The Man Who Smiled

  After ten minutes he paused to get his breath back. Then he made his way cautiously along the road until he could see the bright lights at the gates, and the bunker that guarded them.

  I must do what they least expect, he thought. The last thing they’ll be waiting for is an armed man trying to get into the castle grounds on his own.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He took his pistol out of his pocket. Behind the bunker was a narrow patch of shadow. He glanced at his watch: 9:57.

  Then he made his move.

  17

  The first call came after half an hour. She could hear his voice clearly, with no interference, as if he had not gone far from the car but was standing close by in the shadows.

  “Where are you?” she said.

  “I’m inside the grounds,” he said. “Stand by for the next call in an hour from now.”

  “What’s happening?”

  But there was no answer. She thought there had been a temporary loss of contact and waited for him to call back, but then she realized that Wallander had switched off without replying to her question. There was no sound from the radio.

  It seemed to Wallander that he was walking through the valley of the shadow of death. Nevertheless, getting in had been easier than he had ever dared to hope. He had sneaked swiftly to the narrow patch of shadow behind the bunker and been surprised to discover a small window. By standing on tiptoe he could see inside. There was only one person in the bunker, sitting in front of a bank of computer screens and telephones. Only one person, and a woman at that. She seemed to be knitting a child’s sweater. Wallander could hardly believe his eyes. The contrast with what was happening within the gates was too great, almost impossible to grasp. Obviously she could not possibly suspect that there would be an armed man just outside, so he walked calmly around the bunker and tapped on the door, trying to make it as friendly a knock as possible. Just as he had thought, she opened the door wide, not anticipating any threat. She had her knitting in her hand, and looked at Wallander in surprise. It had not occurred to him to draw his pistol. He explained who he was, Inspector Wallander from the Ystad police, and even apologized for disturbing her. He ushered her gently back inside the bunker and closed the door behind them. He looked to see whether there was a security camera inside the bunker as well, but there was no sign of one, and invited her to sit down. At that point it dawned on her what was happening, and she started screaming. Wallander drew his pistol. Holding the gun in his hand worried him so much that he felt sick. He avoided aiming at her, but ordered her to be quiet. She looked scared to death, and Wallander wished he had been able to calm her down, saying she could continue knitting the sweater, which was no doubt meant for one of her grandchildren. But he thought about Ström and Sofia, he thought about Sten Torstensson and the mine in Mrs. Dunér’s garden. He asked if she had to keep reporting back to the castle, but she said she did not.

  His next question was crucial. “Kurt Ström really should have been on duty tonight,” he said.

  “They called down from the castle and said I had to do his shift because he was sick.”

  “Who called?”

  “One of the secretaries.”

  “Tell me exactly what she said, word for word.”

  “‘Kurt Ström is sick.’ That’s all.”

  As far as Wallander was concerned, he now had confirmation that everything had gone wrong. Ström had been unmasked, and Wallander had no illusions about the ability of the men around Harderberg to extract the truth from him.

  He looked at the terrified woman. She was clinging to her knitting.

  “There’s a man just outside,” he said, pointing to the window. “He’s armed just like me. If you sound the alarm after I’ve gone, you will not finish knitting that sweater.”

  He could see that she believed him.

  “Whenever the gates open it’s recorded up at the castle, is that right?” he said.

  She nodded.

  “What happens if there’s a power outage?”

  “A big generator cuts in automatically.”

  “Is it possible to open the gates by hand? Without it being registered by the computers?”

  She nodded again.

  “OK. Switch off the power supply to the gates,” he said. “Open the gates for me, then close them behind me. Then switch the electricity back on.”

  He was sure she would do as he said. He opened the bunker door and shouted to the man who did not exist that he was coming out, that the gates were going to be opened and closed, and that everything was under control. She unlocked a box at the side of the gate to reveal a winch. When the gap was wide enough Wallander slipped through.

  “Do exactly as I said. As long as you do so, nothing will happen to you,” he said.

  Then he ran through the grounds toward the stables, picturing the route in his mind’s eye from the map he had studied. All was very quiet, and when he was close enough to see the lights from the stables he paused and made the first call to Höglund. When she started asking questions he switched off. He went on walking cautiously toward the stables. The apartment where Sofia lived was in an annex built onto the main building. He stood for a considerable time in the shadow of a little thicket, observing the stables and the area around them. Occasionally he heard scrapes and thuds from the stalls. A light was on in the annex. He made himself think completely calmly. The fact that Ström had been shot did not necessarily mean that they had realized there was a connection between him and the new stable girl. Nor was it certain that the call she had made to Widén had been tapped. The uncertainty was the best Wallander could hope for. He wondered if they would have contingency plans to deal with a man having broken into the castle grounds.

