The Man Who Smiled

Chapter 16

Rain clouds scudded across the sky.

Wallander was nervous. Leaving the police station he had headed east, turned right down Jaktpaviljongsvägen, and stopped when he came to the youth hostel. Despite the cold and the wind he walked down to the deserted beach. He felt as if he had been transported back a few months in time. The beach was Jutland and Skagen, and he was once more on patrol, pacing up and down his territory.

But that feeling passed just as quickly as it had come. He had no time for unnecessary daydreams. He tried to figure out why Ström had made contact with him. His restlessness was due to the hope that Ström might be able to give him something that would lead to the breakthrough they so badly needed. But he knew that was wishful thinking. Ström not only hated him personally, he had no time at all for the force that had cast him out. They could not count on receiving help from Ström. Wallander had no idea what the man wanted.

It started raining. The raging wind sent him retreating to his car. He started the engine and turned up the heat. A woman walked past with her dog, heading for the beach. Wallander recalled the woman he kept seeing on the beach at Skagen. There was still almost half an hour to go before he was due to meet Ström in Svartavägen. He drove slowly back toward town and inspected the summer cottages at Sandskogen. He had no difficulty in identifying the red house Ström had described. He parked and walked into the little garden. The house looked like a magnified doll’s house. It was in a poor state of repair. As there was no car outside, Wallander thought he must have arrived first. But the front door opened and Ström was standing there.

“I didn’t see a car,” Wallander said. “I thought you hadn’t come yet.”

“But I had. You can forget about my car.”

Wallander went in as directed. He was met by a faint smell of apples. The curtains were drawn and the furniture was covered by white sheets.

“A nice house you have here,” Wallander said.

“Who said it was mine?” Ström said, taking off two of the sheets.

“I have no coffee,” he said. “You’ll have to make do without.”

Wallander sat down in one of the chairs. The house felt raw and damp. Ström sat down opposite him. He was wearing a crumpled suit and a long, heavy overcoat.

“You wanted to see me,” Wallander said. “Well, here I am.”

“I thought we could strike a deal, you and me,” Ström said. “Let’s say that I have something you want.”

“I don’t do deals,” Wallander said.

“You’re too quick out of the gate,” Ström said. “If I were you I’d at least listen to what I have to say.”

Wallander conceded the point. He should have waited before rejecting the offer. He gestured to Ström to continue.

“I’ve been away from work for a couple of weeks, burying my mother,” he said. “That gave me a lot of time to think. Not least about why the police were interested in Farnholm Castle. After you’d been to my place I could see of course that you suspected the murder of those two lawyers had something to do with the castle. The problem is simply that I can’t understand why. I mean, the son had never been there. It was the old man who was dealing with Harderberg. The one we thought had died in a car accident.”

He looked at Wallander, as if he were waiting for a reaction.

“Go on,” Wallander said.

“When I came back and started work again, I suppose I’d forgotten all about your visit,” he said. “But then something happened to put it in a new light.”

Ström produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from an overcoat pocket. He offered the pack to Wallander, who shook his head.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life,” Ström said, “it’s that you should keep your friends at arm’s length. But you can let your enemies get as close to you as they can.”

“I take it that’s why I’m here,” Wallander said.

“Could be,” Ström said. “You should know that I don’t like you, Wallander. As far as I’m concerned you represent the worst kind of upright bourgeois values the Swedish police force is stuffed so full of. But you can do deals with your enemies, or people you don’t like. Pretty good deals, even.”

Ström disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a saucer to use as an ashtray. Wallander waited.

“A new light,” Ström said again. “I came back to find out that I was going to be let go after Christmas. I hadn’t expected anything like that to happen. But it was obvious that Harderberg had decided to leave Farnholm.”

It used to be Dr. Harderberg, Wallander noted. Now it’s plain Harderberg, and he has trouble spitting even that out.

“Needless to say I was shattered,” Ström said. “When I accepted the job of security chief, I was assured that it was permanent. Nobody mentioned the possibility of Harderberg leaving the place. The wages were good, and I’d bought a house. Now I was going to be out of work again. I didn’t like it.”

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

“Nobody likes being let go,” Wallander said.

“What would you know about that?”

“Not as much as you do, obviously.”

Ström 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 Ström’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,” Ström said. “A piece of paper.”

“A piece of paper?”

“I have to think about my future,” Ström 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,” Ström said. “On police letterhead. Signed by Björk.”

“That’s won’t work,” 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 were kicked out of the force.”

“You can perfectly well fix a reference, if you want to,” Ström 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 Björk to sign a fake 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. Björk’s signature could be forged.”

“Of course it could,” Ström 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 Ström 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,” Ström said. “And we’re going to figure this out here and now. Before you leave.”

“I’ll go along with that.”

Ström lit another cigarette, then faced up to Wallander.

