The Man Who Smiled

Chapter 11

That conversation with Nyberg in the middle of the night was crucial. It seemed to Wallander that yet again he had confirmation of the fact that criminal investigations achieve a breakthrough when it is least expected. Many of Wallander’s colleagues thought this proved that even police officers needed a little luck now and again to find their way out of a cul-de-sac. Wallander said nothing, but he thought that what it really proved was that Rydberg was right to maintain that a good police officer must always listen to what his intuition tells him—without discarding his critical faculties, of course. He had known—without knowing why he knew—that the plastic container in Torstensson’s wrecked car was important. And although he was exhausted, he also knew that he could not wait until the next day to have his suspicions confirmed. That’s why he had phoned Nyberg, who had just walked into his office. He had anticipated an angry outburst from his temperamental colleague, but none was forthcoming. Nyberg had simply sat down in the visitor’s chair, and Wallander noted to his surprise that he was wearing pajamas under his overcoat. He had rubber boots on as well.

“You must have gone straight to bed,” Wallander said. “If I’d known that I wouldn’t have phoned.”

“Are you telling me you’ve called me out for nothing?”

Wallander shook his head. “It’s the plastic container,” he said. “Tell me more about it.”

“I don’t have more to say than I haven’t said already,” Nyberg said.

Wallander sat down at his desk and looked hard at Nyberg. He knew that Nyberg was not only a good forensic officer, but that he had imagination too, and was blessed with an exceptional memory.

“You said you’d seen a similar container before,” he said.

“Not a similar one,” Nyberg said. “An identical one.”

“That means it must be special,” Wallander said. “Can you describe it for me?”

“Wouldn’t it be better if I went and got it?”

“Let’s go and look at it together,” Wallander said, getting up.

The police station was deserted as they walked down the hallway. A radio could be heard in the distance. Nyberg unlocked the room where the police kept objects material to ongoing investigations. The container was on a shelf. Nyberg took it down and handed it to Wallander. It was rectangular, and reminded Wallander of a cooler. He put it on a table and tried to open the lid.

“It’s screwed shut,” Nyberg said. “Notice also that it’s perfectly airtight. There’s a window on this side. I don’t know what it’s for, but I suspect there’s probably a thermometer mounted on the inside.”

“You saw a similar one at the hospital in Lund,” Wallander said, scrutinizing the container. “Can you remember where? Which ward?”

“It was moving around,” Nyberg said. “It was in a corridor outside the operating rooms. A nurse came with it. I seem to remember she was in a hurry.”

“Anything else?”

“No, nothing.”

“It reminds me of a cooler,” Wallander said.

“I think that’s what it is,” Nyberg said. “For blood, possibly.”

“I need you to find out,” Wallander said. “I also want to know what that container was doing in Torstensson’s car the night he died.”

When they were back in Wallander’s office, he remembered something Nyberg had said earlier in the evening.

“You said you thought it was made in France.”

“It said ‘Made in France’ on the handle.”

“I didn’t notice that.”

“The text on the one I saw in Lund was more obvious,” Nyberg said. “I think we can excuse you.”

“I may be wrong,” Wallander said, “but I think the fact that this container was in Torstensson’s car is remarkable. What was it doing there? Are you sure it was unused?”

“When I unscrewed the lid I could see that it was the first time it had been opened since it left the factory. Do you want me to explain how I knew?”

“It’s enough to know that you’re sure,” Wallander said. “I wouldn’t understand anyway.”

“I can see you believe this container is important,” Nyberg said, “but it’s not unusual to find unexpected items in car crashes.”

“In this case we can’t overlook a single detail,” Wallander said.

“But we’ve never done that.”

Wallander stood up. “Thank you for coming back,” he said. “I’d like to know what the plastic container was used for sometime tomorrow.”

They said good night outside the station. Wallander drove home and had a couple of sandwiches before going to bed. He couldn’t sleep, and after tossing and turning for some time he got up again and went into the kitchen. He sat at the table without switching on the light. He felt uneasy and impatient. This investigation had too many loose ends. Even though they had decided on a way forward, he was still not convinced it was the right way. Had they overlooked something vital? He thought back to the day when Sten Torstensson came to see him on the Jutland coast. He could recall their conversation word for word. Even so, he wondered if he had missed the real message, whether there had been some other significance behind Sten’s words.