  He stayed in the shadows under the trees for several more minutes, then crouched and ran as fast as he could to the door of the annex. He expected at any moment to be hit by a bullet. He knocked on the door, trying the handle at the same time. It was locked. Then he heard Sofia’s voice, sounding very frightened, and he said who he was: Roger. Sten’s friend Roger. He couldn’t remember the surname he’d come up with. But she opened the door and he noted the expression of surprise mixed with relief on her face. The apartment comprised a small kitchen and a living room with an alcove for a bedroom. He indicated with a finger to his lips that she should be quiet. They sat in the kitchen, facing each other across the table. He could hear the thuds from the stalls very clearly now.

  Wallander said: “I don’t have a lot of time and I can’t explain why I’m here. So just answer my questions, please, nothing else.”

  He unfolded the map and laid it on the table.

  “There was a man lying on a path,” he said. “Can you point to where?”

  She leaned across and drew a little circle with her index finger on a track marked to the south of the stables.

  “About there,” she said.

  “I have to ask you if you had seen the man before.”

  “No.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Was it a uniform?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. My mind’s a blank.”

  There was no point in pressing her further. Her terror had affected her memory.

  “Has anything else happened today, anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No.”

  “Nobody’s been here to talk to you?”

  “No.”

  Wallander tried to figure out what that meant. But the image of Ström lying there in the darkness forced all other thoughts from his mind.

  “I’m going now,” he said. “If anybody comes, don’t tell them I’ve been.”

  “Will you come back?” she said.

  “I don’t know. But you don’t need to worry, nothing’s going to happen.”

  He peered out through a crack in the curtains, hoping the assurance he had just given her really would turn out to be true. Then he opened the door quickly and ran to the bac
k of the building. He did not stop until he was in the shadows again. A slight breeze had started blowing. Beyond the trees he could see the powerful beams lighting up the dark red facade of the castle. He could also see lights in several of the windows on all floors.

  He was shivering.

  After thinking hard once more about the map he had lodged in his memory, he set off again, flashlight in hand. He passed the site of an artificial lake that had been drained of water. Then he turned left and began looking for the path. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had forty minutes before he was due to contact Höglund again.

  Just as he was beginning to think he was lost, he found the path. It was about a meter wide, and he could see the tracks of horses’ hooves. He stood still, listening. But it was silent everywhere, although the wind seemed to be getting stronger. He continued along the path, expecting to be grabbed at any moment.

  After about five minutes he stopped. If she had indicated correctly on the map, he had walked too far. Was he on the wrong path? He went on, more slowly. After another hundred meters he was sure he must have passed the point she had marked by now.

  He stood still, feeling uneasy.

  There was no sign of Ström. The body must have been taken away. He turned and began to retrace his steps, wondering what to do next. He stopped again, this time because he needed to urinate. He stepped into the bushes by the side of the path. When he had finished he took the map from his pocket and checked again, just to be certain that he had not mistaken the spot Sofia had circled, or taken the wrong path.

  As he turned on the flashlight he caught sight of a naked foot. He gave a start and dropped the flashlight, which went out when it landed on the ground. He must have imagined it. He bent down to retrieve the flashlight. He turned it on again and found himself looking straight at Kurt Ström’s dead face. It was ashen, the lips tightly clenched. Blood had drained away and coagulated on his cheeks. He had an entry wound in the middle of his forehead. Wallander thought about what had happened to Sten Torstensson. He stood up and hurried away. Leaned against a tree and threw up. Then he ran. He got as far as the empty lake and sank to his knees at its edge. Somewhere in the background a bird flew, clattering, from the top of a tree. He jumped down into the lake bed and crept to a corner. It was like being in a burial vault. He thought he could hear footsteps approaching and drew his pistol, but nobody appeared. He took a few deep breaths and forced himself to think. He was close to panic and felt that he would lose his self-control at any moment. Another fourteen minutes and he was due to contact Höglund. But he did not have to wait, he could call her now and ask her to phone Björk. Ström was dead, shot through the head, and nothing was going to bring him back to life. They should call a full-scale emergency, Wallander would be waiting for them at the gates, and what would happen after that he had no idea.

  But he did not make the call. He waited for fourteen minutes and then reached for the radio. She answered at once. “What’s happening?” she said.

  “Nothing yet,” he said. “I’ll call again in an hour.”

  “Have you found Ström?”

  He switched off. Once again he was alone in the darkness. He had committed himself to do something, but did not know what. He had given himself an hour to fill without knowing how. Slowly he rose to his feet. He was freezing. He clambered up out of the lake bed and walked toward the light glimmering through the trees. He stopped where the trees came to an end and he found himself at the edge of the big lawn sloping up to the castle.

  It was an impenetrable fortress, but somehow Wallander would have to force his way in. Ström was dead, but he could not be blamed for that. Nor could he be held responsible for the murder of Sten Torstensson. Wallander’s guilt was different in kind, a feeling that he was going to let his side down once again, and when he could very well be on the brink of solving the case.

