Wallander's First Case

CHAPTER 2

Afterwards Wallander thought that for once he had really managed to act according to the rule book. He had run back into his apartment and called the fire brigade. Then he had returned to the stairwell, run up a floor, and banged on Linnea Almquist’s door and made sure that she got out onto the street. She had at first protested but Wallander had insisted, grabbing her by the arm. When they made it out the front door Wallander discovered that he had a large cut on one knee. He had tripped over the bowl when he had gone back into the apartment and had hit his knee on a corner of the table. He only discovered now that it was bleeding.

Extinguishing the blaze had gone quickly since the fire had not really had a chance to establish itself before Wallander had smelled the smoke and alerted the fire brigade. When he approached the fire chief to find out if they had already determined the cause of the blaze, he had been turned away. Furious, he had gone to his apartment and retrieved his police badge. The fire chief’s name was Faraker and he was in his sixties, with a ruddy face and a sonorous voice.

‘You could have told me you were police,’ he said.

‘I live in this building. I was the one who called in the alarm.’

Wallander told him what had happened with Halen.

‘Too many people are dying,’ Faraker said firmly. Wallander was not completely sure how to take this unexpected comment.

‘So this means that the apartment was empty,’ Wallander said.

‘It appears to have been started in the entrance hall,’ Faraker said. ‘I’ll be damned if it wasn’t arson.’

Wallander looked quizzically at him.

‘How can you know that already?’

‘You learn a thing or two as the years go by,’ Faraker said at the same time that he handed out some instructions.

‘You will do this too one day,’ he continued and started stuffing an old pipe with tobacco.

‘If this is arson, the crime division will have to be called in, won’t it?’ Wallander said.

‘They’re already on their way.’

Wallander joined some colleagues and helped them keep curious onlookers at bay.

‘The second one today,’ one of the officers said. His name was Wennstrom. ‘This morning we had a pile of burning timber out near Limhamn.’

Wallander wondered briefly if his father had decided to burn the house since he was moving anyway. But he did not pursue this line of thought.

A car pulled up to the kerb. Wallander saw to his surprise that it was Hemberg. He waved Wallander over.

‘I heard the dispatch,’ he said. ‘Lundin was supposed to take it, but I thought I would take over since I recognised the address.’

‘The fire chief thinks it’s arson.’

Hemberg made a face.

‘People believe a hell of a lot of things,’ he said. ‘I’ve known Faraker for almost fifteen years. It doesn’t matter if it’s a burning chimney or car engine. For him everything is a suspected case of arson. Come with me and you may learn something.’

Wallander followed him.

‘What do you say about this?’ Hemberg asked.

‘Arson.’

Faraker sounded extremely sure. Wallander sensed that there was a deep-seated, mutual antipathy between the two men.

‘The man who lives here is dead. Who would have started a fire in there?’

‘That’s your job to find out. I’m just saying it was arson.’

‘Can we go in?’

Faraker shouted out to one of the firemen, who gave an all-clear signal. The fire was out and the worst of the smoke gone. They went in. The part of the entrance hall by the front door was scorched. But the flames had never reached further than the curtain that divided the hall from the main room. Faraker pointed to the letter box in the door.

‘It might have been started here,’ he said. ‘Smouldered first, and then caught fire. There aren’t any electrical wires or anything else that could catch fire on their own.’

Hemberg crouched down next to the door. Then he sniffed.

‘It’s possible that you’re right for once,’ he said and stood back up. ‘It has a smell. Kerosene, maybe.’

‘If it had been petrol, the fire would have been different.’

‘So someone put it through the letter box?’

‘That’s the most likely scenario.’

Faraker poked the remains of the hall mat with his foot.

‘Hardly paper,’ he said. ‘More likely a piece of cloth. Or cotton batting.’

Hemberg shook his head gloomily.

‘Damn people who start fires in the homes of people who are already dead.’

‘Your problem,’ Faraker said. ‘Not mine.’

‘We’ll have to ask forensics to take a look at this.’

For a moment Hemberg appeared concerned. Then he looked at Wallander.

‘Any possibility of getting a cup of coffee?’

They walked into Wallander’s apartment. Hemberg looked at the overturned bowl and the pool of water on the floor.

‘Were you trying to put the fire out yourself?’

‘I was taking a footbath.’

Hemberg regarded him with interest.

‘Footbath?’

‘Sometimes my feet hurt.’

‘Then you must have the wrong kind of shoes,’ Hemberg said. ‘I patrolled for more than ten years but my feet never gave me any trouble.’

Hemberg sat down at the kitchen table while Wallander prepared the coffee.

‘Did you hear anything?’ Hemberg asked. ‘Anyone on the stairs?’

‘No.’

Wallander thought it was embarrassing to admit he was sleeping this time as well.

‘If anyone had been moving around out there, would you have heard them?’

‘You can hear the front door slam,’ Wallander said with deliberate vagueness. ‘I probably would have heard someone come in. If the person didn’t stop the door from slamming.’

Wallander set out a packet of plain vanilla wafers. It was the only thing he had to serve with the coffee.

‘There’s something strange here,’ Hemberg said. ‘Everything points to the fact that it was a perfect suicide. Halen must have had a steady hand. He aimed well. Straight through the heart, no hesitation. The medical examiners aren’t done yet, but we don’t need to look for a cause of death other than suicide. There is none. The question is rather what this person was looking for. And why someone tried to burn down the apartment. It’s probably the same person.’

Hemberg nodded to Wallander, indicating that he wanted more coffee.

‘Do you have an opinion on this?’ Hemberg asked abruptly. ‘Show me now if you can think.’

Wallander was completely unprepared for this.

‘The person who was here last night was looking for something,’ he started. ‘But probably he didn’t find anything.’

‘Because you interrupted him? Because otherwise he would have left already?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was he looking for?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And now tonight someone sets fire to the apartment. Let us assume it is the same person. What does this mean?’

Wallander pondered this.

‘Take your time,’ Hemberg said. ‘If you are to make a good detective you have to learn to think methodically, and it is often the same thing as thinking slowly.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t want anyone else to find what he had been looking for?’

