The Man Who Smiled

  “No skeletons roaming the corridors of Farnholm Castle, then,” Wallander said. “Were there any blots on Torstensson’s permanent record?”

  “None at all,” Åkeson said. “Honest, pedantic, boring. Old-fashioned sense of honor. Not a genius, not an idiot. Discreet. Not the type ever to wake up one morning and ask himself where his life had disappeared to.”

  “Yet he was murdered,” Wallander said. “There must have been one blot somewhere. Maybe not in his record, but in somebody else’s.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “A lawyer must be a little like a doctor,” Wallander said. “He knows a lot of people’s secrets.”

  “You’re no doubt right,” Åkeson agreed. “The solution must be somewhere in his relations with his clients. Something that involves everybody working for the firm. Including the secretary, Mrs. Dunér.”

  “We’re searching.”

  “I don’t have much more to say about Sten Torstensson,” Åkeson said. “A bachelor, a bit old-fashioned as well. I’ve heard the odd rumor to the effect that he was interested in persons of the same sex, but that’s a rumor that circulates about all aging bachelors. Thirty years ago, we could have guessed it might be blackmail.”

  “That might be worth bearing in mind,” Wallander said. “Anything else?”

  “Not really. Very occasionally he would make a joke, but he wasn’t exactly the type you wanted to invite for dinner. He was said to be a good sailor, though.”

  The phone rang. Åkeson answered, then handed the receiver to Wallander.

  Wallander recognized Martinsson’s voice, and could tell right away that it was important. Martinsson’s voice was loud and shrill.

  “I’m at the lawyers’ offices,” he said. “We’ve found something that might be what we’ve been looking for.”

  “What?”

  “Threatening letters.”

  “Who to?”

  “To all three.”

  “Mrs. Dunér as well?”

  “Her as well.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Wallander handed the receiver back to Åkeson and rose to his feet.

  “Martinsson’s found some threatening letters,” he said. “It looks as if you might have been right.”

  “Call me here or at home the minute you’ve got anything to tell me,” Åkeson said.

  Wallander went out to his car without going back to his office for his jacket. He exceeded the speed limit all the way to the lawyers’ offices. Lundin was in the reception area as he hurried through the door.

  “Where are they?” he said.

  She pointed at the conference room. Wallander went straight in before he remembered that there were people from the Bar Council there as well. Three solemn men, each one in his sixties, who clearly resented his barging in. He thought of the unshaven face he had seen in the mirror earlier—he did not exactly look presentable.

  Martinsson and Svedberg were at the table, waiting for him.

  “This is Inspector Wallander,” Svedberg said.

  “A police officer with a national reputation,” said one of the men, stiffly, shaking hands. Wallander shook hands with the other two as well, and sat down.

  “Fill me in,” Wallander said, looking at Martinsson. But the reply came from one of the lawyers from Stockholm.

  “Perhaps I should start by informing Inspector Wallander of the procedure undertaken when a law firm is liquidated,” said the man whose name Wallander had gathered was Wrede.

  “We can do that later,” Wallander intervened. “Let’s get down to business right away. You’ve found some threatening letters, I understand?”

  Wrede looked at him disapprovingly, but said no more. Martinsson pushed a brown envelope across the table to Wallander, and Svedberg handed him a pair of plastic gloves.

  “They were at the back of a drawer in a filing cabinet,” Martinsson said. “They weren’t listed in any diary or ledger. They were hidden away.”

  Wallander put on the gloves and opened the large brown envelope. Inside were two smaller envelopes. He tried without success to decipher the postmark. On one of the envelopes was a patch of ink, suggesting that some of the text had been crossed out. He took out the two letters, written on white paper, and put them on the desk in front of him. They were handwritten, and the text was short: The injustice is not forgotten, none of you shall be allowed to live unpunished, you shall die, Gustaf Torstensson, your son and also Dunér.