It was past 4:00 by the time he went back to bed. The wind had picked up outside, and the temperature had plummeted. He shivered when he slid between the sheets. He did not think he had gotten anywhere. Nor had he succeeded in convincing himself that he would have to be patient. What he demanded of his colleagues was something he could not manage himself on this occasion.

When Wallander arrived at the station just before 8 a.m. there was a gale blowing. They told him in reception there were forecasts of hurricane-strength gusts before lunch. As he walked to his office he wondered if his father’s house in Löderup would survive the winds. His conscience had been nagging him for some time over his failure to have the roof repaired, and there was a real risk that one violent storm would blow it right off. He sat at his desk thinking that he had better call his father—he hadn’t spoken to him since the fight at the liquor store. He was about to pick up the receiver when the phone rang.

“There’s a call for you,” Ebba said. “And have you noticed how strong the wind is?”

“I can console you with the news that it’s going to get worse,” Wallander said. “Who is it?”

“Farnholm Castle.”

Wallander stretched out in his chair.

“Put them on,” he said.

“It’s a lady with a remarkable name,” Ebba said. “She introduced herself as Jenny Lind.”

“It sounds normal enough to me.”

“I didn’t say it was abnormal, I said it was remarkable. You must have heard of the Swedish Nightingale, the great singer Jenny Lind?”

“Put her through,” Wallander said.

The voice he heard was that of a young woman. Another one of those secretaries, Wallander thought.

“Inspector Wallander?”

“Speaking.”

“You were here the other day and expressed a wish to have an audience with Dr. Harderberg.”

“I don’t have audiences,” Wallander said in irritation. “I need to speak to him in connection with a murder investigation.”

“I do realize that. We have received a telex this morning informing us that Dr. Harderberg will be back home this afternoon and will be able to receive you tomorrow.”

“Where did the telex come from?”

“Does that matter?”

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” Wallander lied.

“Dr. Harderberg is at the moment in Barcelona.”

“I don’t want to wait until tomorrow,” Wallander said. “I need to talk to him as soon as possible. If he gets back to Sweden this afternoon he should be able to see me this evening.”

“He has nothing in his diary for this evening,” Lind said. “But I shall need to contact him in Barcelona before I can give you an answer.”

“Do that if you wish,” Wallander said. “Tell him he’ll be receiving a visit from the Ystad police at seven p.m.”

“I’m afraid I can’t agree to that. Dr. Harderberg always decides on the time of visits himself.”

“Not in this case,” Wallander said. “We’ll be there at seven.”

“There will be someone else with you?”

“Yes.”

“Could I ask for that person’s name?”

“You may ask, but you won’t get it. There will be another police officer from Ystad.”

“I’ll contact Dr. Harderberg,” Lind said. “You should be aware that he sometimes changes his plans at very short notice. He could be forced to go somewhere else before coming home.”

“I can’t allow that,” Wallander said, fearing that he was far exceeding his authority in saying so.

“I must say you surprise me,” Lind said. “Can a police officer really decide what Dr. Harderberg does or doesn’t do?”

Wallander continued to exceed his authority. “I only have to speak to a prosecutor—he can issue demands,” Wallander said.

He realized his mistake even as he spoke. They had decided to tread carefully. Harderberg would be asked some questions, but as important as his answers was convincing him that their interest in him was purely routine. He tried to tone down what he had said.

“Dr. Harderberg is suspected of nothing illegal, let me make that clear,” he said. “It’s just that we need to speak to him at the earliest possible moment, for reasons to do with our investigation. No doubt a prominent citizen like Dr. Harderberg will be anxious to help the police solve a serious crime.”

“I’ll contact him,” Lind repeated.

“Thank you for calling,” Wallander said and replaced the receiver.

A thought had struck him. With Ebba’s help he tracked down Martinsson and asked him to come to his office.

“Harderberg has been in touch,” he said. “He’s in Barcelona, but on his way home. I thought of taking Ann-Britt with me and going to see him this evening.”