‘Perhaps,’ Hemberg said. ‘Why “perhaps”?’

‘Because there could be another explanation.’

‘Like what, for example?’

Wallander searched frantically for an alternative without finding one.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I can’t find another alternative. At least not right now.’

Hemberg took a wafer.

‘I can’t either,’ he said. ‘Which means that the explanation may still be in the apartment. Without us having been able to find it. If this had all stopped at the nightly visit, this case would have ended as soon as the results of the weapons examination and autopsy were in. But with this fire, we’ll probably have to do another round in there.’

‘Did Halen really not have any relatives?’ Wallander asked.

Hemberg pushed away his cup and got to his feet.

‘Come by my office tomorrow and I’ll show you the report.’

Wallander hesitated.

‘I don’t know when I’ll get time for that. We have to do a sweep of the Malmo parks tomorrow. Drugs.’

‘I’ll talk to your superior officer,’ Hemberg said. ‘We’ll work it out.’

A little after eight the following day, 7 June, Wallander was reading through all of the case material that Hemberg had collected on Halen. It was extremely sparse. He had no fortune but also no debt. He appeared to have lived completely within the means of his pension. The only recorded relative was a sister who had died in 1967 in Katrineholm. The parents had passed away earlier.

Wallander read the report in Hemberg’s office while Hemberg attended a meeting. He returned shortly after half past eight.

‘Have you found anything?’ he asked.

‘How can a person be so alone?’

‘You may ask,’ Hemberg said, ‘but it gives us no answers. Let’s go over to the apartment.’

That morning the forensic technicians were making a thorough examination of Halen’s apartment. The man leading the work was small and thin and said almost nothing. His name was Sjunnesson; he was a legend in Swedish forensics.

‘If there’s anything here, he’ll find it,’ Hemberg said. ‘Stay here and learn from him.’

Hemberg suddenly received a message and left.

‘A man up in Jagersro has hanged himself in a garage,’ he said when he returned.

Then he left again. When he returned, his hair had been trimmed.

At three o’clock Sjunnesson called the work to a halt.

‘There’s nothing here,’ he said. ‘No hidden money, no drugs. It’s clean.’

‘Then there was someone who imagined there was something here,’ Hemberg said. ‘And who was wrong. Now we’ll close this case.’

Wallander followed Hemberg out onto the street.

‘You have to know when it’s time to quit,’ Hemberg said. ‘That may be the most important thing of all.’

Wallander went back to his apartment and called Mona. They agreed to meet later that evening and take a drive. She had borrowed a car from a friend. She would drop by and pick Wallander up at seven.

‘Let’s go to Helsingborg,’ she suggested.

‘Why?’

‘Because I’ve never been there.’

‘Me neither,’ Wallander said. ‘I’ll be ready at seven. And then we’ll go to Helsingborg.’

But Wallander never made it to Helsingborg that evening. Shortly before six o’clock the phone rang. It was Hemberg.

‘Come down here,’ he said. ‘I’m in my office.’

‘Actually I have other plans,’ Wallander said.

Hemberg interrupted him.

‘I thought you were interested in what had happened to your neighbour. Come down here and I’ll show you. It won’t take long.’

Wallander’s curiosity was aroused. He called Mona at home but did not get an answer.

I’ll make it back in time, he thought. I can’t really afford a taxi but that can’t be helped. He tore off a piece of paper from a bag and scribbled that he would be back at seven. Then he called for a cab. This time he was able to get through immediately. He attached the note to the door with a drawing pin and left for the police headquarters. Hemberg was sitting in his office with his feet on the table.

He gestured for Wallander to sit down.

‘We were wrong,’ he said. ‘There was an alternative that we didn’t think of. Sjunnesson didn’t make a mistake. He told the truth: there wasn’t anything in Halen’s apartment. And he was right. But there had been something there.’

Wallander did not know what Hemberg was talking about.

‘I also admit that I was tricked,’ Hemberg said. ‘But Halen had removed what was in the apartment.’

‘But he was dead.’

Hemberg nodded.

‘The medical examiner called,’ he said. ‘The autopsy is complete. And he found something very interesting in Halen’s stomach.’

Hemberg swung his feet off the desk. Then he took out a little folded piece of cloth from one of the drawers and carefully unwrapped it in front of Wallander.

There were stones inside. Precious stones. Of which type, Wallander was unable to determine.

‘I had a jeweller here just before you arrived,’ Hemberg said. ‘He made a preliminary examination. These are diamonds. Probably from South African mines. He said they were worth a minor fortune. Halen had swallowed them.’

‘He had these in his stomach?’

Hemberg nodded.

‘No wonder we didn’t find them.’

‘But why did he swallow them? And when did he do this?’

‘The last question is perhaps the most important. The doctor said that he swallowed them only a few hours before he shot himself. Before his intestines and stomach stopped working. Why do you think that might be?’

‘He was afraid.’

‘Exactly.’

Hemberg pushed the packet of diamonds away and put his feet back up on the table. Wallander caught a whiff of foot odour.

‘Summarise this for me.’

‘I don’t know if I can.’

‘Try it!’

‘Halen swallowed the diamonds because he was afraid that someone was going to steal them. And then he shot himself. The person who was there that night was looking for them. But I can’t explain the blaze.’

‘Can’t you explain it a different way?’ Hemberg suggested. ‘If you tweak Halen’s motive a little. Where does that put you?’

Wallander suddenly realised what Hemberg was getting at.

‘Maybe he wasn’t afraid,’ Wallander said. ‘He had maybe just decided never to be parted from his diamonds.’

Hemberg nodded.

‘You can draw one more conclusion. That someone knew that Halen had these diamonds.’

‘And that Halen knew that someone knew.’

Hemberg nodded, pleased.

‘You’re coming along,’ he said. ‘Even though it’s going very slowly.’

‘But this doesn’t explain the fire.’

‘You still have to ask yourself what is most important,’ Hemberg said. ‘Where is the centre? Where is the very kernel? The fire can be a distraction. Or the act of someone who is angry.’