“Why is Harderberg running away?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s he going?”

“I don’t know that either. Probably overseas.”

“What makes you think that?”

“There have 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 mothball it.”

“When’s he going to move?”

“He could leave tomorrow. Nobody knows. But I think 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?”

Ström 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 Karlén. Who are they?”

Ström 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,” Ström 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 at first it looked like it would turn out badly for him. When Angola kicked the Portuguese out in 1975 they captured about twenty mercenaries who were sent for trial. Fifteen of them were condemned to death. Including Tolpin. Fourteen of them were shot. I have no idea why they spared Tolpin. Presumably because he could be useful to the new regime.”

“How old is he?”

“Young forties. Very fit. Karate expert. An excellent marksman.”

“And the other one?”

“From Belgium. Maurice Obadia. Also a soldier. Younger than Tolpin. Could be thirty-four, maybe thirty-five. 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 skillful, or more dangerous. Harderberg seems to enjoy their company.”

“How do you know that?”

“Sometimes they have shooting practice on the grounds at night. Their targets are quite special.”

“Tell me more.”

“Dummies, big dolls that look 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,” Ström said. “There are some people you’d rather keep at arm’s length.”

“But they must have gun licenses,” Wallander said.

Ström smiled. “Only if they’re residents of Sweden,” he said.

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

“There’s something special about ‘special advisers,’” Ström 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 take 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 another. 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 people.”

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 around wherever you want.”

“That’s a question you’ll never get the answer to,” Ström 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?” Ström 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 seven.”

“I’ll be here at three this afternoon,” Wallander said. “I’ll have something to show you. Then I’ll ask my question.”

Ström stood up and checked through the curtains.

“Is there somebody following you?” Wallander asked.

“You can’t be too careful,” Ström 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 to summon a meeting of the investigation team immediately.

“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. Åkeson and Björk 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 agreed to a deal with Ström, he described their exchanges at the house in Svartavägen. The listlessness that had characterized 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 soccer 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. “Ström can be very useful to us.”

Åkeson 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 savior.”

“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 around.”

Björk was more scathing. “It’s out of the question. We can’t use a disgraced police officer for a snitch. There would be a major scandal if this went wrong and the media got on to it. The national police commissioner would string me up if I gave you the go-ahead.”

“Let him come after me instead,” Wallander said. “Ström is serious. He wants to help. As long as we do nothing illegal, we’re hardly risking scandal.”

“I can see the headlines,” Björk 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 little odd that he didn’t want anything in return for giving us a little help,” he said. “Can we really believe that being upset about losing 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. Åkeson 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 Höglund. “Sten Torstensson was killed by bullets that were probably from a Bernadelli pistol. Nyberg says that’s a rare weapon. I want Ström 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,” Åkeson said. “People carrying guns, no matter what make they are, illegally residing 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.

Åkeson 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, Åkeson would put a stop to any further contact with Ström or at the very least hold things up. So Wallander did not mention everything he intended to do.

While Åkeson continued to think the matter over, Wallander looked across at Nyberg and Höglund. She smiled. Nyberg nodded almost imperceptibly. They understand, Wallander thought. They know what I’m thinking. And they’re with me.

At last Åkeson stopped arguing with himself. “Just this once,” he said. “But this once only. No more future contact with Kurt Ström without first informing me. I’ll want to know what you intend to ask 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 Höglund 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 Åkeson to believe.”

“The plastic container,” Nyberg said. “If Ström 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?” Höglund 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 believe it’s Wallander who thinks too fast,” Nyberg said quietly.

“I need it in a couple of hours,” Wallander said. “I shall be seeing Ström again at three.”

Nyberg left, but Höglund 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 trash bags.

“Don’t forget the fingerprints,” Nyberg said. “Anything at all . . . glasses, cups, newspapers.”

Half an hour later Wallander put the container on the backseat 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 Ström was in the doorway, already in uniform. Wallander carried the black trash bags into the red house.

“What uniform is that?” he said.

“Farnholm’s own uniform. I have no idea who designed it.”

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

Ström 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 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’s 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,” Ström said. “I have to think about my future.”

“It was just a thought.”

“Same time tomorrow,” Ström 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,” Ström said. “If that’s all, you might as well get out of here.”

Wallander ran through the rain to his car. He stopped at Fridolf’s Café for 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 Ström if that should prove 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 Malmö while very drunk and been stopped by some of his colleagues. They had protected him, and it had never been revealed. 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 Norén, 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 favor they had done him?

In his heart of hearts Ström 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.

“Ström 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 doing that for nothing,” Martinsson said.