“She’s at home. Her kid’s not well,” Martinsson said. “She just phoned.”

“You can come instead, in that case,” Wallander said.

“That’s fine by me,” Martinsson said. “I want to see that aquarium with gold dust for sand.”

“There’s another matter,” Wallander said. “What do you know about airplanes?”

“Not a lot.”

“I had a thought,” Wallander said. “Harderberg has a private jet. A Gulfstream, whatever that is. It must be registered somewhere. There must be flight logs showing when he’s out on his travels, and where he goes to.”

“If nothing else he must have a few pilots,” Martinsson said. “I’ll look into it.”

“Give that job to somebody else,” Wallander said. “You’ve got more important things to do.”

“Ann-Britt can do it from her phone at home,” Martinsson said. “I think she’ll be pleased to be doing something useful.”

“She could develop into a good police officer.”

“Let’s hope so,” Martinsson said. “But to tell you the truth, we have no way of knowing. All we know is that she did well at the academy.”

“You’re right,” Wallander said. “It’s awfully hard to imitate reality at school.”

After Martinsson had left, Wallander sat down to prepare for the meeting at 9:00. When he had woken up that morning, all the thoughts he had had during the night about the loose ends of the investigation were still in the forefront of his mind. He had decided they would have to write off anything they judged to be of no immediate relevance to the investigation. If eventually they concluded that the route they had decided on was a cul-de-sac, they could always go back to the loose ends. But only then could the loose ends be allowed to occupy their attention.

Wallander pushed aside all the papers piled up on his desk and put an empty sheet in front of him. Many years ago Rydberg had taught him a way of approaching an investigation in a new light. We have to keep moving from one lookout tower to another, Rydberg had said. If we don’t, our overviews become meaningless. No matter how complicated an investigation is, it has to be possible to describe it to a child. We have to see things simply, but without simplifying.

Wallander wrote: “Once upon a time there was an old lawyer who paid a visit to a rich man in his castle. On the way back home somebody killed him and tried to make us believe it had been a car accident. Soon afterward his son was shot dead in his office. He had begun to suspect it hadn’t been a car accident after all, and so he went to see me to ask for help. He had made a secret trip to Denmark although his secretary was told he had gone to Finland. She also received a postcard from there. A few days later somebody planted a mine in the garden of the secretary. A wide-awake officer from Ystad noticed that I was being followed by a car as we drove to Helsingborg. The lawyers had received threatening letters from an accountant working for a county council. The accountant later committed suicide by hanging himself in a tree near Malmö, although the probability is that he, too, was murdered. Just as with the car accident, the suicide was contrived. All these incidents are linked, but there is no obvious thread. Nothing has been stolen and there is no sign of passions such as hatred or jealousy running high. All that was left behind was a strange plastic container. And now we start all over again. Once upon a time there was an old lawyer who paid a visit to a rich man in his castle.”

Wallander put down his pen.

Alfred Harderberg, he thought. A modern-day Silk Knight. Lurking in the background, everybody’s background. Flying all over the world and doing his business deals that are so difficult to penetrate, as if it were all a kind of ritual for which only the initiated know the rules.

He read through what he had written. The words were transparent, but there was nothing in them to put the investigation in a new light. Least of all was there anything to suggest that Harderberg might be involved.

This must be something very big, Wallander thought. If my suspicions are right and he really is behind all this, then Gustaf Torstensson—and Borman too—must have discovered something that threatened his whole empire. Presumably Sten did not know what it was or he would have told me. But he came to visit me and he suspected he was being watched, and that turned out to be true. They could not take the risk of him passing on what he knew. Nor could they risk Mrs. Dunér knowing anything.

This must be something very big, he thought again. Something so big that might nevertheless fit into a plastic container that reminds you of a cooler.

Wallander went to get another cup of coffee. Then he phoned his father.

“It’s blowing a gale,” Wallander said. “There’s a risk your roof might get blown off.”

“I’m looking forward to that,” his father said.

“Looking forward to what?”

“Seeing my roof flying off over the fields like a bird. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“I should have had it repaired years ago,” Wallander said, “but I’ll make sure it’s done before winter sets in.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” his father said. “It would mean you’d have to come here.”

