The Man Who Smiled

Chapter 15

By the time Ove Hanson returned to work in Ystad on the afternoon of November 25, he had been away for more than a month. He had been in Halmstad attending a course on computerized crime-solving arranged by the National Police Board. After Sten Torstensson’s murder he had contacted Björk and asked if he should abandon the course and return to duty in Ystad, but Björk had told him to stay. That was when he first heard Wallander had come back to work. The same evening he had telephoned Martinsson from his hotel to check whether it could really be true. Martinsson had confirmed it, and added that personally he thought that Wallander seemed more energetic than ever.

Even so, Hanson had not been prepared for what was in store for him when he returned and paused outside the office he had been using while Wallander had been away. He tapped on the door and went right in without waiting to be asked, but almost jumped out of his skin at what he saw, and started to leave again immediately. Wallander was standing in the middle of the room holding a chair over his head, and staring at Hanson with a look on his face that could only be described as lunatic. It all happened very quickly and Wallander put the chair down, his expression returning to normal. But the image had burned itself into Hanson’s memory. For a long time afterward Hanson kept it to himself, and he wondered when Wallander would finally break down and go insane.

“I see I’ve come at a bad moment,” Hanson said. “I was just going to say hello and tell you I’m back on duty.”

“Did I scare you?” Wallander asked. “That wasn’t the intention. I’ve just had a phone call that made me furious. It’s a good thing you came in when you did, or I’d have smashed the chair against the wall.”

Then they sat down, Wallander behind his desk and Hanson on the chair he had inadvertently saved from destruction. Hanson was one of the detectives Wallander knew least well, although they’d been working together for many years. They were like chalk and cheese in character and approach, and often got into awkward discussions that turned into screaming arguments. Nevertheless, Wallander respected Hanson’s ability. He could be abrupt and obstinate and difficult to work with, but he was thorough and persistent, and could occasionally surprise his colleagues with cleverly worked-out analyses that could make a breakthrough in a seemingly insoluble case. Wallander had at times missed Hanson over the past month. He had seriously considered asking Björk to call him back, but had never gotten around to doing anything about it.

He knew too that Hanson was probably the colleague who would have had fewest regrets if Wallander had never come back to work. Hanson was ambitious, which was not of itself a bad thing for a police officer, but he had never been able to accept that Wallander had taken over Rydberg’s invisible mantle. Hanson thought he was the one who should have assumed it. But it was not to be, and as a result Hanson had never managed to overcome his antagonism.

From Wallander’s side there were other factors, such as his irritation at Hanson spending so much of his time betting on horses. His desk was always piled high with racing cards and betting systems. Wallander was persuaded that Hanson sometimes spent half his working day trying to figure out how hundreds of horses at courses up and down the country were going to perform at their next outings. And Wallander knew that Hanson couldn’t bear opera.

But now they were facing each other across the desk, and Hanson was back on duty. He would strengthen the team, extend their scope. That was all that mattered.

“So you came back,” Hanson said. “The last I heard you were about to resign.”

“Sten’s murder made me reconsider,” Wallander said.

“And then you found out that his father had been murdered as well,” Hanson said. “We had that down as an accident.”

“It was cleverly disguised,” Wallander said. “My finding that chair leg in the mud was pure luck.”

“Chair leg?” Hanson sounded surprised.

“You’ll have to set aside time to get up to speed on the details of the case,” Wallander said. “You’re going to be crucial, make no mistake about it. Not least after that call I’d just received when you came in.”

“What was it about?” Hanson said.

“It looks as if the man we’re putting all our resources into pinning down intends to move away. That would cause us enormous problems.”

“I’d better start reading.”

“I would have liked to give you a thorough rundown myself,” Wallander said, “but I don’t have the time. Talk to Ann-Britt. She’s good at summarizing what matters and leaving out what doesn’t.”

“Is she really?” Hanson asked.

Wallander stared at him. “Is she what?”

“Good. Is Höglund good?”

Wallander remembered something Martinsson had said when he had first come back to work, to the effect that Hanson thought his position was threatened by Höglund’s arrival on the scene.

“Yes,” Wallander said. “She’s a good police officer already, and she’s going to get even better.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Hanson said, getting to his feet.

“You’ll see,” Wallander said. “Let me put it this way: Ann-Britt Höglund’s here to stay.”

“I think I’d prefer to talk to Martinsson,” Hanson said.

“You do as you wish,” Wallander said.

