“No.”
“Try guessing.”
The penny dropped. “Alfred Harderberg.”
She nodded.
“The man at Farnholm Castle,” Wallander said slowly.
They sat in silence for a while.
“In other words, he also controlled STRUFAB, via Smeden,” she said eventually.
Wallander looked hard at her. “Well done,” he said. “Very well done.”
“Thank my fellow student,” she said. “He’s a police officer in Eskilstuna. But there’s something else as well. I don’t know if it’s important, but while I was waiting for you I came to think about something. Torstensson Senior died on the way home from Farnholm Castle. Borman hanged himself. But it might be that both of them, in different ways, had discovered the same thing. What can that have been?”
“You could be right,” Wallander said. “But I think we can draw one other conclusion. We might regard it as unproven but definite even so. Borman did not commit suicide. Just as Torstensson was not killed in a car accident.”
They sat in silence again for a while.
“Alfred Harderberg,” she said at last. “Can he really be the man behind everything that’s happened?”
Wallander stared into his coffee mug. He had never asked himself that question, but he had suspected something of the kind. Yes, he could see that now.
He looked at her. “Of course it could be Harderberg,” he said.
10
Wallander would always think of the following week as a time in which the police surrounded the difficult murder investigation with invisible barricades. It was like making preparation for a complicated military campaign—in a very short time and under great pressure. It was not so outrageous a comparison, since they had designated Harderberg their enemy—a man who was not only a living legend but also a man whose power was not unlike that of a medieval prince, and this before he had even reached the age of fifty.
It had all started on the Friday night, when Höglund had revealed the link with the English contact man, Robert Maxwell, and his crooked share dealings; and also the fact that the owner of the investment company Smeden was the man at Farnholm Castle, who thus took an enormous step out of the shadows of anonymity and into center stage of the murder investigation. Wallander would afterward agonize about not having suspected Harderberg much earlier. He would never find a satisfactory answer why. Whatever explanation he found, it was no more than an excuse for carelessly and negligently granting Harderberg exemption from suspicion in the early stages of the inquiry, as if Farnholm Castle had been a sovereign territory with some kind of diplomatic immunity.
The next week changed all that. But they had been forced to proceed cautiously, not just because Björk insisted on it, with some support from Åkeson, but mainly because the facts they had to go on were very few. They knew that Gustaf Torstensson had acted as financial adviser to Harderberg, but they could not know exactly what he had done, what precisely his remit had been. And in any case, there was no evidence to suggest that Harderberg’s business empire was involved in illegal activities. But now they had discovered another link: Borman and the fraud to which Malmöhus County Council had been subjected and which had been hushed up and quietly buried. On the night of Friday, November 5, Wallander and Höglund had discussed the situation until the small hours, but it had been mostly speculation. Even so, they had begun to evolve a plan for how the investigation should proceed, and it was clear to Wallander from the start that they would have to move discreetly and circumspectly. If Harderberg really was involved, and Wallander kept repeating that if during the next week, it was clear that he was a man with eyes and ears wherever they turned, around the clock, no matter what they did or where they were. They had to bear in mind that the existence of links between Borman, Harderberg, and one of the murdered lawyers did not necessarily amount to a beginning of a solution to the case.
Wallander was also doubtful for quite different reasons. He had spent his life in the loyal and unhesitating belief that Swedish business practices were as above reproach as the emperor’s wife. The men and women at the top of the big Swedish concerns were the bedrock of the welfare state. The Swedish export industry was at the heart of the country’s prosperity, and as such was simply above suspicion. Especially now, now that the whole edifice of the welfare state was showing signs of crumbling, its floorboards teeming with termites. The bedrock on which it all rested must be protected from irresponsible interference, regardless of where it came from. But even if he had his doubts, he was still aware that they might be on the track to the solution, no matter how unlikely it might seem at first glance.
“We don’t have anything substantial,” he said to Höglund that Friday night at the police station. “What we do have is a link, a connection. We shall investigate it. And we’ll put out all the stops to do that. But we can’t take it for granted that doing so will lead us to the person responsible for our murders.”
They were ensconced in Wallander’s office. He was surprised she had not wanted to go home as soon as possible: it was late and, unlike him, she had a family to get back to. They were not going to solve anything then; it would have been better to get a good night’s rest and start fresh the next morning. But she had insisted on continuing their discussions, and he was reminded of what he had been like at her age. So much police work is dull routine, but there could occasionally be moments of inspiration and excitement, an almost childish delight in playing around with feasible alternatives.
“I know it doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” she said. “But remember that a master criminal like Al Capone was caught by an accountant.”
“That’s hardly a fair comparison,” Wallander said. “You’re talking about a gangster known by one and all to have built his fortune on theft, smuggling, blackmail, bribery, and murder. In this case all we know is that a successful Swedish businessman has a majority share-holding in an apparently fraudulent investment company that has many activities, just one of which is that it controls a consultancy employing certain individuals who have swindled a county council. We know no more than that.”
“They used to say that concealed behind every fortune was a major crime,” she said. “Why just ‘used to’? Whenever you open your newspaper nowadays it looks more like the rule than the exception.”