“I’ll make time. Have you thought about what happened in Simrishamn?”

“What is there to think about?” his father said. “I just did what was right.”

“You can’t just attack people at the drop of a hat,” Wallander said.

“I’m not going to pay any fines,” his father said. “I’m not going to prison either.”

“There’s no question of that,” Wallander said. “I’ll phone you tonight to find out what’s happened to the roof. There might be hurricane-strength gusts.”

“Maybe I ought to climb up on the chimney.”

“What on earth for?”

“So that I can go flying myself.”

“You’ll kill yourself. Isn’t Gertrud there?”

“I’ll take her with me,” said his father, and put the receiver down.

Wallander was left sitting there with the telephone in his hand. Björk came in at that very moment.

“I can wait if you’re going to make a call,” Björk said.

Wallander put the receiver down.

“I heard from Martinsson that Dr. Harderberg has shown signs of life,” Björk said.

“Was that a question?” he said. “If so, I can confirm that what Martinsson says is correct. Except that it wasn’t Harderberg who phoned. He’s in Barcelona and is expected back later today. I asked for a meeting this evening.”

Wallander could see Björk was irritated.

“Martinsson said that he would be going with you,” Björk said. “I wonder if that’s appropriate.”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Wallander said, surprised.

“I don’t mean that Martinsson isn’t suitable,” Björk said. “I just thought perhaps I should go.”

“Why?”

“Well, after all, Harderberg isn’t just anybody.”

“You’re not as familiar with the case as Martinsson is. We’re not going on a social call.”

“If I went with you it might have a calming effect on the whole thing. We agreed we should be careful—Dr. Harderberg mustn’t be upset.”

Although Wallander was annoyed that Björk wanted to go with him to make sure he did not behave in a way that Björk considered inappropriate, anything that might damage the force’s reputation, nevertheless Björk had a point: they did not want Harderberg worrying about the interest the police were showing in him.

“I take your point,” Wallander said, “but it could also have the opposite effect. It could raise eyebrows if the chief of police is there for what’s supposed to be a routine inquiry.”

“I merely wanted to suggest the idea to you,” Björk said.

“It’ll be best if Martinsson goes,” Wallander said, getting to his feet. “I think our meeting is due to start.”

On the way to the conference room Wallander told himself that one of these days he really would have to learn to be honest. He should have told Björk the truth, that he did not want him to come because he could not abide his subservient attitude toward Harderberg. There was something in Björk’s behavior that was typical of the peasant’s awe of those in power. He had barely thought about it before, even though he knew it to be true of society at large. There was always somebody at the top who dictated the terms, specifically or by implication, that those below had to accept. As a child he remembered seeing workers doffing their caps whenever one of those who decided their fate went by. He thought about how his father used to bow to the Silk Knights. Caps were still being doffed even today, albeit invisible ones.

I, too, have a cap in my hand, Wallander thought. Sometimes I don’t notice it’s there.

They gathered around the conference-room table. Svedberg glumly produced a proposal for a new police uniform that had been sent out to all police stations.

“Do you want to see what we’ll look like in the future?” he said.

“We never wear uniforms,” Wallander said as he sat down.

“Ann-Britt’s not as negative as the rest of us,” Svedberg said. “She thinks it could look pretty nice.”

Björk had sat down and dropped his hands on the table as a signal for the meeting to start.

“Per isn’t here this morning,” he said. “He has to try to make sure those twins who robbed the bank last year are convicted.”

“What twins?” Wallander said.

“Can anybody have failed to be aware that Handelsbanken was robbed by two men who turned out to be twins?”

“I was away last year,” Wallander said. “I haven’t heard a thing about it.”

“We got them in the end,” Martinsson said. “They had gotten themselves a basic university qualification in economics and then needed some capital so that they could put their ideas into practice. They had visions of a floating pleasure palace called Summerland that would travel back and forth along the south coast.”

“Not such a bad idea in fact,” Svedberg said, scratching his head ruminatively.

Wallander looked around the room.