“Me too,” Wallander said. “But I suppose even somebody like Kurt Ström 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 called Roslund in Malmö and asked him. I said I’d happened to bump into Ström. 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 had 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 a grip on 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 outmaneuver 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 honorable man who was good for Sweden, Björk had voiced 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 took a bath, then went to the pizzeria on Hamngatan. He drank a bottle of wine with his meal, and it was only when he had become a little tipsy that he realized he had not given a thought to Alfred Harderberg or Kurt Ström 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 Ström, 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 Ström 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 auto ads in the morning paper. He still had not heard anything from the insurance company, but Björk had assured him that he could use a police car for as long as he needed to. He left the apartment 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 on Stortorget and walked to the record shop on Stora Östergatan. 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 Ström in Svartavägen.

It was 2:55 when Wallander parked outside the red dollhouse 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 Ström 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 should do. Ström 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 pool. He was about to call Svedberg, but changed his mind and called Höglund instead. Her husband answered. When she came to the phone, Wallander told her that Ström 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 call you back if anything happens.”

He hung up and continued waiting. At 5:30 p.m. he drove back to Svartavägen and shone his flashlight on the door. The corner of the envelope was still sticking out underneath, so Ström had not been home. Wallander had his cell phone with him, and dialed Ström’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 Åkeson.

He had just stopped at a red light on Österleden when his cell phone rang.

“There’s a Sten Widén trying to get in touch with you,” said the operator at the police switchboard. “Do you have his number?”

“Yes, I do,” Wallander said. “I’ll call him now.”

The lights had changed and the driver of a car behind him sounded his horn impatiently. Wallander pulled onto the side of the road, then dialed Widén’s number. One of the stable girls answered.

“Is that Roger Lundin?” she asked.

“Yes,” Wallander said, surprised. “That’s me.”

“I’m supposed to tell you that Sten is on his way to your apartment in Ystad.”

“When did he leave?”

“A quarter of an hour ago.”

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

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

“What happened?” he said, as Widén tried to extricate himself from the tattered seat belt.

“Sofia phoned,” he said. “She sounded hysterical.”

“What about?”

“Do we really have to be out here in the street?” Widén said.

“It’s just that I’m worried,” Wallander said.

“On Sofia’s account?”

“No, Kurt Ström’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 Widén smelled of strong drink. He had better have a serious talk with him about that—one of these days after they had resolved who killed the two lawyers.

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

“Who’s this Ström?” Widén asked again.

“Later,” Wallander said. “You first. Sofia?”

“She phoned about an hour ago,” Widén said, making a face. “I couldn’t understand what she was saying at first. She was off her rocker.”

“Where was she calling from?”

“From her apartment at the stables.”

“Oh, shit!”

“I don’t think she had much choice,” Widén said, scratching his stubble. “If I understood her correctly, 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,” Widén 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.”

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

“So you think he was the one there on the path?” Widén said.

“I’m afraid so.”

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

“The police had goddamn better get 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,” Widén said. “Call me as soon as you’ve got Sofia out of there.”

“No,” Wallander said. “You’re staying here. You’ve been drinking the hard stuff. I’m not going to let you drive. You can sleep here.”

Widén 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.”

Widén 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,” Widén 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 Ström,” Widén 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,” Widén said. “But that’s not why I don’t want anything to happen.”

“That has nothing to do with me,” Wallander said.

“Exactly right. It doesn’t.”

Wallander found a pair of unused sneakers in his closet. Many times he had vowed to start jogging, but had never gotten around to it. He put on a thick sweater and a woollen cap, and was ready to leave.

“Make yourself at home,” he said to Widén, who had openly planted his whiskey bottle on the kitchen table.

“You worry about Sofia, not about me,” Widén said.

Wallander closed the door behind him, then paused on the dark staircase, wondering what to do. If Ström 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 call Björk and organize an emergency team. We’ll bring in every police district in Skåne if we have to.

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

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

He drove to the police station and got his handgun and a flashlight. He went to Svedberg’s deserted office and turned 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 Malmövägen and stopped at Höglund’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 robe.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “I’m going to break into Farnholm Castle.”

“Ström?” 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 figure 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.

“All right, you can come,” he said, “but you’ll wait outside. I could 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 the words 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 dozing cat among the plant pots on a window ledge.

They drove to the police station and got two radios.

“Maybe I should get a gun,” she said.

“No,” Wallander said. “You’ll wait outside the perimeter. And you’d better 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 happened.”

She can see through me, he thought. She knows I don’t have a clue what I’m going to do.

They continued in silence and reached the turnoff to Farnholm Castle at about 9:30. Wallander drove into a parking place reserved for tractors and 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, call Björk and tell him to organize a full emergency team.”

“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 radios.

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

“I was raped,” she said. “That changed my whole life. All I wanted to do after that was 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. Höglund was nowhere to be found 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 of Sweden would be occupied with blond 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 flashlight on it and tried to memorize the key elements. Then he switched off the flashlight, 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.