  The second letter was even shorter, the handwriting the same: The injustice will soon be punished.

  The first letter was dated June 19, 1992, and the second August 26 of the same year. Both letters were signed Lars Borman.

  Wallander slid the letters carefully to one side and took off the gloves.

  “We’ve searched the ledgers,” Martinsson said, “but neither Gustaf nor Sten Torstensson had a client by the name of Lars Borman.”

  “That’s correct,” Wrede confirmed.

  “The man writes about an injustice,” Martinsson said. “It must have been something major, or he wouldn’t have had cause to threaten the lives of all three.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Wallander said, his thoughts miles away.

  Once again he had the feeling there was something he should understand, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  “Show me where you found the envelope,” he said, standing up.

  Svedberg led him to a big filing cabinet in the office where Mrs. Dunér’s desk was located. Svedberg pointed to one of the lower drawers. Wallander opened it. It was filled with hanging files.

  “Get Miss Lundin,” he said.

  When Svedberg came back with her, Wallander could see she was very nervous. Even so, without being able to say why, he was convinced that she had nothing to do with the mysterious events at the lawyers’ offices.

  “Who had a key to this filing cabinet?” he said.

  “Mrs. Dunér,” Lundin replied, almost inaudibly.

  “Please speak a bit louder,” Wallander said.

  “Mrs. Dunér,” she repeated.

  “Only her?”

  “The lawyers had their own keys.”

  “Was it kept locked?”

  “Mrs. Dunér used to open it in the morning and lock it again when she went home.”

  Wrede interrupted the conversation. “We have signed for a key from Mrs. Dunér,” he said. “Sten Torstensson’s key. We opened the cabinet today.”

  Wallander nodded. There was something else he ought to ask Lundin, he was sure, but he couldn’t think what it was. Instead he turned to Wrede.

  “What do you think about these threatening letters?” he said.

  “The man must obviously be arrested at once,” Wrede said.

  “That’s not what I asked,” Wallander said. “I asked for your opinion.”

  “Lawyers are often placed in exposed situations.”

  “I take it all lawyers receive this kind of letter sooner or later?”

  “The Bar Council might be able to supply the statistics.”

  Wallander looked at him for some time before asking his final question.

  “Have you ever received a threatening letter?”

  “It has happened.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal that. It would break my oath of confidentiality as a lawyer.”

  Wallander could see his point. He replaced the letters in the brown envelope.

  “We’ll take these with us,” he said to the men from the Bar Council.

  “It’s not quite so straightforward as that,” Wrede said. He seemed always to be the one speaking on behalf of the others. Wallander felt like he was in a court facing a judge.

  “It’s possible that just at this moment our interests are not identical,” Wallander interrupted him, irritated by his way of speaking. “You’re here to work out what to do with the firm’s property, if that’s what you can call it. We are here to identify one or
more murderers. The brown envelope is going with me.”

  “We cannot allow any documents to be removed from these premises until we have discussed the matter with the prosecutor in charge of the investigation,” Wrede said.

  “Phone Per Åkeson,” Wallander said, “and send him my regards.”

  Then he picked up the envelope and marched out of the room. Martinsson and Svedberg hastened after him.

  “Now there’ll be trouble,” Martinsson said as they left the building. Wallander could tell that Martinsson was not altogether displeased at the prospect.

  Wallander felt cold. The wind was gusting and seemed to be getting stronger.

  “What now?” he said. “What’s Höglund up to?”

  “Looking after her sick child,” Svedberg said. “Hanson would be pleased to know that. He has always said women police officers are no good when it comes to investigations.”

  “Hanson has always said all kinds of things,” Martinsson said. “Police officers who are forever absent on continuing-education courses are not much good at investigations either.”

  “The letters are a year old,” Wallander said. “We have a name, Lars Borman. He threatens the lives of Gustaf and Sten Torstensson. And Mrs. Dunér. He writes a letter, and then another one two months later. One was posted in some form of company envelope. Nyberg is good. I think he’ll be able to tell us what it says under the ink on that envelope. And where they were postmarked, of course. In fact, I don’t know what we’re waiting for.”