‘Who?’

Hemberg shrugged.

‘It’ll be hard for us to find that out. Halen is dead. How he has managed to get a hold of these diamonds I don’t know. If I go to the public prosecutor with this he’ll laugh in my face.’

‘What happens to the diamonds?’

‘They go to the General Inheritance Fund. And we can stamp our papers and send in our report about Halen’s death to go as deep in the basement as possible.’

‘Does this mean that the fire won’t be investigated?’

‘Not very thoroughly, I suspect,’ Hemberg said. ‘There is no reason to.’

Hemberg walked over to a cabinet that stood against one wall. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Then he nodded at Wallander to join him. He pointed at some folders with a ribbon around them that were lying to one side.

‘These are my constant companions,’ Hemberg said. ‘Three murder cases that are still neither solved nor old enough to have lapsed. I am not the one who is in charge of them. We review these cases once a year. Or if we receive additional information. These are not originals. They are copies. Sometimes I look at them. On occasion I dream about them. Most policemen aren’t like this. They do their job and when they go home they forget what they are working on. But then there is another type, like me. Who can never let go of an unsolved case. I even take these folders along with me on holiday. Three cases of murder. A nineteen-year-old girl. 1963. Ann-Louise Franzen. She was found strangled behind some bushes by the highway leading north out of town. Leonard Johansson, also 1963. Only seventeen years old. Someone had crushed his skull with a rock. We found him on the beach south of the city.’

‘I remember him,’ Wallander said. ‘Didn’t they suspect that it was a fight over a girl that had spiralled out of control?’

‘There was a fight over a girl,’ Hemberg said. ‘We interviewed the rival for many years. But we didn’t get him. And I don’t even think it was him.’

Hemberg pointed to the file on the bottom.

‘One more girl. Lena Moscho. Twenty years old. 1959. The same year that I came here to Malmo. Her hands had been cut off and buried along a road out to Svedala. It was a dog that found her. She had been raped. She lived with her parents out in Jagersro. An upright sort who was studying to become a physician, of all things. It was in April. She was heading out to buy a newspaper but never returned. It took us five months to find her.’

Hemberg shook his head.

‘You will discover what type you belong to,’ he said and closed the cabinet. ‘The ones who forget or the ones who don’t.’

‘I don’t even know if I measure up,’ Wallander said.

‘You want to, at least,’ Hemberg answered. ‘And that’s a good start.’

Hemberg had started to put on his coat. Wallander checked his watch and saw that it was five minutes to seven.

‘I have to go,’ he said.

‘I can give you a lift home,’ Hemberg said, ‘if you can hold your horses.’

‘I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ Wallander said.

Hemberg shrugged.

‘Now you know,’ he said. ‘Now you know what Halen had in his stomach.’

Wallander was lucky and managed to catch a taxi right outside. When he got to Rosengard it was nine minutes past seven. He hoped that Mona was running late. But when he read the note he had posted on the door he realised that this was not the case.

Is this how it’s going to be? she had written.

Wallander took down the note. The drawing pin fell onto the stairs. He didn’t bother to retrieve it. In the best-case scenario it would get stuck in Linnea Almquist’s shoe.

Is this how it’s going to be? Wallander understood Mona’s impatience. She did not have the same expectations for her professional life as he did. Her dreams about her own salon were not going to come true for a long time.

When he had gone into the apartment and sat down on the sofa he felt guilty. He should spend more time with Mona. Not simply expect her to be patient every time he was late. To try to call her was pointless. Right now she was driving that borrowed car to Helsingborg.

Suddenly there was an anxiety in him that everything was wrong. Had he really thought about what it would mean to live with Mona? To have a child with her?

He pushed the thoughts away. We’ll talk to each other in Skagen, he thought. Then we’ll have time. You can’t be too late on a beach.

He looked at the clock. Half past seven. He turned on the television. As usual a plane had crashed somewhere. Or was it just a train that had run off the rails? He walked into the kitchen and only half listened to the news. Looked in the fridge for a beer, but only found an opened soda. The desire for something stronger was suddenly very intense. The thought of going into town again and sitting in a bar seemed attractive. But he waved it away since he hardly had any money. Even though it was only the beginning of the month.

Instead he warmed the coffee that was in the pot and thought about Hemberg. Hemberg with his unsolved cases in a cupboard. Was he going to be like that? Or would he learn to switch off work when he came home? I’ll have to, for Mona’s sake, he thought. She’ll go crazy otherwise.

The key ring cut into the chair. He took it up and put it on the table without thinking about it. Then something came into his head, something that had to do with Halen.

The extra lock. That he had had installed only a short time ago. How to interpret that? It could be a sign of fear. And why had the door been ajar when Wallander found him?

There was too much that didn’t add up. Even though Hemberg had declared suicide to be the cause of death, doubt gnawed at Wallander.

He was becoming increasingly certain that there was something hidden in Halen’s death, something they had not even come close to. Suicide or not, there was something more.

Wallander located a pad of paper in a kitchen drawer and sat down to write out the points he was still puzzling over. There was the extra lock. The betting form. Why had the door been ajar? Who had been there that night looking for the diamonds? And why the fire?

Then he tried to remind himself what he had seen in the sailor scrapbooks. Rio de Janeiro, he recalled. But was that the name of a ship or the city? He remembered seeing Gothenburg and Bergen. Then he reminded himself that he had seen the name St Luis. Where was that? He stood up and walked around the room. At the very back of the wardrobe he found his old atlas from school. But suddenly he wasn’t sure of the spelling. Was it St Louis or St Luis? The United States or Brazil? As he looked down the list of names in the index he suddenly came to Sao Luis and was immediately sure that this had been the name.

He went through his list again. Do I see anything that I haven’t discovered? he thought. A connection, an explanation, or what Hemberg talked about, a centre?

He found nothing.

The coffee had grown cold. Impatiently he went back to the couch. Now there was one of those public television talk shows on again. This time a number of long-haired people were discussing the new English pop music. He turned it off and put the record player on instead. Immediately Linnea Almquist started to thump on the floor. Mostly he had the desire to turn the volume right up. Instead he turned it off.