Hanson was already halfway out of the door when Wallander asked him another question.

“What did you do in Halmstad?”

“Thanks to the National Police Board, I had an opportunity to look into the future,” Hanson said. “When police officers all over the world will be sitting at their computers, tracking down criminals. We’ll be part of a communications network covering the whole world and all the information collected by forces in different countries will be available to everybody by means of cleverly constructed databases.”

“Sounds frightening,” Wallander said. “And boring.”

“But probably also very efficient,” Hanson said. “Of course, I imagine we’ll both be retired by then.”

“Höglund will see it,” Wallander said. “Is there a racecourse in Halmstad, by the way?”

“One night a week,” Hanson said.

“How did you do?”

Hanson shrugged. “Up and down,” he said. “Usual thing. Some horses run as they should. Others don’t.”

Hanson left, closing the door behind him. Wallander thought of the fury that had welled up inside him when he heard that Harderberg was making preparations to move out. He rarely lost his temper completely, and he could not remember the last time he had so lost control that he had started throwing things around.

Now that he was alone again in his office, he tried to think calmly. The apparent fact that Harderberg intended to leave Farnholm Castle did not necessarily mean anything more than that he had decided to do what he had done many times before: move on to new pastures. There was no good reason to think that he was running away. What was there for him to run away from? And where would he run to? At worst it would make the investigation more complicated. Other police districts would have to be involved, depending on where he decided to settle.

It was a possibility that Wallander needed to look into without delay. He phoned Widén. One of the girls answered. She sounded very young.

“Sten’s in the stables,” she said. “The blacksmith’s here.”

“He has a telephone out there,” Wallander said. “Put me through.”

“The stables phone is out of order,” the girl said.

“Then you’ll have to go and get him. Tell him Roger Lundin wants to speak to him.”

It was almost five minutes before he came to the phone.

“What is it now?” he asked. He was obviously annoyed at having been disturbed.

“Sofia didn’t happen to say where Harderberg was going to move to, did she?”

“How the hell would she know?”

“I’m only asking. She didn’t say anything about him intending to leave the country?”

“She only said what I told you. Nothing more.”

“I have to see her. As soon as possible.”

“Leave her alone, she has a job to do.”

“You’ll have to find some excuse. She used to work for you. You have some forms she needs to fill in. You must be able to fix that.”

“I don’t have time. The blacksmith’s here. The vet’s on his way. I have meetings arranged with several owners.”

“This is important. Believe me.”

“I’ll do what I can. I’ll call you back.”

Wallander put down the receiver. It was 3:30 p.m. already. He waited. After a quarter of an hour he went to get a cup of coffee. Five minutes later Svedberg knocked on the door and came in.

“We can forget about the man in Östersund,” he said. “His car with the registration number FHC 803 was stolen when he was in Stockholm a week ago. There are no grounds for not believing him. Besides, he’s a local councilman.”

“Why would a councilman be more trustworthy than anybody else?” Wallander objected. “Where was the car stolen? And when? Make sure we get a copy of his theft report.”

“Is that really important?” Svedberg said.

“It might be,” Wallander said. “And in any case, it won’t take long. Have you spoken to Hanson?”

“Only briefly,” Svedberg said. “He’s with Martinsson at the moment, going through the investigation material.”

“Give him the job, it’s about right as something for him to start with.”

Svedberg left. It was 4:00 and Widén still had not called. Wallander went to the cloakroom after asking reception to make a note of any incoming calls. He found an evening paper in the bathroom and leafed through it, his mind elsewhere. He was back at his desk and had snapped twelve paper clips by the time Widén eventually called.

“I’ve invented a pack of lies,” he said, “but you can meet her in Simrishamn an hour from now. I told her to take a taxi and that you’d pay. There’s a café on the hill leading down to the harbor. Do you know the one I mean?”

Wallander did.

“She hasn’t got much time,” Widén said. “Take some forms with you so that she can pretend to fill them in.”

“Do you think she’s under suspicion?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Thanks for your help anyway.”

“You’ll have to give her money for her taxi back to the castle as well.”

“I’ll leave right away,” Wallander said.

“What happened?” Widén said.

“I’ll tell you when I know,” Wallander said. “I’ll phone.”

