“We can always go looking for a madman,” Martinsson said. “A madman who doesn’t exist.”
“It’s too cold-blooded for that,” Höglund said. “It all seems to be so well planned. There’s nothing to suggest a madman at work.”
“We must continue to take every precaution,” Wallander said. “Somebody is keeping an eye on us, whether it’s Harderberg or somebody else.”
“It’s a pity we can’t count on Kurt Ström,” Svedberg said. “What we need is a contact inside the castle. Somebody who can move around among all those secretaries without drawing attention to himself.”
“I agree,” Wallander said. “It would be even better if we could find somebody who worked for Harderberg until recently. Especially somebody with a grudge.”
“The fraud squad people maintain that there are only a handful of people who are close to Harderberg,” Martinsson said. “And they’ve all been with him for many years. The secretaries are not very important. I don’t think they know much about what goes on.”
“Even so, we should have somebody there,” Svedberg insisted. “Somebody who could tell us about daily routines.”
The meeting was drifting toward stalemate.
“I have a proposal,” Wallander said. “Let’s shut ourselves away somewhere different tomorrow. We need peace and quiet to work our way through all the material. We have to define where we stand one more time. We need to use our time efficiently.”
“At this time of year the Continental Hotel is practically empty,” Martinsson said. “I’d have thought they would have a conference room we could rent for next to nothing.”
“I like it,” Wallander said. “The symbolism is attractive. That’s where Gustaf Torstensson met Harderberg for the first time.”
They met on the first floor of the Continental Hotel. Discussions continued through lunch and every coffee break. By that evening, they agreed to continue the next day as well. Somebody phoned Björk, who gave his blessing. They shut out the outside world and worked their way through all the material yet again. They were well aware that time was running out. It was Friday, November 19.
It was late afternoon when they finally broke up. Wallander thought that Höglund had summed up the state of the investigation best.
“I get the feeling everything is here,” she said, “but we can’t see how it hangs together. If it is Harderberg pulling the strings, he’s doing it very skillfully. Whichever way we turn he moves the goalposts and we have to start all over.”
They were all exhausted when they left the hotel. But this was no vanquished army beating a retreat. Wallander knew something important had happened. Everybody had shared all they knew with everybody else. Nobody needed to be unsure about what ideas or doubts their colleagues had.
“Let’s take a break this weekend,” Wallander said. “We need some rest. We need to be raring to go again by Monday.”
Wallander spent Saturday with his father in Löderup. He managed to repair the roof, then sat for hours with his father in the kitchen, playing cards. Over dinner Wallander could see quite clearly that Gertrud was genuinely enjoying life with his father. Before he left, Wallander asked her if she was familiar with Farnholm Castle.
“They used to say it was haunted,” she said. “But perhaps they say that about all castles?”
It was midnight when Wallander set off for home. The temperature was below freezing, and he was not looking forward to winter.
He slept in on Sunday morning. Then he went for a walk, and inspected the boats in the harbor. He spent the afternoon cleaning his apartment. Yet another Sunday wasted on unproductive matters.
When Wallander woke up on the morning of Monday, November 22, he had a headache. He was surprised, since he hadn’t had a drop to drink the previous night. Then he realized he hadn’t slept well. He had had one horrific nightmare after the other. His father had died suddenly, but when he went to see him in his dream coffin, he hadn’t dared to look because he knew it was really Linda lying there.
He got up reluctantly and dissolved two painkillers in half a glass of water. It was still below freezing. As he waited for the coffee water to boil, he thought that his nightmares were a prologue to the meeting he and Björk were due to have with Åkeson that morning. Wallander knew it was going to be tricky. Although he had no doubt Åkeson would give them the green light to continue concentrating on Harderberg, he knew that their results had been unsatisfactory so far. They had not been able to get their material to point in any one particular direction. The investigation was drifting. Åkeson would, with good reason, want to know how much longer the investigators could go on just standing on one leg, as it were.
He scrutinized his wall calendar, coffee mug in hand. Just over a month to go before Christmas. He would say they needed as long as that. If they were no nearer to cracking the case by then, he would have to accept that they would need to start investigating other leads in the new year.
A month, he thought. Something needs to happen pretty fast.
He was interrupted by the phone ringing.
“I hope I didn’t wake you up,” Höglund said.
“I’m drinking coffee.”
“Do you get the Ystad Allehanda?” she said.
“Of course.”
“Have you read it today?” she said.
“I haven’t even picked it up from the hallway.”
“Go get it,” she said. “Turn to the job listings.”
Wondering what was going on, he went out into the hall and fetched his paper. Telephone in hand, he started turning to the ads.
“What am I supposed to be looking for?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” she said. “See you later.”
She hung up. He saw it at once. An advertisement for a stable girl at Farnholm Castle. To start immediately. That’s why she had worded her call the way she did. She had not wanted to mention Farnholm Castle on the telephone.
This could be their chance. As soon as he finished the meeting with Åkeson he would phone his friend Sten Widén.
