“What are you going to do?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “In fact, I don’t have the slightest goddamn idea. I’ll have to think of something.”
But as they approached Sturup forty minutes later, he still had no idea what he was going to do. With tires screeching, he pulled up at the gates to the right of the airport building. The better to see, he clambered onto the roof of the car. All around passengers arriving for early flights paused to see what was going on. A catering truck inside the gates blocked his view. Wallander waved his arms and cursed in an attempt to attract the driver’s attention and get him to move the truck. But the man behind the wheel had his head buried in a newspaper and was oblivious to the man on the roof of the car, ranting and raving. Then Wallander drew his pistol and shot straight up into the air. There was immediate panic among the watching crowd. People ran off in all directions, abandoning suitcases on the pavement. The driver of the truck had reacted to the shot and grasped that Wallander wanted him to move out of the way.
Harderberg’s Grumman Gulfstream was still there. The pale yellow light from the spotlights was reflected on the body of the jet.
The two pilots, on their way to the aircraft, had heard the shot and stopped in their tracks. Wallander jumped off the car roof so that they would not be able to see him. He fell, hitting his left shoulder hard against the road. The pain made him even more furious. He knew Harderberg was somewhere inside the yellow airport building and he had no intention of letting him get away. He raced toward the entrance doors, stumbling over suitcases and carts, Höglund a few paces behind him. He still had his pistol in his hand as he ran through the glass doors and headed for the airport police offices. Since it was early on a Sunday morning there were not many people in the terminal. Only one line had formed at a check-in desk, for a charter flight to Spain. As Wallander came charging up, covered in blood and mud, all hell broke loose. Höglund tried to reassure people, but her voice was drowned in the uproar. One of the police officers on duty had gone out to buy a newspaper, and saw Wallander approaching. The pistol in his hand was the first thing he had seen. The officer dropped the paper and started feverishly keying in the door code, but Wallander grabbed him by the arm before he had finished.
“Inspector Wallander, Ystad police,” he shouted. “There’s a plane we have to stop. Dr. Alfred Harderberg’s Gulfstream. There’s no goddamn time to lose!”
“Don’t shoot,” gasped the terrified police officer.
“For heaven’s sake!” Wallander said. “I’m a police officer myself. Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Don’t shoot,” the man said again. Then he fainted.
Wallander stared in exasperation at the wretched man lying in front of him on the ground. Then he started pounding on the door with his fists. Höglund had caught up.
“Let me try,” she said.
Wallander looked around, as if expecting to see Harderberg at any moment. He ran over to the big windows overlooking the runways.
Harderberg was walking up the steps to the airplane. He ducked ever so slightly, then disappeared inside. The door closed immediately.
“We’re not going to make it!” Wallander yelled to Höglund.
He raced out of the terminal again. She was at his side all the way. He noticed that a car belonging to the airport was on its way in through the gates. He made one final effort and managed to squeeze through the gap before the gates closed. He banged on the trunk and shouted for the car to stop, but the driver was obviously scared out of his mind and accelerated away. Höglund was still outside the gates. She had not quite made it before they closed. Wallander flung out his arms in resignation. The Gulfstream was taxiing toward the runway. There were only a hundred meters left before it would turn, accelerate, and take off.
Right next to where Wallander was standing stood a tractor for towing baggage carts. He had no choice. He climbed up, switched on the engine, and steered toward the runway. He could see in his side mirror a long snake of trailers being towed along behind. He had not seen that they were connected to the tractor, but it was too late to stop now. The Gulfstream was just arriving at the runway and its engines were screaming. The baggage carts started tipping over as he cut across the grass between the apron and the runway.
Now he had reached the runway, where the black tire marks made from the braking airplanes looked like wide cracks in the asphalt. He drove straight toward the Gulfstream, which was pointing its nose at him. When there were two hundred meters still to go, he saw the plane begin to roll toward him. By then he knew he had managed it. Before the jet had reached enough speed to take off, the pilots would have to stop in order not to smash into the tractor.
Wallander applied the brakes, but something was wrong with the tractor. He pushed and pulled and slammed down his foot, but nothing happened. He was not moving fast, but the momentum was such that the nose wheel would be wrecked when the airplane collided with the tractor. Wallander jumped off as the last carts spilled loose, colliding with one another.
The pilots had switched off the engines to avoid an inferno. Wallander was struck on the head by one of the carts, and rose unsteadily to his feet. He could scarcely see through the blood trickling into his eyes. Strangely, he was still holding the pistol in his hand.
As the door of the airplane opened and the steps were lowered, he could hear an armada of sirens approaching.
Wallander waited.
Then Harderberg emerged from the plane and walked down the steps onto the runway. It seemed to Wallander that he looked different. He saw what it was. The smile had disappeared.
Höglund jumped out of the first of the police cars to reach the airplane steps. Wallander was busy wiping the blood out of his eyes with his torn shirt.
“Have you been hit?” she said.
Wallander shook his head. He had bitten his tongue, and found it hard to speak.
“You’d better phone Björk,” she said.