Wallander left the police station at exactly 5 p.m. When he got to Simrishamn he parked by the harbor and walked up the hill to the café. As he had hoped, she was not there yet. He crossed the road and continued up the street. He stopped to look in a store window while keeping an eye on the café. Not more than five minutes passed before he saw her coming up the street from the harbor, where she must have left the taxi. She went into the café. Wallander scrutinized the passersby, and when he was as sure as he could be that she was not being followed, he went into the café. He should have taken somebody with him, to keep a lookout. She was sitting at a table in the corner. She watched him approach her table without greeting him.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said.

“So am I,” she said. “What do you want? I have to get back to the castle as quickly as possible. Aren’t you going to pay for the taxi?”

Wallander took out his wallet and gave her a 500-kronor bill. “Is that enough?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I need a thousand,” she said.

“What? It costs a thousand kronor to get to Simrishamn and back?” He gave her another 500-kronor bill, thinking that she was probably conning him. He was annoyed, but there was no time for that.

“What would you like?” he said. “Or have you already ordered?”

“I wouldn’t mind a coffee,” she said. “And a bun.”

Wallander went to the counter and ordered. When he paid he asked for a receipt. He went back to the table with his tray.

Sofia was looking at him with an expression which Wallander recognized as being full of contempt.

“Roger Lundin,” she said. “I don’t know what your real name is, and I don’t care either. But it’s not Roger Lundin. And you’re a policeman.”

Wallander thought he may as well tell her the truth. “You’re right, I’m not Roger Lundin. And I am a police officer. But you don’t need to know my real name.”

“Why not?”

“Because I say so,” Wallander said, making it clear that he would brook no discussion. She noticed his attitude changed toward her, and she regarded him with something that might even be of interest.

“Listen carefully,” Wallander said. “One day I’ll explain to you why all this secrecy stuff is necessary. For now all I will say is that I’m a police officer investigating a vicious murder. Just so you realize this isn’t a game. OK?”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“Right now you’re going to answer some questions,” Wallander said. “And then you can go back to the castle.”

He remembered the forms he had in his pocket. He put them on the table and passed her a pen.

“It could be that somebody’s following you,” he said. “That’s why you’re now going to fill in these forms. Pretend this is what our meeting is about. Write your name at the top.”

“Who’s following me?” she said, looking around the café.

“Look at me,” Wallander snapped. “Don’t look anywhere else. If there is anybody following you we can be very sure he can see you and that you won’t see him.”

“How do you know it’s a man?”

“I don’t.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Drink your coffee, eat your bun, fill in the form, and look at me,” Wallander said. “If you don’t do as I say I’ll make damn sure you never get back to Widén again.”

She seemed to believe him. She did as she was told.

“Why do you think they’re planning to move out of the castle?” he said.

“I was told I’d only be working there for a month, and that would be it. They’re leaving the castle.”

“Who told you that?”

“A man came to the stables.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was sort of black.”

“A black man?”

“No, but he was wearing dark clothes and had black hair.”

“A foreigner?”

“He spoke Swedish.”

“With a foreign accent?”

“Could be.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No.”

“Do you know what he does?”

“No.”

“But he works at the castle?”

“I suppose he must do.”

“What else did he say?”

“I didn’t like him. In fact, he was horrible.”

“In what way?”

“He wandered about the stables, watching me grooming one of the horses. He asked me where I was from.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I’d applied for the job because I couldn’t stay on with Sten.”

“Did he ask anything else?”

“No.”

“Why was he horrible?”

She thought before answering. “He asked questions in a way that made it seem he didn’t want me to notice he was asking anything.”

“Have you met anybody else?”

“Only the woman who took me on.”

“Anita Karlén.”

“I think that was her name, yes.”

“Nobody else?”

“No.”

“Is there nobody else looking after the horses?”

“No, only me. Two horses aren’t much of a problem.”

“Who looked after them before?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did they say why they suddenly needed a new stable girl?”

“The Karlén woman said something about somebody being sick.”

“But you didn’t meet them?”

“No.”

“What else have you seen?”

“What do you mean?”

“You must have seen other people. Cars coming or going.”

“The stables are set apart, out of the way. I can only see one of the gables. The paddock is further away in the other direction. And anyway, I’m not allowed to go to the castle itself.”

“Who told you that?”

“Anita Karlén. I’d be fired on the spot if I broke any rule. And I have to phone and get permission if I want to leave the castle.”

“Where did the taxi pick you up?”

“At the gates.”

“Is there anything else that you think might be of interest to me?”

“How do I know what you’re interested in?”