  They returned to the police station. While Martinsson called Nyberg, who was still at Mrs. Dunér’s house, Wallander sat down and tried to puzzle out the postmarks.

  Svedberg had gone to look for the name Lars Borman in various police registers. When Nyberg came to Wallander’s office a quarter of an hour later he was blue with cold and had dark grass stains on the knees of his overalls.

  “How’s it going?” Wallander said.

  “Slowly,” Nyberg said. “What did you expect? A mine exploded into millions of tiny particles.”

  Wallander pointed to the two letters and the brown envelope on the desk in front of him.

  “These have to be thoroughly examined,” he said. “First of all I’d like to know where the letters were postmarked. And what it says under the ink stain on one of the envelopes. Everything else can wait.”

  Nyberg put on his glasses, switched on Wallander’s desk lamp, found a clean pair of plastic gloves, and examined the letters.

  “We’ll be able to decipher the postmarks using a microscope,” he said. “Whatever is written on the envelope has been painted over with India ink. I can try a bit of scraping. I think I should be able to figure that out without having to send it to Linköping.”

  “It’s urgent.”

  Nyberg took off his glasses in irritation. “It’s always urgent,” he said. “I need an hour. Is that too much?”

  “Take as long as you need,” Wallander said. “I know you work as fast as you can.”

  Nyberg picked up the letters and left. Martinsson and Svedberg appeared almost immediately.

  “There is no Borman in any of the registers,” Svedberg said. “I’ve found four Bromans and one Borrman. I thought maybe it could have been misspelled. Evert Borrman wandered around the Östersund area at the end of the 1960s cashing false checks. If he’s still alive he must be about eighty-five by now.”

  Wallander shook his head. “We’d better wait for Nyberg,” he said. “At the same time, I think we’d be wise not to expect too much of this. The threat is brutal all right. But vague. I’ll give you a call when Nyberg reports back.”

  When Wallander was on his own he took out the leather file he had been given at Farnholm Castle. He spent almost an hour acquainting himself with the extent of Harderberg’s business empire. He had still not finished when there was a knock on the door and Nyberg came in. Wallander noticed to his surprise that he was still in his dirty overalls.

  “Here are the answers to your questions,” he said, flopping down on Wallander’s visitor’s chair. “The letters are postmarked in Helsingborg, and on one of the envelopes it says ‘The Linden Hotel.’”

  Wallander pulled over a pad and made a note.

  “Linden Hotel,” Nyberg said. “Gjutargatan 12. It even gave the phone number.”

  “Where?”

  “I thought you’d grasped that,” Nyberg said. “The letters were postmarked in Helsingborg. That’s where the Linden Hotel is as well.”

  “Well done,” Wallander said.

  “I just do as I’m told,” Nyberg said. “But because this went so quickly, I did something else as well. I think you’re going to have problems.”

  Wallander looked questioningly at him.

  “I called that number in Helsingborg,” Nyberg said. “I got the disconnected tone. It no longer exists. I asked Ebba to look into it. It took her ten minutes to establish that the Linden Hotel went out of business a year ago.”

  Nyberg stood up and brushed down the seat of the chair. “Now I’m going to lunch,” he said.

  “Do that,” Wallander said. “And thanks for your help.”

  When Nyberg had left, Wallander thought over what he had heard. Then he summoned Svedberg and Martinsson. A few minutes later they had collected cups of coffee and were in Wallander’s office.

  “There must be some kind of hotel register,” Wallander said. “I mean, a hotel is a business enterprise. It has an owner. It can’t go out of business without it being recorded somewhere.”

  “What happens to old hotel ledgers?” Svedberg said. “Are they discarded? Or are they kept?”