“Alfred Harderberg has phoned,” he said. “I’m going to Farnholm Castle this evening and taking Martinsson with me. There’s a slight possibility that his travel plans may change, but I’ve made it clear that he cannot count on our unlimited patience.”

“Couldn’t that make him suspicious?” Svedberg said.

“I’ve stressed that it’s a routine inquiry,” Wallander said. “He was the one Gustaf Torstensson had been to see the night he died.”

“It’s about time,” Martinsson said. “But we’d better think pretty carefully about what we’re going to say to him.”

“We’ve got all day to do that,” Wallander said.

“Where has he been this time?” Svedberg wanted to know.

“Barcelona.”

“He owns a lot of property in Barcelona,” Svedberg said. “He also has an interest in a holiday village under construction near Marbella. All through a company called Casaco. I’ve seen the share brochures somewhere. I tend to think the whole thing’s run by a bank in Macao. Wherever that is.”

“I don’t know,” Wallander said, “but it’s not important just now.”

“It’s south of Hong Kong,” Martinsson said. “Didn’t anybody take geography in school?”

Wallander poured himself a glass of water and the meeting proceeded on its usual course. They took turns to report on what they had been doing since the last time they had met, each one concentrating on his allocated field. Martinsson passed on some messages he had received from Höglund, the most important of which was that she was going the following day to meet Borman’s children, and also his widow who was over from Spain on a visit. Wallander started by reporting on the plastic container. He soon saw that his colleagues could not understand why that particular detail should be so significant. Perhaps that’s not a bad thing, he thought. It might help me scale down my own expectations.

After half an hour or so the discussion became more general. Everybody agreed with Wallander that loose ends not directly linked with Farnholm Castle should be left dangling for the time being.

“We’re still waiting to hear what the fraud squads in Stockholm and Malmö have to say,” Wallander said as he drew the meeting to a close. “What we can say for now is that Gustaf and Sten Torstensson were killed for reasons we have not yet identified. I incline toward robbery rather than revenge. Obviously we have to be prepared to continue investigating all their clients if the Farnholm lead goes cold, but for the moment we have to concentrate on Harderberg and Borman. Let’s hope Ann-Britt can squeeze something important out of the widow and the children.”

“Do you think she can handle it?” Svedberg said.

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Let’s face it, she’s not very experienced,” Svedberg said. “I was only asking.”

“I have no doubt she will cope in exemplary fashion,” Wallander said. “If there’s nothing else, the meeting is over.”

Wallander went back to his office. He stood for a while looking out of the window, his mind a blank. Then he sat at his desk yet again and went through the material he had on Harderberg and his business empire. He had read most of it before, but he went through it one more time with a fine-tooth comb. There was a lot he did not understand. The most complicated commercial transactions—the way in which a company melted away and became something different, and the complex business of shares and bonds—made him feel that he was entering a world he could not begin to comprehend. Occasionally he broke off to try to get hold of Nyberg, but he had no luck. He skipped lunch and did not leave the station until 3:30. There had been no word from Nyberg, and that was strange. Wallander began to accept that he would not know what that plastic container had been used for until after he had been to Farnholm Castle. He struggled through the gale as far as Stortorget and ordered a kebab. He was thinking all the time about Harderberg.

When he got back to the police station there was a note on his desk saying that someone in the office at Farnholm Castle had phoned and Dr. Harderberg would expect him at 7:30 p.m. He went to look for Martinsson. They needed to prepare themselves, go through the questions they were going to ask, and which ones they would save for the time being. In the hallway he bumped into Svedberg, who was on his way out.

“Martinsson wants you to call him at home,” Svedberg said. “He left some time ago. I don’t know why.”

Wallander went back to his office and dialed Martinsson’s number.

“I’m afraid I can’t make it,” Martinsson said. “My wife’s sick. I haven’t been able to find a babysitter. Can you take Svedberg instead?”

“He just left,” Wallander said. “I have no idea where he’s going.”

“I’m sorry about this,” Martinsson said.

“Don’t worry, of course you have to stay at home,” Wallander said. “I’ll find a solution somehow.”

“You could take Björk,” Martinsson said ironically.

“You’re right, I could,” Wallander said in all seriousness. “I’ll think about it.”

