said. "But to tell you the truth, I haven't a clue what he said."

"What do you want?"

"I'm ringing from Svedberg's office. Mrs Duner is in my room at the moment. She's very keen to talk to you."

"What about?"

"She won't say. She won't talk to anybody but you."

Wallander did not hesitate.

"Tell her I'll be there," he said. "She can wait in my office."

"Apart from that, there's nothing much happening here at the moment," Ann-Britt Hoglund said. "There's only Martinsson and me here. The traffic boys are getting ready for Christmas. The population of Skane is going to spend Christmas blowing into balloons."

"Good," he said. "There's too much of being drunk in charge. We have to stamp it out."

"You sometimes sound like Bjork," she said, laughing.

"I hope not," he said, horrified.

"Can you tell me any kind of crime for which the figures are improving?" she said.

He thought for a moment. "The theft of black-and-white televisions," he said. "But that's about all."

He hung up, wondering what Mrs Duner would have to say. He really could not imagine what it might be.

It was 1.15 when Wallander arrived at the police station. The Christmas tree was glittering away in reception, and he remembered that he hadn't yet bought the usual bunch of flowers for Ebba. On his way to his office he called in at the canteen and wished everybody a merry Christmas. He knocked on Ann-Britt Hoglund's door, but there was no reply.

Mrs Duner was sitting on his visitor's chair, waiting for him. The left arm looked as if it would fall off the chair at any moment. She stood up when he came in, they shook hands and he hung up his jacket before sitting down. Wallander thought she looked tired.

"You wanted to speak to me," he said, trying to sound friendly.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," she said. "It's easy to forget that the police have so much to do."

"I have time for you," Wallander said. "What is it you want?"

She took a parcel out of the plastic carrier bag at the side of her chair, and handed it to him over his desk.

"It's a present," she said. "You can open it now, or wait until tomorrow."

"Why on earth would you want to give me a Christmas present?" Wallander asked in surprise.

"Because I now know what happened to my gentlemen," she said. "It's thanks to you that the perpetrators were caught."

Wallander shook his head and stretched out his arms in protest. "That's not true," he said. "It was teamwork, with lots of people involved. You shouldn't just thank me.

Her reply surprised him. "This is no time for false modesty," she said. "Everybody knows that you're the one we have to thank."

Wallander did not know what to say, and began to open the parcel. It contained one of the icons he had found in Gustaf Torstensson's basement.

"I can't possibly accept this," he said. "Unless I'm much mistaken, it's from Mr Torstensson's collection."

"Not any more it isn't," Mrs Duner replied. "He left them all to me in his will. And I'm only too happy to pass one of them on to you."

"It must be very valuable," Wallander said. "I'm a police officer, and I can't accept such gifts. At the very least I'd have to talk to my boss first."

She surprised him yet again. "I've already done that. He said it was OK."

"You've spoken to Bjork already?" Wallander said, astonished.

"I thought I'd better," she said.

Wallander looked at the icon. It reminded him of Riga, of Latvia. And most especially of Baiba Liepa.

"It's not as valuable as you might think," she said. "But it's beautiful."

"Yes. It's very beautiful. But I don't deserve it."

"That's not the only reason I'm here," Mrs Duner said.

Wallander looked at her, waiting for what was coming next.

"I have a question for you," she said. "Is there no limit to human wickedness?"

"I'm hardly the right person to answer a question like that," Wallander said.

"But who can, if the police can't?"

Wallander carefully laid the icon on his desk.

"I take it you're wondering how anybody can kill another human being to get a body part to sell for profit," he said. "I don't know what to say. It's as incomprehensible to me as it is to you."

"What's the world coming to?" she said. "Alfred Harderberg was a man we could all look up to. How can anybody donate money to charity with one hand and kill people with the other?"

"We just have to fight it as best we can," Wallander said.

"How can we fight something we can't understand?"

"I really don't know," Wallander said. "But we have to do our best."

The brief conversation died out. Martinsson's cheerful laughter echoed down the corridor.

She rose to her feet. "I won't disturb you any longer," she said.

"I'm sorry I couldn't give you a better answer," he said, opening the door.

"At least you were honest," she said.

It occurred to Wallander that he had something to give her. He went to his desk and took the postcard with a picture of a Finnish landscape from one of the drawers.

"I promised to give you this back," he said. "We don't need it any longer."

"I'd forgotten all about it," she said, putting it into her handbag.

He escorted her out of the police station.

"May I wish you a merry Christmas," she said.

"Thank you," Wallander said. "And the same to you. I'll take good care of the icon."

He went back to his office. Her visit had made him uneasy. He had been reminded of the melancholy he had had to live with for so long. But he thrust it to one side, took his jacket and left the building. He was on holiday. Not just from his job, but from any thought that might depress him.

I may not deserve the icon, he thought, but I do deserve a few days off.

He drove home through the fog and parked.

Then he cleaned his flat. Before going to bed he improvised something to stand the Christmas tree in, and decorated it. He had hung the icon up in his bedroom. He studied it before putting the light out.

He wondered if it would be able to protect him.

The next day was Christmas Eve, the big day in Sweden. It was still foggy and grey outside. But Wallander felt that today he could rise above all the greyness.

He drove to Sturup airport at 2 p.m., despite the fact that the plane was not due until 3.30. He felt most uncomfortable as he parked his car and approached the yellow airport building. He had the feeling everybody was looking at him.

Nevertheless, he couldn't resist walking over to the gates to the right of the terminal.

The Gulfstream was no longer there. There was no sign of it.

It's all over, he thought. I'm putting a full stop behind it, here and now.

His relief was immediate.

The image of the smiling man faded away.

He went into the departure lounge, then out again, feeling more nervous than he could remember at any time since he was a teenager. He counted the paving stones in the entrance, rehearsed his inadequate English, and tried in vain to think about anything but what was about to happen.

When the plane landed he was still standing outside the terminal. Then he hurried inside and positioned himself next to the newspaper stand, waiting.

She was one of the last to emerge.

But there she was. Baiba Liepa.

She was exactly as he remembered her.

Also available

HENNING MANKELL

Before The Frost

A Linda Wallander Mystery

'Mankell is by far the best writer of police mysteries today'

Michael Ondaatje

In woodland outside Ystad, the police make a horrific discovery: a severed head, and hands locked together in an attitude of prayer. A Bible lies at the victim's side, the pages marked with scribbled annotations. A string of macabre incidents, including attacks on domestic animals, have been taking place, and Inspector Wallander fears that these disturbances could be the prelude to attacks on humans on an even more alarming scale.

Linda Wallander, in preparation to join the police force, arrives at Ystad. Exhibiting some of the hallmarks of her father - the maverick approach, the flaring temper - she becomes entangled in a case involving a group of religious extremists who are bent on punishing the world's sinners.

Following on from the enormous success of the Kurt Wallander

mysteries, Henning Mankell has begun an outstanding new chapter in crime writing.

'Mankell is one of the most ingenious crime writers around.

Highly recommended'

Observer