  “That’s something we’ll have to find out,” Wallander said. “Now, right away. Most important is to get hold of the Linden Hotel’s owner. If we divide the task up between us, it shouldn’t take us more than an hour or so. We’ll meet again when we’re ready.”

  Wallander called Ebba and asked her to look for the name Borman in the directories for Skåne and Halland first. He had only just put down the receiver when the phone rang. It was his father.

  “Don’t forget you’re coming to see me this evening,” his father said.

  “I’ll be there,” Wallander said, thinking that in fact he was too tired to drive out to Löderup. But he knew he could not say no, he could not change the arrangement.

  “I’ll be there at about seven,” he said.

  “We’ll see,” his father said.

  “What do you mean by that?” Wallander asked, and could hear the anger in his voice.

  “I just mean we’ll see if that is in fact when you come,” his father said.

  Wallander forced himself not to start arguing.

  “I’ll be there,” he said, and put down the phone.

  His office suddenly seemed stifling. He went out into the hallway, and kept going as far as reception.

  “There is nobody called Borman in the directories,” Ebba said. “Do you want me to keep looking?”

  “Not yet,” Wallander said.

  “I’d like to ask you to come for dinner,” Ebba said. “You must tell me how you are.”

  Wallander nodded, but he said nothing.

  He went back to his office and opened the window. The wind was getting stronger still, and he felt very cold. He closed the window and sat at his desk. The file from Farnholm Castle was lying open, but he pushed it aside. He thought about Baiba Liepa in Riga.

  Twenty minutes later he was still there, thinking, when Svedberg knocked on the door and came in.

  “Now I know all there is to know about Swedish hotels,” he said. “Martinsson will be here in a minute.”

  When Martinsson had closed the door behind him, Svedberg sat at one corner of the desk and started reading from a pad in which he had made his notes.

  “The Linden Hotel was owned and run by a man called Bertil Forsdahl,” he began. “I got that information from the county offices. It was a little family hotel that was no longer viable. And Forsdahl is getting on in years, he?
??s seventy. I’ve got his number here. He lives in Helsingborg.”

  Wallander dialed the number as Svedberg read out the digits. The telephone rang for a considerable time before it was answered. It was a woman.

  “I’m trying to reach Bertil Forsdahl,” Wallander said.

  “He’s gone out,” the woman said. “He’ll be back late this evening. Who shall I tell him called?”

  Wallander thought for a moment before replying.

  “My name’s Kurt Wallander,” he said. “I’m calling from the police station in Ystad. I have some questions to ask your husband about the hotel he used to run a year or so ago. No cause for concern, it’s just some routine questions.”

  “My husband’s an honest man,” the woman said.

  “I have no doubt about that,” Wallander said. “This is just a routine inquiry. When exactly do you expect him back?”

  “He’s on a senior citizens’ excursion to Ven,” the woman said. “They’re due to have dinner in Landskrona, but he’s bound to be home by ten. He never goes to bed before midnight. That’s a habit he got into when he ran the hotel.”

  “Tell him I’ll get back to him,” Wallander said. “And there’s absolutely nothing to be worried about.”

  “I’m not worried,” the woman said. “My husband’s an honest man.”

  Wallander hung up. “I’ll drive out and visit him tonight,” Wallander said.

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Martinsson asked.

  “I’m sure it can,” Wallander said. “But I have nothing else to do tonight.”

  An hour later they met to assess the situation. Björk had left a message to say he could not be there because he had been summoned to an urgent meeting with the district police chief. Höglund suddenly put in an appearance. Her husband had come home and was looking after the sick child.

  Everybody agreed they should concentrate on the threatening letters. Wallander could not escape the nagging thought that there was something odd about the dead lawyers, something he should have picked up. He remembered that Höglund had had the same feeling the previous day.

  After the meeting they bumped into each other in the corridor.

  “If you’re going to Helsingborg tonight, I’ll go with you,” she said. “If I may.”