The moment he put down the phone he decided to go to Farnholm Castle by himself. He realized that was what he had really wanted to do all along. My biggest weakness as a police officer, he thought. I always prefer to go alone. Over the years he had begun to question whether it really was a weakness.

In order to concentrate in peace and quiet, he left the police station without further ado, got into his car, and drove out of Ystad. The gale really was gusting up to hurricane strength. The car swayed and rattled. Ragged clouds raced across the sky. He wondered how his father’s roof was faring at Löderup. He felt a sudden need to listen to some opera, drove onto the hard shoulder, and switched on the interior light. But he couldn’t find any of his cassettes—and then it dawned on him that this wasn’t his own car. He continued toward Kristianstad. He tried to think through what he was going to say to Harderberg, but discovered that what he was most looking forward to was the meeting itself. There had not been a single photograph of the man at Farnholm, or in any of the press reports he had read, and Höglund had said that he actively disliked being photographed. On the few occasions he appeared in public his staff ensured that there were no photographers around. An inquiry to Swedish Television revealed that they did not have a single clip of him in their archives.

Wallander thought back to his first visit to the castle. What had struck him then was that very rich people are characterized by silence and remoteness. Now he could add another characteristic: they were invisible. Faceless people in beautiful surroundings.

Just before he got to Tomelilla he ran over a hare that seemed hypnotized by his headlights. He stopped and got out into a wind that almost blew him over. The hare was lying on the verge, its hind legs kicking. Wallander searched for a big enough stone, but by the time he found one the hare was dead. He toed it into the ditch, and returned to his car with an ugly taste in his mouth. The gusts were so strong that they almost ripped the car door out of his grasp.

He drove on to Tomelilla, where he stopped at a café and ordered a sandwich and a cup of coffee. It was 5:45. He took out his notebook and wrote down questions that he could use as a framework for his interview. He felt tense. What concerned him was that this must mean he hoped he was going to come face-to-face with the murderer.

He stayed in the café for nearly an hour, refilling his cup and allowing his thoughts to wander. He found himself thinking about Rydberg. For a moment he had trouble conjuring up his face, and that worried him. If I lose Rydberg, he thought, I lose the only real friend I’ve got. Dead or alive.

He paid and left. A sign outside the café had been toppled by the wind. Cars flashed past but he couldn’t see any people. A real November storm, he thought as he drove off. Winter is blowing open its portals.

He arrived at the castle gates at 7:25. He expected Ström to come out and greet him, but nobody did. The bunker appeared to be deserted. Then the gates glided open without a sound. He drove toward the castle. Powerful spotlights lit up the facade and the grounds. It was like a stage set—an image of reality, not reality itself.

He stopped by the steps and turned off his engine. The castle door opened as he climbed out of the car. When he was halfway up the steps a powerful gust made him stumble and he dropped his notebook. It was carried away by the wind. He shook his head and continued up the steps. A young woman with close-cropped hair was waiting to receive him.

“Was that something important?” she asked.

Wallander recognized her voice. “It was only a notebook,” he said.

“We’ll send somebody out for it,” Jenny Lind said.

Wallander contemplated her heavy earrings and the blue ribbons in her black hair.

“There was nothing in it,” he said.

She let him in and the door closed behind them.

“You said you would have somebody with you,” she said.

“They couldn’t make it.”

Wallander noticed two men hovering in the shadows by the great staircase. He recalled the shadows he had seen on his first visit. He could not make out their faces, and wondered fleetingly if they really were alive, or just two suits of armor.

“Dr. Harderberg will be here in a moment,” the girl said. “You can wait in the library.”

She led him through a door to the left of the hall. Wallander could hear his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. He wondered how the woman in front of him could move so quietly, then he saw to his surprise that she was barefoot.

“Isn’t it cold?” he said, indicating her feet.

“There’s radiant floor heating,” she said impassively, and showed him into the library.

“We’ll look for your notes,” she said, then left him and closed the door behind her.

Wallander found himself in a large, oval-shaped room lined with bookshelves. In the middle was a group of leather chairs and a serving table. The lights were dim and, unlike the entrance hall, the library had oriental rugs on the floor. Wallander stood quite still and listened. He was surprised to hear no sound from the storm raging outside. Then he realized that the room was soundproof. This was where Gustaf Torstensson had spent the last evening of his life, where he had met his employer and several other, unknown, men.