He sensed that there was something else, but that she wasn’t sure whether to mention it or not. He paused for a moment before going on, cautiously, as if he were feeling his way in the dark.

“Let’s go back a bit,” he said. “To that man who came to see you in the stables. Did he say anything else?”

“No.”

“He didn’t say anything about them leaving Farnholm Castle and moving abroad?”

“No.”

That’s true, Wallander thought. She’s telling the truth. And I don’t need to worry about her remembering wrongly, but there is something else.

“Tell me about the horses,” he said.

“They are two really beautiful riding horses,” she said. “One of them, Aphrodite, is nine years old. She’s light brown. The other, Juno, is seven and black. It’s been a long time since anybody has ridden them, that’s for sure.”

“How would you know that? I know very little about horses.”

“I gathered.”

Wallander smiled at her comment. But he didn’t say anything, just waited for her to continue.

“They got really excited when I came with the saddles,” she said. “You could see they were dying to go for a gallop.”

“And you gave them their heads?”

“Yes.”

“You rode around the estate’s grounds, I suppose?”

“I’d been told which paths I could go on.”

A slight change of tone, barely perceptible, a hint of anxiety made Wallander prick up his ears. He was getting close to what she was wondering whether to mention or not.

“So you rode off.”

“I started with Aphrodite,” she said. “Meanwhile, Juno was careering around the paddock.”

“How long were you out on Aphrodite?”

“Half an hour. The grounds are huge.”

“Then you came back?”

“I let Aphrodite loose and saddled up Juno. Half an hour later I was back.”

Wallander knew at once. It was while she was out with the second horse that something had happened. Her answer came much too quickly, as if she had been steeling herself to get past a frightening obstacle. The only thing to do, he decided, was to come right to the point.

“I’m sure that everything you’re telling me is true,” he said, sounding as friendly as possible.

“I’ve nothing else to say. I have to be going now. If I’m late I’ll get fired.”

“You can leave in a couple of minutes. Just a few more questions. Let’s go back to the stables and that man who came to see you. I don’t think you told me quite everything he said. Is that right? Didn’t he also say that there were certain places you weren’t supposed to go near?”

“It was Miss Karlén who said that.”

“Maybe she did too. But the man in the stables said it in such a way that you were frightened? Am I right?”

She looked away and nodded slowly.

“But when you were out with Juno you took a wrong turn. Or maybe out of curiosity you took another path? It hasn’t escaped my notice that you like to do whatever you want. Is that what happened?”

“I took a wrong turn.” She was now speaking so softly that Wallander had to lean over the table to hear what she was saying.

“I believe you,” he said. “Tell me what happened on that path.”

“Juno suddenly reared up and threw me off. It was only when I was lying there that I saw what had scared him. It looked as if somebody had fallen on the path. I thought it was a dead body. But when I went to look I saw it was a human-sized doll.”

Wallander could see she was still fearful. He recalled what Gustaf Torstensson had said to Mrs. Dunér, about Harderberg having a macabre sense of humour.

“I would have been frightened to death as well,” he said. “But nothing’s going to happen to you. Not if you keep in touch with me.”

“I like the horses,” Sofia said. “But not the rest of it.”

“Stick to the horses,” Wallander said. “And remember which paths you’re not supposed to ride on.”

He could see she felt relieved now that she had told him what had happened.

“Go back now,” he said, gathering up the papers on the table. “I’ll stay here for a while. You’re right, you mustn’t be late.”

She stood up and left. Half a minute later Wallander followed her into the street. He supposed she would have gone down to the harbor to get a taxi from there, but he was there just in time to see her get into a taxi next to the newspaper stall. The car drove away, and he waited to make sure it was not followed. Then he went to his own car and drove back to Ystad, thinking about what she had said. He certainly could not, on her evidence, be sure about Harderberg’s plans.

The pilots, he thought. And the flight plans. We have to be one step ahead of him if he really is going to move abroad.

It was time for another visit to Farnholm Castle. He wanted to talk to Harderberg himself again.

Wallander was at the police station by 7:45. He bumped into Höglund in the hallway. She nodded at him, curtly, and disappeared into her office. Wallander stopped in mid-stride, bewildered. Why had she been so abrupt? He turned back and knocked on her office door. When she responded he opened the door but did not go in.

“It’s customary to say ‘hello’ in this police station,” he said.

She continued poring over a file.

“What’s the matter?”

She looked up at him. “I wouldn’t have thought you needed to ask me that,” she said.