At that moment the telephone rang. It was Mona.

‘I’m in Helsingborg,’ she said. ‘I’m in a telephone kiosk down by the harbour.’

‘I’m so sorry I came home too late,’ Wallander said.

‘You were called back on duty, I presume?’

‘They did actually call for me. From the crime squad. Even though I don’t work there yet they called me in.’

He was hoping she would be a little impressed but heard that she did not believe him. Silence wandered back and forth between them.

‘Can’t you come here?’ he said.

‘I think it’s best if we take a break,’ she said. ‘At least for a week or so.’

Wallander felt himself go cold. Was Mona moving away from him?

‘I think it’s best,’ she repeated.

‘I thought we were going on holiday together?’

‘I thought so too. If you haven’t changed your mind.’

‘Of course I haven’t changed my mind.’

‘You don’t need to raise your voice. You can call me in a week. But not before.’

He tried to keep her on, but she had already hung up.

Wallander spent the rest of the evening with a sense of panic growing inside. There was nothing he feared as much as abandonment. It was only with the utmost effort that he managed to stop himself from calling Mona when it was past midnight. He lay down only to get back up again. The light summer sky was suddenly threatening. He fried a couple of eggs that he didn’t eat.

Only when it was approaching five o’clock did he manage to doze off. But almost immediately he was up again.

A thought in his mind.

The betting form.

Halen must have turned these in somewhere. Probably at the same place every week. Since he mostly kept to the neighbourhood, it must be in one of the little newsagents that were close by.

Exactly what finding the right shop would yield, he wasn’t sure. In all likelihood, nothing.

Nonetheless he decided to pursue his thought. It at least had the benefit that it kept his panic about Mona at bay.

He fell into a restless slumber for several hours.

The next day was Sunday. Wallander spent that day doing nothing much at all.

On Monday, 9 June, he did something he had not done before. He called in sick, citing stomach flu as the cause. Mona had been sick the week before. To his surprise, he felt no guilt.

It was overcast but there was no precipitation when he left his building shortly after nine in the morning. It was windy and had become colder. Summer had still not arrived in earnest.

There were two small newsagents nearby that handled bets. One was very close by, on a side street. As Wallander walked through the door it occurred to him that he should have brought a picture of Halen with him. The man behind the counter was Hungarian. Even though he had lived here since 1956 he spoke Swedish very badly. But he recognised Wallander, who often bought cigarettes from him. He did so now as well, two packs.

‘Do you take bets?’ Wallander asked.

‘I thought you only bought lottery tickets?’

‘Did Artur Halen place his bets with you?’

‘Who is that?’

‘The man who died in the fire recently.’

‘Has there been a fire?’

Wallander explained. But the man behind the counter shook his head when Wallander described Halen.

‘He did not come here. He must have gone to someone else.’

Wallander paid and thanked him. It had started to rain lightly. He hurried his pace. The whole time he was thinking about Mona. The next newsagent had not had anything to do with Halen either. Wallander went and stood under the cover of an overhanging balcony and asked himself what he was doing. Hemberg would think I was crazy, he thought.

Then he walked on. The next newsagent was almost a kilometre away. Wallander regretted not having worn a raincoat. When he reached the newsagent, which was right next to a grocery, he had to wait behind someone else. The person behind the counter was a woman about Wallander’s age. She was beautiful. Wallander did not take his eyes off her as she searched for an old issue of a specialised motorcycle magazine that the customer ahead of him wanted. It was very hard for Wallander not to immediately fall in love with a beautiful woman who came his way. Then and only then could he force all thoughts of Mona and associated anxiety into submission. Even though he had already bought two packs of cigarettes he bought one more. At the same time he was trying to work out if the woman in front of him was someone who would show disapproval if he said he was a policeman. Or if she belonged to the majority of the population who despite everything still believed that most policemen were in fact needed and honourably occupied. He took a chance on the latter.

‘I have some questions for you too,’ he said as he paid for his cigarettes. ‘I am Detective Inspector Kurt Wallander.’

‘Oh my,’ the woman answered. Her dialect was different.

‘You aren’t from around here?’ he asked.

‘Was that what you wanted to ask?’

‘No.’

‘I’m from Lenhovda.’

Wallander did not know where that was. He guessed it was in Blekinge. But he did not say this. Instead he continued to the matter of Halen and the betting forms. She had heard about the fire. Wallander described Halen’s appearance. She thought for a moment.

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Did he speak slowly? Kind of quietly?’

Wallander thought about it and nodded. That could describe Halen’s manner of speaking.

‘I think he played a small game,’ Wallander said. ‘Only thirty-two rows or so.’

She reflected on this, then nodded.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He came here. Once a week. One week thirty-two rows, the next sixty-four.’

‘Do you remember what he wore?’

‘A blue coat,’ she said immediately.

Wallander recalled that almost every time he had seen Halen he had been wearing a blue jacket with a zip.

There was nothing wrong with her memory. Nor with her curiosity.

‘Had he done something?’

‘Not that we know.’

‘I heard it was suicide.’

‘Indeed it was. But the fire was arson.’

I shouldn’t have said that, Wallander thought. We don’t know that for sure yet.

‘He always had exact change,’ she said. ‘Why do you want to know if he placed his bets here?’

‘Routine questioning,’ Wallander answered. ‘Can you remember anything else about him?’

Her answer caught him by surprise.

‘He used to borrow the telephone,’ she said.

The telephone was on a little shelf next to the table where the betting forms were kept.

‘Was that a frequent occurrence?’

‘It happened every time. First he placed the bet and paid. Then he made his call, came back to the counter and paid for it.’

She bit her lip.

‘There was something strange about those phone calls. I remember thinking about it one time.’

‘What was it?’

‘He always waited until another customer came into the shop before he dialled the number and started to talk. He never called when he and I were the only ones in the shop.’

‘He didn’t want you to overhear.’

She shrugged.

‘Maybe he just wanted his privacy. Isn’t that normal?’