Wallander looked about him. Behind a column he discovered a large aquarium with strangely shaped fish slowly swimming around. He went closer to see if there was gold dust on the bottom: the sand certainly glittered. He continued his tour of the room. I am no doubt being observed, he thought. I can’t see any cameras, but they are there, hidden among the books, and they are sensitive enough to beam adequate pictures despite the dim lighting. There must be hidden tape recorders as well, of course. They expected me to have somebody with me. They would have left us alone together for a while in order to listen in on our conversation.

Wallander did not hear Harderberg come into the room, but at a certain moment he knew he was no longer alone. He turned and saw a man standing beside one of the sumptuous leather chairs.

“Inspector Wallander,” the man said, and smiled. What Wallander would remember afterward was that the smile never seemed to leave the man’s tanned face. He could never forget it.

“Alfred Harderberg,” Wallander said. “I’m very grateful you were able to receive me.”

“We all need to do our part when the police call,” Harderberg said.

The voice was unusually pleasant. They shook hands. Harderberg was wearing an immaculate and no doubt very expensive pinstriped suit. Wallander’s first impression was that everything about him was perfect—his clothes, his way of moving, his way of speaking. And that smile never left his face.

They sat down.

“I’ve arranged for tea,” Harderberg said in a friendly tone. “I hope you take tea, Inspector?”

“Yes, please,” Wallander said. “Especially in weather like this. The walls here at Farnholm must be very thick.”

“You’re referring to the fact that we can’t hear the wind, I suppose,” Harderberg said. “You’re right. The walls are indeed very thick. They were built to offer resistance, both to enemy soldiers and to raging gales.”

“It must have been rather difficult to land today,” Wallander said. “Did you arrive at Everöd or Sturup?”

“I use Sturup,” Harderberg said. “You can go straight out into the international routes from there. But the landing was excellent. I have only the best pilots.”

The African woman Wallander had met on his first visit emerged from the shadows. They sat in silence while she poured tea.

“This is a very special tea,” Harderberg said.

Wallander thought of something he had read that afternoon.

“I expect it’s from one of your own plantations,” he said.

The constant smile made it impossible to tell whether Harderberg was surprised that Wallander knew that he owned tea plantations.

“I see you are well informed, Inspector Wallander,” he said. “It is true that we have a share in Lonrho’s tea plantations in Mozambique.”

“It’s very good,” Wallander said. “It’s hard for me to imagine what is involved in doing business in all four corners of the world. A policeman’s existence is rather different. But then, I suppose you must have found it pretty hard yourself in the early days: from Vimmerby to tea plantations in Africa.”

“They were indeed very long strides,” Harderberg said.

Wallander noted that Harderberg ended the opening exchanges with an invisible full stop. He put down his teacup, feeling rather insecure. The man opposite radiated controlled but apparently unlimited authority.

“I think we can keep this very brief,” Wallander said after a moment’s pause, during which he could not hear the slightest whisper from the storm outside. “The lawyer Gustaf Torstensson, who died in a car accident after visiting your castle, was in fact murdered. The accident was faked in order to conceal the crime. Besides whoever it was who killed him, you were the last person to see him alive.”

“I must admit I find the whole business inconceivable,” Harderberg said. “Who on earth would want to kill poor old Gustaf Torstensson?”

“That’s precisely the question we are asking ourselves,” Wallander said. “And who could be sufficiently cold-blooded to disguise it as a car accident?”

“You must have some idea?”

“Yes, we do, but I’m afraid I can say no more.”

“I understand,” Harderberg said. “You will realize how disturbed we were by what happened. Old Torstensson was a trusted colleague.”

“Things didn’t get any easier when his son, too, was murdered,” Wallander said. “Did you know him?”

“I never met him. But I am aware of what happened, of course.”

Wallander was feeling increasingly insecure. Harderberg seemed unmoved. Normally, Wallander could very quickly surmise whether or not a person was telling the truth, but this man, the man sitting opposite him, was different.