Wallander stepped inside her office. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What have I done?”

“I thought you were different,” she said, “but now I see that you’re the same as all the rest of them.”

“I still don’t get it,” Wallander said. “Would you mind explaining?”

“I’ve nothing else to say. I’d prefer you to leave.”

“Not until I’ve had an explanation.”

Wallander was not sure if she was about to throw a fit or burst into tears.

“I thought we were well on the way to becoming friends,” he said, “not just colleagues.”

“So did I,” she said. “But no longer.”

“Explain!”

“I’ll be honest with you,” she said, “even though that’s the very opposite of what you’ve been with me. I thought you were someone I could trust, but you’re not. It may take me some time to get used to that.”

Wallander flung his arms out wide. “Please explain.”

“Hanson came back today,” she said. “You must know that because he came to my office and told me about a conversation he had just had with you.”

“What did he say?”

“That you were glad he was back.”

“So I am. We need every officer we can get.”

“The more so since you’re disappointed in me.”

Wallander stared at her in bewilderment. “He said that? That I was disappointed in you? He said I’d told him that?”

“I only wish you’d said it to me first.”

“But it’s not true. I said exactly the opposite. I told him you’d already proved yourself to be a good police officer.”

“He sounded very convincing.”

Wallander was furious. “That goddamn Hanson!” he almost shouted. “If you like I’ll call him and tell him to get himself in here this minute. Surely you accept that not a word of what he said is true?”

“Why did he say it then?”

“Because he’s nervous.”

“Of me?”

“Why do you think he’s away taking courses all the time? Because he’s afraid you’ll overtake him. He hates to think that you are going to prove to be a better police officer than he is.”

He could tell that she was beginning to believe him. “It’s true,” he said. “Tomorrow you and I are going to have a little talk with Mr. Hanson. And it’s not going to be a pleasant little talk as far as he’s concerned, I can promise you that.”

She looked up at him. “In that case, I apologize,” she said.

“He’s the one who needs to apologize,” Wallander said. “Not you.”

But the following day, Friday, November 26, the frost white on the trees outside the police station, Höglund asked Wallander not to say anything to Hanson. After sleeping on it, she had decided that she would prefer to speak to him herself, at some stage in the future, when she had had a chance to distance herself from it. Wallander was persuaded that she believed him now, so he raised no objection. Which did not mean that he would forget what Hanson had done. Later in the morning, with everybody seeming to be frozen stiff and out of sorts, apart from Åkeson who was back to health again, Wallander called a meeting. He told the team about his meeting with Sofia in Simrishamn, but it did not seem to improve the mood of his colleagues. On the other hand, Svedberg produced a map of the Farnholm Castle estate. It was very big. Svedberg told them that the extensive grounds had been acquired in the late nineteenth century when the castle belonged to a family with the strikingly unnoble name of Mårtensson. The head of the household had made a fortune building houses in Stockholm and then he had built what some would call a folly. Apparently, he was not only obsessed with grandeur but may even have been close to actual lunacy. When Svedberg had exhausted everything he had discovered about the castle, they continued to cross off their list aspects of the investigation that either had proved to be insignificant or at the least could be put aside for the present, being of little importance. Höglund had finally managed to have a detailed conversation with Kim Sung-Lee, the cleaner at the Torstensson offices. As anticipated, she had nothing of significance to say, and her papers had proved to be in order and her presence in Sweden totally legal. Höglund had also gone ahead and talked to the clerk, Sonia Lundin. Wallander could not help being pleased to note that Hanson was unable to conceal his disapproval of the way she had acted on her own initiative. Unfortunately, Sonia Lundin had nothing helpful to say either. One more possible lead could be crossed off. Eventually, when everybody appeared to be even more out of sorts and inert, and a gray fog seemed to have settled over the conference table, Wallander tried to bring them back to life by urging them to concentrate on the flight plans of Harderberg’s Gulfstream. He also suggested that Hanson should make discreet inquiries about the two pilots. But he failed to blow away the fog, the inertia that had started to worry him, and it now seemed to him that their only hope was that the financial experts with all their computer expertise might be able to breathe new life into the investigation. They had undertaken a thorough investigation into the Harderberg empire, but they had been forced to ask for an extension of the deadline, and the meeting had been postponed until the following Monday, November 29.