As Wallander and Björk settled down in Åkeson’s office, Åkeson told the switchboard they were not to be disturbed. He had a bad cold, and blew his nose frequently.
“I really ought to be at home in bed,” he said, “but let’s get through this meeting as arranged.” He pointed to the heap of files before going on. “You won’t be surprised to hear that even with the best will in the world, I can’t say the results you’ve achieved so far are satisfactory. A few extremely vague pointers in the direction of Alfred Harderberg is all we’ve got.”
“We need more time,” Wallander said. “This is a particularly complicated investigation. We knew it would be from the outset. This is the best lead we’ve got.”
“If we can call it a lead,” Åkeson interrupted. “You made a case for concentrating on Harderberg, but we haven’t really gotten any further since then. Looking through the material, I’m forced to conclude that we’re only marking time. The fraud squad haven’t come up with any financial irregularities either. Harderberg seems to be a remarkably honorable gentleman. We have nothing to link him or his businesses directly or indirectly with the murder of Gustaf Torstensson and his son.”
“Time,” Wallander said again. “That’s what we need. We could also turn the whole thing upside down and say that the moment we can definitely exclude Harderberg from our deliberations, we’ll be in a better position to approach the case from a different angle.”
Björk said nothing. Åkeson looked hard at Wallander.
“I really should call an end to it at this point,” he said. “You know that. Convince me that we should carry on a little longer concentrating all our efforts on Harderberg.”
“The justification is in the paperwork,” Wallander said. “I’m still sure we’re on the right track. The whole team agrees with me, for what it’s worth.”
“I still think we ought to consider splitting the team and setting some of them to work from another angle,
” Åkeson said.
“We don’t have another angle,” Wallander said. “Who fakes an accident to cover up a murder, and why? Why is a lawyer shot in his office? Who plants a mine in an elderly lady’s garden? Who blows up my car? Are we supposed to think it could be a madman who’s decided for no reason at all that it would be fun to kill off everybody employed by a law firm in Ystad, and why not a police officer as well while we’re at it?”
“You still haven’t sifted through all the files of the lawyers’ clients,” Åkeson said. “There’s a lot we don’t know yet.”
“I still think we need more time,” Wallander said. “Not unlimited time. But more time.”
“I’ll give you two weeks,” Åkeson said. “If you haven’t come up with anything more convincing by then, we’ll take a new approach.”
“That’s not enough,” Wallander said.
“I could stretch it to three,” Åkeson said with a sigh.
“Let’s make Christmas the deadline,” Wallander said. “If anything comes up before then to suggest that we ought to change course, we can do that immediately. But let’s keep going as we are until Christmas.”
Åkeson turned to Björk. “What do you think?”
“I’m worried,” Björk said. “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere either. It’s no secret that I’ve never really believed that Dr. Harderberg has anything to do with all this.”
Wallander felt the urge to protest, but resisted the temptation. If need be he would have to accept three weeks.
Åkeson turned to the pile of papers on his desk. “What’s this about organ transplants?” he said. “I read that you found a cooler for transporting human organs in Gustaf Torstensson’s car. Is that true?”
Wallander told them what Nyberg had discovered, and what they had subsequently managed to find out.
“Avanca,” Åkeson said. “Is that a company quoted on the stock exchange? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a small company,” Wallander said. “Owned by a family called Roman. They started in the 1930s, importing wheelchairs.”
“In other words, it’s not owned by Harderberg,” Åkeson said.
“We don’t know that yet.”
Åkeson eyed Wallander up and down. “How can a company owned by a family called Roman also be owned by Harderberg? You’ll have to explain that to me.”
“I’ll explain when I can,” Wallander said. “But what I do know on the basis of what I’ve learned this last month is that the real owner of a company can be someone quite different from what it says on the company logo.”
Åkeson shook his head. “You’re a hard nut to crack,” he said. He consulted his desk diary. “Let’s say Monday, December 20. Unless we’ve made a breakthrough before then. But I’m not going to allow you a single day more if the investigation hasn’t produced significant results by then.”
“We’ll make the most of the time,” Wallander said. “I trust you realize that we’re busting our asses here.”
“I know,” Åkeson said. “But the bottom line is that I’m the prosecutor, and I have to do my duty.”
The meeting was over. Björk and Wallander went back to their offices.
“It was good of him to give you that much time,” Björk said as they parted in the hallway.
“Give me time?” Wallander said. “You mean us, don’t you?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” Björk said. “Let’s not waste time discussing it.”
“I entirely agree,” Wallander said.
When he had got back to his office and closed the door, he felt at loose ends. Somebody had put a photograph of Harderberg’s jet parked at Sturup on his desk. Wallander glanced at it, then pushed it aside.
I’ve lost my touch, he thought. The whole investigation’s gone down the drain. I ought to pass it on to somebody else. I can’t handle this.