‘Did you ever hear what he talked about?’

‘You can listen even when you’re attending a customer.’

Her curiosity is a big help, Wallander thought.

‘What did he say?’

‘Not very much,’ she answered. ‘The conversations were always very brief. He gave times, I think. Not much more.’

‘Times?’

‘I had the feeling he was arranging a time with someone. He often looked at his watch while he was talking.’

Wallander thought for a moment.

‘Did he usually come here on the same day of the week?’

‘Every Wednesday afternoon. Between two and three, I think. Or perhaps a little later.’

‘Did he buy anything else?’

‘No.’

‘How can you remember all this so precisely? You must have a large number of customers.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I think you remember more than you realise. If someone starts to ask you it just comes back up.’

Wallander looked at her hands. She wore no rings. He briefly considered asking her out but then dismissed the thought, horrified.

It was as if Mona had overheard his thoughts.

‘Is there anything else you remember?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘but I’m sure he was talking to a woman.’

That surprised Wallander.

‘How can you be sure of that?’

‘You can hear it,’ she said firmly.

‘You mean that Halen was calling to set up a time to meet with a woman?’

‘What would be strange about that? He was old, of course, but that doesn’t matter.’

Wallander nodded. Of course she was right. And if she was right he had found out something valuable. There had been a woman in Halen’s life after all.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Do you remember anything else?’

Before she answered, a customer walked in. Wallander waited. There were two little girls who took a great deal of care in selecting two bags of sweets, which they then paid for with an endless series of five-ore pieces.

‘That woman may have had a name that started with A,’ she said. ‘He always spoke very quietly. I said that earlier. But her name may have been Anna. Or a double name. Something with A.’

‘Are you sure of this?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But I think so.’

Wallander only had one more question.

‘Did he always come in alone?’

‘Yes, always.’

‘You’ve been a great help,’ he said.

‘May I ask why you need this information?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ Wallander said. ‘We ask questions, but we can’t always tell you why.’

‘Maybe I should join the police,’ she said. ‘I’m not planning to work in this shop for the rest of my life.’

Wallander leaned over the counter and wrote down his telephone number on a small notepad next to the cash register.

‘Call me sometime,’ he said. ‘We can get together and I can tell you what it’s like to be a police officer. Anyway, I live right round the corner.’

‘Wallander,’ she said. ‘Is that what it is?’

‘Kurt Wallander.’

‘My name is Maria. But don’t get any ideas. I already have a boyfriend.’

‘I won’t,’ Wallander said and smiled.

Then he left.

A boyfriend can always be overcome, he thought as he stepped into the street. And stopped short. What would happen if she really called him? If she called while Mona was over? He asked himself what he had done. At the same time he couldn’t help but feel a certain satisfaction.

Mona deserved it. That he gave his phone number to someone named Maria who was very beautiful.

As if Wallander was being punished for the mere thought of sinning, the rain started to pour down at that moment. He was drenched by the time he got home. He laid the wet cigarette packets on the kitchen table and stripped off all his clothes. Maria should have been here now to towel me off, he thought. And Mona can cut hair and take her damn coffee break.

He put on his dressing gown and wrote down in his notepad what Maria had said. So Halen had called a woman every Wednesday. A woman whose name started with the letter A. In all likelihood it was her first name. The question now was simply what this meant, other than that the image of the lonely old man had been shattered.

Wallander sat at the kitchen table and read through what he had written the day before. Suddenly he was struck by a thought. There should be a sailors’ register somewhere. Someone who could tell him about Halen’s many years at sea, which vessels he had worked on.

I know someone who could help me, Wallander thought. Helena. She works for a shipping company. At the very least she can tell me where I can look. If she doesn’t hang up on me when I call.

It was not yet eleven. Wallander could see through the kitchen window that the downpour was over. Helena didn’t normally take her lunch break until half past twelve. That meant that he would be able to get hold of her before she left.

He got dressed and took the bus down to the Central Station. The shipping company that Helena worked for was in the harbour district. He walked in through the gates. The receptionist nodded at him in recognition.

‘Is Helena in?’ he asked.

‘She’s on the phone. But you can go on up. You know where her office is.’

It was not without a feeling of dread that Wallander made his ascent to the first floor. Helena could get angry. But he tried to calm himself, thinking that at first she would simply be surprised. That could give him the time he needed to say that he was here purely on business. It was not her ex-boyfriend Kurt Wallander who was here, it was the police officer by the same name, the would-be criminal investigator.

The words ‘Helena Aronsson, Assistant Clerk’, were printed on the door. Wallander drew a deep breath and knocked. He heard her voice and walked in. She had finished her phone call and was sitting at the typewriter. He had been right. She was clearly surprised, not angry.

‘You,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m here on police business,’ Wallander said. ‘I thought you might be able to help me.’

She had stood up and was already looking like she was going to ask him to leave.

‘I mean it,’ Wallander said. ‘It’s nothing personal, not at all.’

She was still on her guard.

‘What would I be able to help you with?’

‘May I sit down?’

‘Only if it won’t take long.’

The same power language as Hemberg, Wallander thought. You’re supposed to stand there and feel subordinate, while the person with power remains seated. But he sat down and wondered how he could once have been so in love with the woman on the other side of the desk. Now he could not remember her being anything other than stiff and dismissive.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘So there’s no need for you to ask.’

‘I’m fine too.’

‘What do you want?’

Wallander sighed internally over her rude tone but told her what had happened.

‘You work in the shipping industry,’ he finished. ‘You would know how I could find out what Halen really did at sea. Which companies he worked for, which ships.’

‘I work with freight,’ Helena said. ‘We rent vessels or cargo space for Kockums and Volvo. That’s all.’

‘There must be someone who knows.’

‘Can’t the police find this out some other way?’

Wallander had anticipated this question and had thus prepared an answer.

‘This case is being handled a little on the side,’ he said, ‘for reasons that I can’t go into.’

He could see that she only partly believed him. But she seemed amused.

‘I could ask some of my colleagues,’ she said. ‘We have an old sea captain. But what do I get in return? If I help you?’