“You can find a quotation for every situation,” Wallander said. “The Japanese say that business is a form of warfare. But that doesn’t justify somebody in Sweden killing people to put a few accounts in the clear. If that’s what they were trying to do.”
“This country is also awash with sacred cows,” Höglund said. “Such as the idea that we don’t need to chase criminals with names that tell us they come from noble families, and who belong to some ancient line in Skåne with a family castle to maintain. We would rather not haul them into the courts when they’ve been caught red-handed.”
“I’ve never thought like that,” Wallander said, realizing at once that he was not telling the truth. And what was it he was trying to defend? Or was it just that he could not allow Höglund to be right, not when she was so much younger than he was and a woman?
“I think that’s how everybody thinks,” she insisted. “Police officers are no different. Or prosecutors. Sacred cows must graze in peace.”
They had been sailing around hidden rocks without finding a clear channel. It seemed to Wallander that their differing views indicated something he had been thinking for a long time, that the police force was being split by a generation gap. It wasn’t so much that Höglund was a woman, but rather that she brought with her quite different experiences. We are both police officers, but we do not have the same worldview, Wallander thought. We may live in the same world, but we see it differently.
Another thought occurred to him, and he did not like it one bit. What he had been saying to Höglund could just as easily have been said by Martinsson. Or Svedberg. Even Hanson, for all his nonstop continuing education courses. He sa
t there on the Friday night talking not just with his own voice, but with that of the others. He was speaking for a whole generation. The thought annoyed him, and he blamed Höglund, who was too self-confident, too definite in her views. He did not enjoy being reminded of his own laziness, his own very vague views about the world and the age he was living in.
It was as if she were describing an unknown land to him. A Sweden that she was not making up, unfortunately, but one which really existed just outside the confines of the police station, filled with real people.
But the discussion petered out in the end, when Wallander had poured enough water on the fire. They went out to fetch more coffee and were offered a sandwich by a patrolman who seemed to be worn out, or just bored stiff, and was sitting in the canteen staring into space. They went back to Wallander’s office, and, to avoid further discussion about sacred cows, Wallander asserted himself and proposed a session of constructive thinking.
“I had an elegant leather folder in my car when it went up in flames,” he said. “An overview I was given when I went to Farnholm Castle. I had begun reading it. It was a summary of Harderberg’s empire and of the man himself, his various honorary doctorates, all his good deeds: Harderberg the patron of the arts, Harderberg the humanist, Harderberg the young people’s friend, Harderberg the sports fan, Harderberg the sponsor of our cultural heritage, Harderberg the enthusiastic restorer of old Öland fishing boats, Harderberg the honorary doctor of archaeology who provides generous funding for digs at what might be Iron Age dwellings in Medelpad, Harderberg the patron of music who sponsors two violinists and a bassoonist in the Gothenburg Symphony Orchestra. Founder of the Harderberg Prize for the most gifted young opera singer in the country. Generous donor to peace research in Scandinavia. And all the other things I can’t remember. It was as if he were being portrayed as a one-man Swedish Academy. Without a drop of blood on his hands.
“I’ve asked Ebba to get hold of another copy of the file. It must be studied and investigated. As discreetly as possible we must obtain access to reports and balance sheets for all his companies. We have to find out how many companies he in fact owns. Where they are located. What they do. What they sell. What they buy. We have to examine his tax returns and his tax status. In that respect I accept what you say about Al Capone. We have to find out where Gustaf Torstensson was allowed to poke his nose in. We have to ask ourselves: why him of all people? We have to take a look into every secret room we can find. We have to wriggle our way into Harderberg’s mind, not just his bank accounts. We have to talk to eleven secretaries without his noticing. Because if he does notice, a tremor will run through the whole enterprise. A tremor that will result in every door closing simultaneously. We must never forget that no matter how many resources we put into this, he will be able to send yet more troops into battle. It’s always easier to close a door than it is to open it again. It’s always easier to maintain a cleverly constructed lie than it is to find an unclear truth.”
She listened to what he had to say with what looked to him to be genuine interest. He had set it all out for her as much to clarify things in his own mind, but he could not deny having made some small effort to squash her. He was still the senior officer around here, and she could consider herself just a snot-nosed kid, albeit a talented one.
“We have to do all that,” he said. “It could be that we end up once more with the magnificent reward of having discovered absolutely nothing. But the most important thing for the moment, and the most difficult thing, is how we are going to do all this without attracting attention. If what we suspect is true, and it’s on Harderberg’s orders that we’re being watched, that efforts are being made to blow us up, and that it was an extension of his hand that planted the mine in Mrs. Dunér’s garden, then we must keep reminding ourselves all the time that he sees things and hears things. He must not notice that we are repositioning our troops. We must camouflage everything we do in thick fog. And in that fog we have to make sure that we follow the right road and that he goes astray. Where’s the investigation going? That is the question we have to keep asking ourselves, and then we have to provide a very good answer.”
“We have to do the opposite of what we seem to be doing, then,” she said.
“Exactly,” Wallander said. “We have to send out signals that say: we’re not remotely interested in Alfred Harderberg.”