“You have business interests all over the world,” Wallander said. “You preside over a empire with a turnover of billions. If I understand it correctly, yours is close to being listed among the world’s biggest enterprises.”

“We shall overtake Kankaku Securities and Pechiney International next year,” Harderberg said. “And when we do, yes, we’ll be one of the top one thousand companies in the world.”

“I’ve never heard of the companies you referred to.”

“Kankaku is Japanese, and Pechiney is French,” Harderberg said.

“It’s not a world I am at all familiar with,” Wallander said. “It must have been quite unfamiliar to Gustaf Torstensson too. For most of his life he was a simple provincial lawyer. But nevertheless you found a place for him in your organization.”

“I freely admit that I was surprised myself. But when we decided to move our Swedish base to Farnholm Castle, I needed a lawyer with some local know-how. Torstensson was recommended to me.”

“By whom?”

“I’m afraid I can no longer remember that.”

That’s it, Wallander thought. He knows very well who it was, but he prefers not to say. A barely perceptible shift in his impassive features had not escaped Wallander’s notice.

“I gather he dealt exclusively with financial advice,” Wallander said.

“He made sure the transactions we had with the rest of the world were in accordance with Swedish law,” Harderberg said. “He was extremely meticulous. I had great faith in him.”

“That last evening,” Wallander said. “I suppose you were sitting in this very room. What was the meeting about?”

“We had made an offer for some properties in Germany that were owned by Horsham Holdings in Canada. I was due to meet Peter Munk a few days later to try to clinch the deal. We discussed whether there were any formal obstacles in the way. Our proposal was that we should pay partly in cash and partly in shares.”

“Peter Munk? Who is he?”

“The principal shareholder in Horsham Holdings,” Harderberg said. “He’s the one who runs the business.”

“The discussions you had that night were routine?”

“As I remember, yes.”

“I understand that other persons were present,” Wallander said.

“There were two directors from Banca Commerciale Italiana,” Harderberg said. “We had intended to pay for the German properties with some of our holdings in Montedison. The transaction was to be handled by the Italian bank.”

“I’d be grateful for the names of those persons,” Wallander said. “In case it arises that we need to speak to them as well.”

“Of course.”

“Gustaf Torstensson left Farnholm Castle immediately after the meeting, I take it,” Wallander said. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about him that night?”

“Nothing at all.”

“And you have no idea why he was murdered?”

“I find it totally incomprehensible. An old man who led a solitary life. Who would want to kill him?”

“That’s just it,” Wallander said. “Who would want to kill him? And who would want to shoot his son as well, a couple of weeks later?”

“I thought you indicated that the police had a lead?”

“We do have a lead,” Wallander said, “but we don’t have a motive.”

“I wish I could help you,” Harderberg said. “If nothing else I’d like the police to keep me informed about developments in the case.”

“It’s very possible that I may need to come back to you with some more questions,” Wallander said, getting to his feet.

“I’ll answer them as best I can,” Harderberg said.

They shook hands again. Wallander tried to look beyond the smile, beyond those ice-blue eyes. But somewhere along the line he came up against an invisible wall.

“Did you buy those buildings?” Wallander asked.

“Which buildings?”

“In Germany.”

The smile became even broader.

“Of course. It was a very good deal. For us.”

They took leave of each other at the door. Miss Lind was standing there in her bare feet, waiting to escort him out.

“We’ve found your notebook,” she said as they walked through the big entrance hall, and she handed him an envelope.

Wallander noticed that the shadows were no longer there. “This has the names of the two Italian bank directors,” Wallander said.

She smiled.

Everybody smiles, Wallander thought. Does that include the men in the shadows?

Jenny Lind closed the door behind him. The gates opened silently, and Wallander felt relieved once he had passed through them. The gale hit him the moment he emerged from the castle grounds.

This is where Gustaf Torstensson drove that night, he thought. At more or less the same time. He felt scared. He looked over his shoulder to make sure there was nobody in the backseat. But he was alone. A cold draft was forcing its way through the windows.

He thought about Dr. Harderberg, the man who smiled. He’s the one, Wallander thought, the one who knows exactly what happened.