‘What would you like?’ he asked in return, in as friendly a tone as he could muster.

She shook her head.

‘Nothing.’

Wallander stood up.

‘I have the same phone number as before,’ he said.

‘Mine is different,’ Helena said. ‘And you’re not getting it.’

When Wallander was back out on the street he noticed that he was damp with sweat. The meeting with Helena had been more stressful than he had wanted to admit. He ended up standing still, wondering what to do next. If he had had more money he would have gone to Copenhagen. But he had to remember that he had taken a sick day. Someone could call him. He shouldn’t stay away from home too long. And also he was finding it increasingly difficult to justify the fact that he was spending so much time on his dead neighbour. He went to a cafe across from the Denmark ferries and had the daily special. But before he ordered he checked to see how much money he had. He would have to go to the bank tomorrow. He still had a thousand kronor there. That would last him for the rest of the month. He ate stew and drank some water.

By one o’clock he was back out on the pavement. New storms were moving in from the south-west. He decided to go home. But when he saw a bus that was going to his father’s suburb he took that instead. If nothing else he could spend a few hours helping his father pack.

There was indescribable chaos in the house. His father was reading an old newspaper, a torn straw hat on his head. He looked up at Wallander in surprise.

‘Have you finished?’ he asked.

‘Finished with what?’

‘Have you come to your senses and finished being a cop?’

‘I’m off today,’ Wallander said. ‘And there’s no use bringing up the subject again. We’re never going to see eye to eye.’

‘I’ve found a paper from 1949,’ he said. ‘There’s a great deal of interest in it.’

‘Do you really have time to read newspapers that are more than twenty years old?’

‘I never had time to read it at the time,’ his father said. ‘Among other things, because I had a two-year-old son who did nothing but scream all day. That’s why I’m reading it now.’

‘I was planning to help you pack.’

His father pointed to a table stacked with china.

‘That stuff needs to be packed in boxes,’ he said. ‘But it has to be done correctly. Nothing can break. If I find a broken plate you’ll have to replace it.’

His father returned to his paper. Wallander hung up his coat and started to pack the china. Plates that he remembered from his childhood. He found a cup with a chip in it that he could remember particularly clearly. His father turned a page in the background.

‘How does it feel?’ Wallander asked.

‘How does what feel?’

‘To be moving.’

‘Good. Change is nice.’

‘And you still haven’t seen the house?’

‘No, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

My father is either crazy or else he’s becoming senile, Wallander thought. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

‘I thought Kristina was coming,’ he said.

‘She’s out shopping.’

‘I’d like to see her. How is she doing?’

‘Fine. And she’s met an excellent fellow.’

‘Did she bring him?’

‘No. But he sounds good in all respects. He’ll probably see to it that I get grandchildren soon.’

‘What’s his name? What does he do? Do I have to drag all this out of you?’

‘His name is Jens and he’s a dialysis researcher.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Kidneys. If you’ve heard of them. He’s a researcher. And in addition he likes to hunt small game. Sounds like an excellent man.’

At that precise moment Wallander dropped a plate. It cracked in two. His father did not look up from the paper.

‘That’ll cost you,’ he said.

Wallander had had enough. He took his coat and left without a word. I will never go out to Osterlen, he thought. I will never set foot in his home again. I don’t understand how I have put up with that man all these years. But now I’ve had enough.

Without realising it he had started to speak aloud. A cyclist, who was huddled up against the wind, stared at him.

Wallander went home. The door to Halen’s apartment was open. He walked in. A lone technician was gathering up the remains of some ashes.

‘I thought you were done?’ Wallander said, surprised.

‘Sjunnesson is thorough,’ the technician answered.

There was no continuation of the conversation. Wallander went back out onto the stairwell and unlocked his own door. At the same time Linnea Almquist walked into the building.

‘How terrible,’ she said. ‘The poor man. And so alone.’

‘Apparently he had a lady friend,’ Wallander said.

‘I find that hard to believe,’ Linnea Almquist said. ‘I would have noticed that.’

‘I’m sure you would have,’ Wallander said. ‘But he may not have been in the habit of seeing her here.’

‘One should not speak ill of the dead,’ she said and started up the stairs.

Wallander wondered how it could be considered speaking ill of the dead to suggest that there may have been a woman in an otherwise lonely existence.

Once he was in his apartment, Wallander could no longer push aside thoughts of Mona. He should call her. Or would she call him of her own accord in the evening? In order to shake off his anxiety, Wallander started to gather up and throw out old newspapers. Then he started in on the bathroom. He did not have to do much before he realised that there was much more old, ingrained dirt than he could have imagined. He kept going at it for over three hours before he felt satisfied with the result. It was five o’clock. He put some potatoes on to boil and chopped some onions.

The phone rang. He thought at once it had to be Mona, and his heart started to beat faster.

But it was another woman’s voice. She said her name, Maria, but it took a few seconds before he realised it was the girl from the newsagent.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ she said. ‘I lost the piece of paper you gave me. And you’re not in the phone book. I could have called directory assistance, I suppose. But I called the police instead.’

Wallander flinched.

‘What did you say?’

‘That I was looking for an officer by the name of Kurt Wallander. And that I had important information. At first they didn’t want to give me your home phone number. But I didn’t give in.’

‘So you asked for Detective Inspector Wallander?’

‘I asked for Kurt Wallander. What does it matter?’

‘It doesn’t,’ Wallander said and felt relieved. Gossip moved quickly at the station. It could have brought about complications and spawned an unnecessary funny story about Wallander walking around claiming to be a detective inspector. That was not how he envisioned starting his career as a criminal investigator.

‘I asked if I was disturbing you,’ she repeated.

‘Not at all.’

‘I was thinking,’ she said. ‘About Halen and his betting forms. He never won, by the way.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I would entertain myself by checking to see how he had bet. Not just him. And he was very ill-informed when it came to English football.’

Exactly what Hemberg said, Wallander thought. There can be no more doubt in that regard.

‘But then I was thinking about the phone calls,’ she went on. ‘And then I thought of the fact that a couple of times he also called someone other than that woman.’