He sat there in his chair, inert. His mind went back to Riga and Baiba. When he could no longer cope with doing nothing he penned her a letter, inviting her to Ystad for Christmas and New Year’s. To make sure that the letter would not just lie there or get torn to pieces, he put it in an envelope and without further ado handed it to Ebba in reception.
“Could you mail that for me today?” he said. “It’s really urgent.”
“I’ll take care of it myself,” she said, with a smile. “Incidentally, you look shattered. Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Not as much as I need,” Wallander said.
“Who’s going to thank you if you work yourself to death?” she said. “Not me, that’s for sure.”
Wallander went back to his office.
A month, he thought. A month in which to wipe the smile off Harderberg’s face. He doubted if it would be possible.
He forced himself to work, despite everything.
Then he phoned Widén.
He also made up his mind to buy some cassettes of opera recordings. He missed his music.
13
At around noon on Monday, November 22, Kurt Wallander got into the police car that was still doing service as a temporary replacement for his own burned-out wreck and set off west from Ystad. He was heading for the stables next to the ruins of Stjärnsund Castle where Sten Widén ran his business. When he reached the top of the hill outside Ystad he turned off onto the side of the road, cut the engine, and stared out to the sea. On the far horizon he could just dimly see the outline of a cargo vessel sailing out into the Baltic. All of a sudden he was overcome by a fit of dizziness. He was terrified that it was his heart, but then he realized it was something else, that he seemed to be about to faint. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and tried not to think. After a minute or so he opened his eyes. The sea was still there and the cargo vessel was still sailing out to the east.
I’m tired, he thought. Despite having rested all weekend. The feeling of exhaustion goes deep, deep down, I’m only half aware of the causes, and there is probably nothing I can do about it. Not now that I’ve made up my mind to return to work. The beach on Jutland no longer exists as far as I’m concerned. I renounced it of my own free will.
He did not know how long he sat there, but when he began to feel cold he started the engine and drove on. He would have preferred to go home and disappear into the security of his apartment, but he forced himself to continue. He turned off toward Stjärnsund. After about a kilometer the road deteriorated badly. As always when he visited Widén, he wondered how big horseboxes could negotiate such a poorly maintained track.
The path sloped steeply toward the extensive farm with row upon row of stable blocks. He drove down into the yard and switched off the engine. A flock of crows were screeching in a nearby tree.
He got out of the car and headed toward the red-brick building Widén used as a combined home and office. The door was ajar, and he could hear Widén talking on the phone. He knocked and went in. As usual it was untidy and smelled strongly of horses. Two cats were lying asleep on the unmade bed. Wallander wondered how his friend could put up with living like this year after year.
The man who nodded to him as he came in without interrupting his telephone call was thin, with tousled hair and an angry red patch of eczema on his chin. He looked just as he had fifteen years ago. In those days they had seen a lot of each other. Widén had dreamed then of becoming an opera singer. He had a fine tenor voice, and they had planned a future with Wallander acting as his impresario. But the dream had collapsed or, rather, faded away; Wallander had become a police officer and Widén had inherited his father’s business, training race-horses. They had drifted apart, without either of them really knowing why, and it was not until the early 1990s, in connection with a lengthy and complicated murder case, that they had come into contact again.
There was a time when he was my best friend, Wallander thought. I haven’t had another one since then. Perhaps he will always be the only best friend I ever had.
Widén finished his call and slammed the receiver down.
“What
a bastard!” he snarled.
“A horse owner?” Wallander said.
“A crook,” Widén said. “I bought a horse from him a month ago. He has some stables over at Höör. I was going to collect it, but he’s changed his mind. The bastard.”
“If you’ve paid for the horse, there’s not much he can do about it,” Wallander said.
“Only a deposit,” Widén said. “But I’m going to get that horse no matter what he says.”
Widén disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back Wallander could smell alcohol on his breath.
“You always come when I’m not expecting you,” Widén said. “Would you like some coffee?”
Wallander accepted the offer and they went out to the kitchen. Widén shifted piles of old racing programs to one side, exposing a small patch of plastic tablecloth.
“How about a drop of something stronger?” he asked, as he started making the coffee.
“I’m driving,” Wallander said. “How’s it going with the horses?”
“It hasn’t been a good year. And next year’s not going to be any better. There isn’t enough money in circulation. Fewer horses. I keep having to raise my training fees to make ends meet. What I’d really like to do is close down and sell everything, but property prices are too low. In other words, I’m stuck in the Scanian mud.”
He poured the coffee and sat down. Wallander noticed Widén’s hand shaking as he reached for the cup. He’s well on his way to drinking himself to death, he thought. I’ve never seen his hand shake like that in the middle of the day.
“What about you?” Widén asked. “What are you doing nowadays? Are you still on sick leave?”
“No, I’m back at work. A police officer again.”
Widén looked bemused. “I didn’t think so,” he said.
“Didn’t think what?”
“That you’d go back.”
“What else could I do?”
“You were talking about getting a job with a security company. Or becoming head of security for some firm.”