“What happens if it’s too obvious?” she said.
“It mustn’t be,” Wallander said. “We have to send out another signal. We have to tell the world that yes, naturally, Dr. Harderberg is involved in our routine inquiries. He even attracts our special interest in certain respects.”
“How can we be sure that he takes the bait?”
“We can’t. But we can send a third signal. We can say that we have a lead that we believe in. That it points in a certain direction. And that it seems to be reliable. So reliable that Harderberg can be convinced that we really are following a false trail.”
“He’s bound to take out a few insurance policies even so.”
“Yes. We shall have to make sure we find out what they are,” he said. “And we mustn’t show him that we know. We must not give the impression we are stupid, a bunch of blind and deaf police officers who are leading one another in the wrong direction. We must identify his insurance tactics, but appear to misinterpret them. We must hold up a mirror to our own strategy, and then interpret the mirror image.”
She eyed him thoughtfully. “Are we really going to be able to manage this? Will Björk go along with it? What will Mr. Åkeson have to say?”
“That will be our first big problem,” Wallander said. “Convincing ourselves that we’ve got the right strategy. Our chief of police possesses an attribute that makes up for a lot of his weaker points: he sees through us if we don’t believe in what we say or suggest as the starting point for our investigation. In such circumstances he puts his foot down, and rightly so.”
“And when we’ve convinced ourselves? Where do we start?”
“We have to make sure we do not fail in too much of what we set ourselves to do. We have to lose our way so cleverly in the fog that Harderberg believes it. We have to lose our way and be following the right road at the same time.”
She went back to her office to grab a notepad. Meanwhile, Wallander sat listening to a dog barking somewhere inside the station. When she came back, it struck him again that she was an attractive woman, despite the fact that she was very pale, and had blotchy skin and dark circles under her eyes.
They went through Wallander’s pronouncements once again. All the time Höglund kept coming up with relevant comments, finding flaws in Wallander’s reasoning, homing in on contradictions. He noticed, however reluctantly, that he was inspired by her, and that she was very clear-headed. It struck him—at 2 A.M.—that he had not had a conversation like this since Rydberg died. He imagined Rydberg coming back to life and putting his vast experience at the disposal of this pale young woman.
They left the station together. It was cold, the sky was full of stars, the ground was covered in frost.
“We’ll have a long meeting tomorrow,” Wallander said. “There will be any number of objections, but I’ll talk to Björk and Åkeson ahead of time. I’ll ask Per to sit in on the meeting. If we don’t get them on our side, we’ll lose too much time trying to dig up new facts just in order to convince them.”
She seemed surprised. “Surely they must see we’re right?”
“We can’t be sure of that.”
“It sometimes seems to me that the Swedish police force is very slow to catch on to things.”
“You don’t need to be a recent graduate of the police academy to reach that conclusion,” Wallander said. “Björk has calculated that given the current increase in administrators and others who don’t actually do work in the field, as investigators or on traffic duties, that kind of thing, all normal police work will grind to a halt around 2010. By which time every police officer will just sit around a
ll day passing pieces of paper to other police officers.”
She laughed. “Maybe we’re in the wrong job,” she said.
“Not the wrong job,” Wallander said, “but maybe we’re living at the wrong time.”
They said good night and drove home in their own cars. Wallander kept an eye on the rearview mirror, but could not see anybody following him. He was very tired, but at the same time inspired by the fact that a door had opened up into the current investigation. The coming days were going to be very strenuous.
On the morning of Saturday, November 6, Wallander phoned Björk at 7:00. His wife answered, and asked Wallander to try again a few minutes later because her husband was taking a bath. Wallander used the time to phone Åkeson, who he knew was an early riser and generally up and about by 5:00. Åkeson picked up the phone immediately. Wallander briefly summarized what had happened, and why Harderberg had become relevant to the investigation in quite a new light. Åkeson listened without interruption. When Wallander had finished, he made just one comment.
“Are you convinced you can make this stick?”
Wallander replied without a moment’s hesitation: “Yes,” he said. “I think this can solve the problem for us.”
“In that case, of course, I have no objection to our concentrating on digging deeper. But make sure it’s all discreet. Say nothing to the media without consulting me first. What we need least of all is a Palme situation here in Ystad.”
Wallander could see what Åkeson meant. The unsolved assassination of the Swedish prime minister, a mystery now almost ten years old, had not only stunned the police but had also shocked nearly everyone in Sweden. Too many people, both inside and outside the police force, were aware that in all probability the murder had not been solved because at an early stage the investigation had been dominated and mishandled in a scandalous fashion by a district police chief who had put himself in charge despite being incompetent to run a criminal investigation. Every local force discussed over and over, sometimes angrily and sometimes contemptuously, how it had been possible for the murder, the murderer, and the motive to be swept under the rug with such nonchalance. One of the most catastrophic errors in that disastrous investigation had been the insistence of the officers in charge on pursuing certain leads without first establishing priorities. Wallander agreed with Åkeson: an investigation had to be more or less concluded before the police had the green light to put all their eggs in one basket.