Wallander increased his concentration.

‘Who?’

‘He called the cab company.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I heard him place an order for a car. He gave his address as the building right next to the shop.’

Wallander thought about it.

‘How often did he order a cab?’

‘Three or four times. Always after first calling the other number.’

‘You didn’t happen to hear where he was going?’

‘He didn’t mention it.’

‘Your memory isn’t half bad,’ Wallander said admiringly. ‘But you don’t remember when he made those calls?’

‘It must have been on a Wednesday.’

‘When did it happen last?’

The answer came quickly and confidently.

‘Last week.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Of course I’m sure. He called a cab last Wednesday, the twenty-eighth of May, for your information.’

‘Good,’ Wallander said. ‘Very good.’

‘Is that of any help?’

‘I’m certain it is.’

‘And you’re still not planning to tell me what it is that has happened?’

‘I couldn’t,’ Wallander said. ‘Even if I wanted to.’

‘Will you tell me later?’

Wallander promised. Then he hung up and thought about what she had told him. What did it mean? Halen had a woman somewhere. After calling her, he ordered a taxi.

Wallander checked the potatoes. They were not yet soft. Then he reminded himself that he actually had a good friend who drove a cab in Malmo. They had been schoolmates since year one and had kept in touch over the years. His name was Lars Andersson and Wallander recalled that he had written his number on the inside of the telephone directory.

He found the number and dialled it. A woman answered, Andersson’s wife Elin. Wallander had met her a few times.

‘I’m looking for Lars,’ he said.

‘He’s out driving,’ she said. ‘But he’s on a day shift. He’ll be back in about an hour.’

Wallander asked her to tell her husband he had called.

‘How are the children?’ she asked.

‘I have no children,’ Wallander said, amazed.

‘Then I must have misunderstood,’ she answered. ‘I thought Lars said that you had two sons.’

‘Unfortunately, no,’ Wallander said. ‘I’m not even married.’

‘That never stopped anyone.’

Wallander returned to the potatoes and onions. Then he composed a meal using some of the leftovers that had accumulated in the fridge. Mona had still not called. It had started to rain again. He could hear accordion music from somewhere. He asked himself what the hell he was doing. His neighbour Halen had committed suicide, after first swallowing some precious stones. Someone had tried to retrieve them and had subsequently set fire to the apartment in a rage. There were plenty of lunatics around, also greedy people. But it was no crime to commit suicide. Nor to be greedy per se.

It was half past six. Lars Andersson had not called. Wallander decided to wait until seven o’clock. Then he would try again.

The call from Andersson came at five minutes to seven.

‘Business always picks up when it’s raining. I heard that you had called?’

‘I’m working on a case,’ Wallander said. ‘And I was thinking that you could perhaps help me. It’s a matter of tracking down a driver who had a client last Wednesday. Around three o’clock. A pickup from an address here in Rosengard. A man by the name of Halen.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing that I can talk about right now,’ Wallander said and felt his discomfort grow every time he avoided giving an answer.

‘I can probably find out,’ Andersson said. ‘The Malmo call centre is very organised. Can you give me the details? And where should I call to? The police headquarters?’

‘It’s best if you call me. I’m leading this thing.’

‘From home?’

‘Right now I am.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘How long do you think it will take?’

‘With a little luck, not very long.’

‘I’ll be home,’ Wallander said.

He gave Andersson all the details he had. When the call was over he had a cup of coffee. Still no call from Mona. Then he thought of his sister. Wondered what excuse his father would give for him having left the house so abruptly. If he even bothered to say that his son had been there. Kristina often took her father’s side. Wallander suspected it had to do with cowardice, that she was afraid of their father and his unpredictable temper.

Then he watched the news. The auto industry was doing well. There was an economic boom in Sweden. After that they showed footage from a dog show. He turned down the volume. The rain continued. He thought he heard thunder somewhere in the distance. Or else it was a Metropolitan plane coming in for landing at Bulltofta.

It was ten minutes past nine when Andersson called back.

‘It’s as I expected,’ he said. ‘The Malmo taxi call centre is extremely well organised.’

Wallander had already pulled over a pen and paper.

‘The drive went out to Arlov,’ he said. ‘There is no record of another name. The driver’s name was Norberg. But I can probably hunt him down and ask him if he remembers what the client looked like.’

‘There’s no chance that it could have been another trip?’

‘No one else ordered a taxi to that address on Wednesday.’

‘And the car went out to Arlov?’

‘More specifically, to Smedsgatan 9. That’s right next to a sugar mill. An old neighbourhood with rows of terraced houses.’

‘No rented apartments then,’ Wallander said. ‘Only a family must live there. Or a single person, I suppose.’

‘You would think so.’

Wallander made a note of it.

‘You’ve done good,’ he said.

‘I may have even more for you,’ Andersson replied. ‘Even if you never asked me for it. There is also a record of a cab ride from Smedsgatan. Specifically, Thursday morning at four o’clock. The driver’s name was Orre. But you won’t be able to get hold of him right now. He’s on holiday in Mallorca.’

Can taxi drivers afford to do that? Wallander thought. Is that because they make money under the table? But of course he mentioned nothing of these speculations to Andersson.

‘It could be important.’

‘Do you still not have a car?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Are you planning to go there?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can use a police car, of course, can’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Because otherwise I could take you. I’m not doing anything in particular. It’s a long time since we had a chat.’

Wallander decided to take him up on his offer and Lars Andersson promised to pick him up in half an hour. During that time Wallander called directory assistance and asked who was registered on telephone service at Smedsgatan 9. He received the answer that there was service there but that the number was private.

It was raining harder. Wallander put on his rubber boots and a raincoat. He stood at the kitchen window and saw Andersson slow down in front of his building. The car had no sign on the roof. It was his private car.

A crazy expedition in crazy weather, Wallander thought as he locked the front door. But rather this than pacing around the apartment waiting for Mona to call. And if she does it’ll serve her right. That I don’t answer.