  There had to be a limit to what they were capable of doing, in spite of everything. They could not simply shoot him, a Ystad detective who was only doing his job. Then again, perhaps these people did not recognize any limits at all. He tried to unravel that conundrum, but he could not. Instead, he started making his way around to the back of the castle, a side of the building he had never seen. It took him ten whole minutes, despite walking briskly—not only because he was afraid, but also because he was so cold. He could not stop shivering. At the back of the castle was a half-moon-shaped terrace jutting out into the grounds. The left side of the terrace was in shadow: some of the hidden spotlights must have stopped working. There were stone steps from the terrace down onto the lawn. He ran as fast as he could until he was in the shadows again. He crept up the steps, his flashlight in one hand and his radio in the other. The pistol was in his pants pocket.

  Suddenly he stopped dead and listened. What had he heard? It was one of his internal alarms going off. Something’s wrong, he thought. But what? He pricked up his ears, but he could hear nothing apart from the wind coming and going. Something to do with the light, he thought. I’m being drawn toward the shadows, and they are lying in wait for me.

  When the penny dropped and he realized he had been tricked, it was too late. He turned to go back down the steps, but was blinded by a dazzling white light shining straight into his face. He had been lured into the shadowy trap, and now it had sprung. He held the hand holding the radio over his eyes to keep out the light, but at the same time he felt himself being grabbed from behind. He tried to fight his way free, but it was too late. His head exploded and everything went black.

  A part of his mind was conscious of what was happening all the time. Arms lifted him up and carried him, he could hear a voice speaking, somebody laughed. A door opened and the sound of footsteps on the stone terrace ceased. He was indoors, perhaps being carried up a staircase, and then he was set down on something soft. Whether it was the pain in the back of his head or the feeling of being in a room with the lights out, or at least dimmed, he did not know; but he came around, opened his eyes, and found himself lying on a sofa in a very large room. The floor was tiled, possibly with marble. Several computers with flickering screens stood on an oblong table. He could hear the sound of air-conditioning fans and somewhere, out of his field of vision, a telex machine was clicking away. He tried not to move his head, the pain behind his right ear was too great. Then somebody started speaking to him, a voice he recognized, close by his side.

  “A moment of madness,” Harderberg said. “When a man does something that can only end with him being injured, or killed.”

  Wallander turned gingerly and looked at him. He was smiling. Further back, where the light barely penetrated, he could just make out the outlines of two men, motionless.

  Harderberg walked around the sofa and handed him the radio. His suit was immaculate, his shoes highly polished.

  “It’s three minutes past midnight,” Harderberg said. “A few minutes ago somebody tried to contact you. I have no idea who it was, of course, and I don’t care. But I assume somebody is waiting for you to get in touch. You’d better do that. I don’t need to tell you, I am sure, that you shouldn’t attempt to raise the alarm. We’ve had enough madness for one day.”

  Wallander called her up and she answered immediately.

  “Everything’s OK,” he said. “I’ll report again an hour from now.”

  “Have you found Ström?” she said.

  He hesitated, unsure of what to say. Then he noticed that Harderberg was nodding at him encouragingly.

  “Yes, I’ve found him,” Wallander said. “I’ll call again at one.”

  Wallander put the radio on the sofa beside him.

  “The woman police officer,” Harderberg said. “I take it that she’s in the vicinity. We could find her if we wanted to, of course. But we don’t.”

  Wallander gritted his teeth and stood up.

  “I have come in order to inform you,” he said, “that you are suspected of being an accessory to a number of serious crimes.”

  Harderberg observed
him thoughtfully. “I waive my right to have a lawyer present. Please go on, Inspector Wallander.”

  “You are suspected of being an accessory to the deaths of Gustaf Torstensson and his son Sten Torstensson. Furthermore, you are now also suspected of being implicated in the death of your own chief of security, Kurt Ström. In addition, there is the attempted murder of the solicitors’ secretary, Mrs. Dunér, and of myself and Officer Höglund. There are a number of other possible charges, including ones connected to the fate of the accountant Borman. The public prosecutor will have to work out the details.”

  Harderberg sat down slowly in an armchair. “Are you saying that I am under arrest, Inspector Wallander?” he said.

  Wallander felt on the point of fainting, and sat again on the sofa. “I don’t have the necessary papers,” he said. “But that doesn’t affect the basic circumstances.”

  Harderberg leaned forward in his armchair, chin resting on one hand. Then he leaned back again and nodded. “I’ll make things easy for you,” he said. “I confess.”

  Wallander stared at him, unable to believe his ears.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Harderberg said. “I admit to being guilty on all counts.”

  “Including Borman?”

  “Including Borman, of course.”

  Wallander could feel his fear creeping up on him again, but this time colder, more threatening than before. The whole situation was off-kilter. He was going to have to get out of the castle.

  Harderberg watched him attentively, as if trying to read Wallander’s thoughts. To give himself time to work out how he could get an SOS to Höglund without Harderberg realizing, Wallander started asking questions, as if they were in an interrogation room. But he still could not tell what Harderberg was up to. Had he known Wallander was on the grounds from the moment he passed through the gate? What had Ström given away before he was killed?

  “The truth,” Harderberg said, interrupting Wallander’s train of thought. “Does it exist for a Swedish police officer?”