Wallander had just decided to declare the meeting closed when Åkeson put his hand up. “We must talk about the state of play in the investigation,” he said. “I have allowed you to concentrate on Alfred Harderberg for another month, but at the same time I can’t ignore the fact that we have only extremely thin evidence to justify it. It’s as if we’re drifting further away from something crucial with every day that passes. I think we’d all benefit from making one more clear and simple summary of how far we’ve gotten, based exclusively on the facts. Nothing else.”

Everybody looked at Wallander. Åkeson’s comments came as no surprise, even if Wallander would have rather not been confronted by them.

“You’re right,” he said. “We need to see where we are. Even without any results from the fraud squads’ analyses.”

“Unraveling a financial empire doesn’t necessarily identify a murderer, let alone several,” Åkeson said.

“I know that,” Wallander said, “but nevertheless, the picture is not complete without their information.”

“There is no complete picture,” Martinsson said glumly. “There’s no picture at all.”

Wallander could see he would need to get a grip on the situation before it slid out of control. To give himself time to gather his thoughts he suggested they should take a short break and clear the room. When they reassembled, he was firm and decisive.

“I can see a possible pattern,” he began, “just as you all can. But let’s approach it from a different angle and begin by taking a look at what this case isn’t. There’s nothing to convince us that we’re dealing with a madman. It’s true, of course, that a clever psychopath could have planned a murder disguised as a car accident, but there are no apparent motives, and what happened to Sten Torstensson doesn’t seem to hang together with what happened to his father, from a psychopathic point of view. Nor do the attempts to blow up Mrs. Dunér and me. I say me rather than Höglund because I think that’s the way it was. Which brings me to the pattern that revolves around Farnholm Castle and Alfred Harderberg. Let’s go back in time. Let’s start with the day about five years ago when Gustaf Torstensson was first approached by Alfred Harderberg.”

At that moment Björk came into the conference room and sat at the table. Wallander suspected that Åkeson had spoken to him during the short pause and asked him to be there for the rest of the meeting.

“Gustaf Torstensson starts working for Harderberg,” Wallander began again. “It’s an unusual arrangement—one wonders how on earth a provincial lawyer can be of use to an international industrial magnate. One might suspect that Harderberg intended to use Torstensson’s shortcomings to his own advantage, expecting that he would be able to manipulate him if necessary. We don’t know that, it’s guesswork on my part. But somewhere along the way something unexpected happens. Torstensson starts to appear uneasy, or maybe I should say he appears to be depressed. His son notices, and so does his secretary. She even talks about him seeming to be afraid. Something else happens at about the same time. Torstensson and Lars Borman have gotten to know each other through a society devoted to the study of icons. Their relationship suddenly becomes strained, and we may assume that this has a connection with Harderberg because he’s somehow in the background of the fraud executed on the Malmöhus County Council. But the key question is: why did old man Torstensson start behaving in unexpected ways?

“I suspect that he discovered something that upset him in the work he was doing for Harderberg. Perhaps it was the same thing that upset Borman. We don’t know what it was. Then Torstensson is killed in a stage-managed accident. Thanks to what Kurt Ström has told us, we can picture roughly what happened. Sten Torstensson comes to see me at Skagen. A few days later, he too is dead. He, no doubt, felt that he was in danger because he tries to set a false trail in Finland when in fact he went to Denmark. I’m convinced that somebody followed him to Denmark. Somebody watched our meeting on the beach. The people who killed Gustaf Torstensson were snapping at the heels of Sten Torstensson. They could not have known whether the father had discussed his discoveries with his son. Nor could they know what Sten said to me. Or what Mrs. Dunér knew. That’s why Sten dies, that’s why they try to kill Mrs. Dunér and why my car is torched. It’s also the reason why I am being watched and not the rest of you. But everything leads us back to the question of what old man Torstensson had discovered. We are trying to establish whether it has anything to do with the plastic container we found on the backseat of his car. It could also be something else that the financial analysts will be able to tell us. Come what may, there is a pattern here that starts with the cold-blooded killing of Gustaf Torstensson. Sten Torstensson sealed his fate when he came to see me in Skagen. In the background of the pattern all we have is Alfred Harderberg and his empire. Nothing else—not that we can see, at least.”

When Wallander had finished, no one had a question.

“You paint a very plausible picture,” Åkeson said when the silence began to feel oppressive. “You could conceivably be totally right. The only problem is that we don’t have a shred of proof, no forensic evidence at all.”