Lars Andersson immediately started to bring up old school memories. Half of it Wallander no longer had any recollection of. He often thought Andersson tiring because he constantly returned to their school years, as if they represented the best time of his life so far. For Wallander, school had been a grey drudge, where only geography and history enlivened him somewhat. But he still liked the man who sat behind the wheel. His parents had run a bakery out in Limhamn. For a while, the boys had been in frequent contact. And Lars Andersson was someone Wallander had always been able to count on. Someone who took their friendship seriously.

They left Malmo behind and were soon in Arlov.

‘Do you often get requests out here?’ Wallander asked.

‘It happens. Mostly on the weekends. People who have been drinking in Malmo or Copenhagen and who are on their way home.’

‘Has anything bad ever happened to you?’

Lars Andersson glanced over at him.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Muggings, threats. I don’t know.’

‘Never. I’ve had a guy who tried to slip away without paying. But I caught up with him.’

They were now in the centre of Arlov. Lars Andersson drove straight to the address.

‘Here it is,’ he said and pointed through the wet windscreen. ‘Smedsgatan 9.’

Wallander cranked down his window and squinted out into the rain. Number 9 was the last of a row of six town houses. There was a light on in one window. Someone must be home.

‘Aren’t you going to go in?’ Lars Andersson asked with surprise.

‘It’s a matter of surveillance,’ Wallander answered vaguely. ‘If you drive up a little I’ll get out and take a look around.’

‘Do you want me to come along?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

Wallander got out of the car and pulled up the hood of his raincoat. What do I do now? he wondered. Ring the doorbell and ask if it is possible that Mr Halen was here last Wednesday between three in the afternoon and four in the morning? Is it a matter of adultery? What do I say if a man answers the door?

Wallander felt silly. This is senseless and childish and a waste of time, he thought. The only thing that I have managed to prove is that Smedsgatan 9 is actually an address in Arlov.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t help crossing the street. There was a mailbox next to the gate. Wallander tried to read the name on it. He had cigarettes and a box of matches in his pocket. With some difficulty he was able to light one of the matches and read the name before his flame was extinguished by the rain.

‘Alexandra Batista,’ he read. So Maria in the newsagent had been right, it was the first name that started with A. Halen had called a woman named Alexandra. The question now was if she lived there alone or with family. He looked over the fence to see if there were any children’s bicycles or other items that would indicate a family’s presence. But he saw nothing like that.

He walked round the house. On the other side there was an undeveloped piece of property. Several old rusty drums had been placed behind a dilapidated fence. That was all. The house was dark from the back. Light was only coming from the kitchen window facing the street. Despite a rising feeling of being involved in something absolutely unjustified and senseless, Wallander decided to complete his investigation. He stepped over the low fence and ran across the lawn to the house. If anyone sees me they will call the police, he thought. And I will get caught. And then the rest of my police career goes up in smoke.

He decided to give up. He could find the telephone number for the Batista family tomorrow. If it was a woman who answered he could ask a few questions. If it was a man he could hang up.

The rain was letting up. Wallander dried off his face. He was about to go back the same way that he had come when he discovered that the door to the balcony was open. Maybe they have a cat, he thought. That needs free passage at night.

At the same time he had a feeling that something wasn’t right. He could not put his finger on what it was. But he was not able to dismiss it. Carefully he walked over to the door and listened. The rain had stopped almost completely now. In the distance he heard the sound of a tractor trailer die away and disappear. From inside the house he heard nothing. Wallander left the balcony door and walked over to the front of the house again.

The light was still shining in the window, which was open a little. He pressed up against the wall and strained to hear something. Everything was still, quiet. Then he gently raised himself on tiptoe and peered in through the window.

He jumped. Inside, there was a woman sitting in a chair, staring straight at him. He ran out to the street. At any moment someone was going to come running out onto the front steps and call for help. Or else there would be police cars. He hurried over to the car where Andersson was waiting and jumped into the front seat.

‘Has anything happened?’

‘Just drive,’ Wallander said.

‘Where to?’

‘Away from here. Back to Malmo.’

‘Was anyone home?’

‘Don’t ask. Start the engine and drive. That’s all.’

Lars Andersson did as Wallander asked. They came out onto the main road towards Malmo. Wallander thought about the woman who had stared at him.

The feeling was there again. Something wasn’t right.

‘Turn into the next car park, would you?’

Lars Andersson continued to do as he was told. They stopped. Wallander sat without saying anything.

‘You don’t think it’s best that I be told what’s going on?’ Andersson asked gingerly.

Wallander didn’t answer. There was something about that woman’s face. Something he couldn’t pinpoint.

‘Go back,’ he said.

‘To Arlov?’

Wallander could hear that Andersson was starting to resist.

‘I’ll explain later,’ Wallander said. ‘Drive back to the same address. If you have the taxi meter you can turn it on.’

‘I don’t charge my friends, damn it!’ Andersson said angrily.

They drove back to Arlov in silence. There was no longer any rain.

Wallander got out of the car. No police cars, no reaction. Nothing. Only the lone light in the kitchen window.

Wallander carefully opened the gate. He walked back to the window. Before he heaved himself up to look he drew some deep breaths.

If things were as he suspected it would be very unpleasant.

He stood on tiptoe and gripped the windowsill. The woman was still sitting in the chair, staring straight at him with the same expression.

Wallander walked round the back of the house and opened the balcony door. In the light from the street he glimpsed a table lamp. He turned it on, then he removed his boots and walked out into the kitchen.

The woman was sitting there in the chair. But she was not looking at Wallander. She was staring at the window.

Around her neck was a bicycle chain, tightened with the help of a hammer handle.

Wallander felt his heart thumping in his chest.

Then he located the telephone, which was out in the hall, and he called the police station in Malmo.

It was already a quarter to eleven.

Wallander asked to speak to Hemberg. He was told that Hemberg had left the police station at around six o’clock. Wallander asked for his home number and called him immediately.

Hemberg picked up. Wallander could hear that he had been sleeping and had been awakened by the call.

Wallander explained the situation.

That there was a dead woman sitting in a chair in a town house in Arlov.