“That’s why we must speed up the work that’s being done on the plastic container,” Wallander said. “We have to take the lid off Avanca and see what’s underneath. There must be a thread we can start to pull somewhere inside there.”

“I wonder if we ought to have a down-to-earth talk with Kurt Ström,” Åkeson said. “Those men hanging around Harderberg all the time—who are they?”

“That thought had occurred to me too,” Wallander said. “Ström might be able to throw some light on matters. But the moment we contact Farnholm Castle and ask to speak to Ström, Harderberg will realize we suspect him of being directly involved. And once that happens, I doubt that we will ever solve these murders. With the resources he has at his disposal he can sweep the ground clean all around him. On the other hand, I think I’ll pay him one more visit to lay our own false trail.”

“You’ll have to be very convincing,” Åkeson said, “or he’ll see through you immediately.” He put his briefcase on the table and began putting away his files. “Kurt has described where we stand. It’s plausible, but it’s vague. However, let’s see what the fraud squads have to say for themselves on Monday.”

The meeting broke up. Wallander felt uneasy. His own words were resounding inside his head. Perhaps Åkeson was right. Wallander’s summary had sounded plausible, but nevertheless would the course they were on end up leaving them unable to prove anything?

Something has to happen, he thought. Something has to happen very soon.

When Wallander looked back on the weeks that followed, he would think of them as among the worst he had ever experienced in all his years as a police officer. Contrary to his expectations, nothing at all happened. The financial experts went through everything over and over again, but all they had to say was that they needed more time. Wallander managed to curb his impatience—or perhaps what really happened was that he managed to suppress his disappointment, because he could see that the fraud squads were working as hard as they could. When Wallander tried to contact Ström again, he found that he had left for Västerås to bury his mother. Rather than chase him there, Wallander elected to wait. He never managed to make contact with the two Gulfstream pilots since they were always away with Harderberg. The only thing the team did achieve during this grim period was to get access to the flight plans of the private jet. Alfred Harderberg had an astonishing itinerary. Svedberg calculated that the fuel bill alone would come to many millions of kronor per year. The financial analysts copied the flight plans and tried to fit them in with Harderberg’s hectic schedule of business deals.

Wallander met Sofia twice, on both occasions at the café in Simrishamn, but she had nothing more to report.

It was December, and it seemed to Wallander that the investigation was close to collapse. Perhaps it had collapsed already.

Nothing of any use to them happened. Nothing at all.

On Saturday, December 4, Höglund invited him for dinner. Her husband was at home, a brief pause between his unending trips around the globe looking for broken water pumps. Wallander had way too much to drink. The investigation was not mentioned once during the evening. It was very late by the time Wallander realized he should go home. He decided to walk. When he got to the post office on Kyrkogårdsgatan, he had to lean against a wall and throw up. When eventually he got home to Mariagatan, he sat with his hand on the telephone, meaning to call Baiba in Riga. But common sense prevailed and he called Linda in Stockholm instead. When she gathered who it was she was annoyed, and told him to call back the next morning. It was only after the brisk exchange was over that Wallander realized that she was probably not alone. That thought worried him, and he felt guilty as a result, but when he telephoned her the next day he did not refer to the matter. She told him about her work as an apprentice at an upholstery factory, and he could hear that she was happy with what she was doing. But he was disappointed that she made no mention of coming to visit him in Skåne for Christmas. She and a few friends had rented a cottage in the Västerbotten mountains. Eventually she asked him what he was up to.

“I’m chasing a Silk Knight,” he said.

“A Silk Knight?”

“One of these days I’ll explain to you what a Silk Knight is.”

“It sounds very attractive.”

“But it isn’t. I’m a police officer. We rarely chase anybody or anything attractive.”

Still nothing happened. On Thursday, December 9, Wallander was well on his way to giving up. The next day he would suggest to Åkeson that they should start looking at some other leads.

But on Friday, December 10, something actually did happen. He did not know it at the time, but the wilderness days were over. When Wallander got to his office, there was a note on his desk asking him to phone Kurt Ström without delay. He hung up his jacket, sat at his desk, and dialed the number. Ström answered immediately.

“I want to see you,” he said.

“Here or at your home?” Wallander asked.

“Neither,” Ström said. “I’ve got a cottage in Svartavägen in Sandskogen. Number 12. Can you be there in an hour?”

“I’ll be there.”

Wallander put down the receiver and looked out of the window. Then he stood up, put on his jacket, and hurried out of the police station.