Wallander stared at her. “No,” he said. “You can do that. And deal with Dr. Harderberg.”
Then he started to walk away. She hurried to catch up.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going home to bed,” Wallander said. “I’m feeling a bit tired. And rather sad. Even if it turned out all right in the end.”
Something in his voice discouraged her from saying more.
Wallander continued to walk away. For some reason, nobody tried to stop him.
18
On the morning of Thursday, December 23, Wallander went rather reluctantly to Österportstorg in Ystad and bought a Christmas tree. It was distinctly misty—there was not going to be a white Christmas in Skåne in 1993. He spent a considerable amount of time examining the trees, not at all sure what he really wanted, but in the end he picked one just about small enough to put on his table. He took it home and then spent a long time searching in vain for a stand he distinctly remembered having; probably it disappeared when he and Mona had divided up their possessions after the divorce. He made a list of things he needed to buy for Christmas. It was obvious that for the last few years he had been living in a state of increasing squalor. Every cupboard was bare. The list he made filled a whole sheet of paper. When he turned it over to continue on the next page, he found there was something written there already. Sten Torstensson.
He recalled that this was the very first note he had made in the case, that morning at the beginning of November, almost two months ago, when he had decided to go back to work. He remembered sitting at this table and being intrigued by the obituaries in Ystad Allehanda. Now, everything had changed. That November morning seemed an age away.
Alfred Harderberg and his two shadows had been arrested. Once the Christmas holiday was over Wallander would get down to the investigation that seemed likely to keep going on for a very long time.
He wondered what would happen to Farnholm Castle.
He also thought he should phone Widén and find out how Sofia was
faring, after all she had been through.
He stood up, went to the bathroom, and examined himself in the mirror. His face looked thinner. But he had also aged. No one could now avoid seeing that he was approaching fifty. He opened his mouth wide and peered gloomily at his teeth. Despondent or annoyed, he couldn’t make up his mind which, he decided he would have to make an appointment with the dentist in the new year. Then he returned to his list in the kitchen, crossed out the name Sten Torstensson, and noted that he would have to buy a new toothbrush.
It took him three hours, in the pouring rain, to buy all the things on his list. He twice had to resort to hole-in-the-wall machines to withdraw more money, and he was outraged that everything was so expensive. He slunk home shortly before 1 P.M. with all his shopping bags, and sat down at the kitchen table to check his list. Needless to say, he had forgotten something: a stand for his Christmas tree.
The phone rang. He was supposed to be on vacation over Christmas, so he did not expect it to be from the police station. But when he picked up the receiver, it was Ann-Britt Höglund’s voice he heard.
“I know you’re on vacation,” she said. “I wouldn’t have phoned if it wasn’t important.”
“When I joined the force many years ago, one of the first things I learned was that a police officer is never on vacation,” he said. “What do they have to say about that at the police academy nowadays?”
“Professor Persson did talk about it once,” she said. “But to tell you the truth, I don’t have a clue what he said.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m calling from Svedberg’s office. Mrs. Dunér is in my room at the moment. She’s very anxious to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“She won’t say. She won’t talk to anybody but you.”
Wallander did not hesitate.
“Tell her I’ll be there,” he said. “She can wait in my office.”
“Aside from that, there’s nothing much happening here at the moment,” Ann-Britt Höglund said. “There’s only Martinsson and me here. The traffic boys are getting ready for Christmas. The population of Skåne is going to spend Christmas blowing into balloons.”
“Good,” he said. “There’s too much drunk driving. We have to stamp it out.”
“You sometimes sound like Björk,” she said, laughing.
“I hope not,” he said, horrified.
“Can you tell me any kind of crime for which the figures are improving?” she said.
He thought for a moment. “The theft of black-and-white televisions,” he said. “But that’s about all.”
He hung up, wondering what Mrs. Dunér would have to say. He really could not imagine what it might be.
It was 1:15 when Wallander arrived at the police station. The Christmas tree was glittering away in reception, and he remembered that he hadn’t yet bought the usual bunch of flowers for Ebba. On his way to his office he stopped at the canteen and wished everybody a merry Christmas. He knocked on Ann-Britt Höglund’s door, but there was no reply.
Mrs. Dunér was sitting on his visitor’s chair, waiting for him. The left arm looked as if it would fall off the chair at any moment. She stood up when he came in, they shook hands, and he hung up his jacket before sitting down. Wallander thought she looked tired.
“You wanted to speak to me,” he said, trying to sound friendly.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said. “It’s easy to forget that the police have so much to do.”
“I have time for you,” Wallander said. “What is it you want?”
She took a package out of the plastic shopping bag at the side of her chair, and handed it to him over his desk.
“It’s a present,” she said. ”You can open it now, or wait until tomorrow.”
“Why on earth would you want to give me a Christmas present?” Wallander asked in surprise.
“Because I now know what happened to my gentlemen,” she said. “It’s thanks to you that the perpetrators were caught.”
Wallander shook his head and stretched out his arms in protest. “That’s not true,” he said. “It was teamwork, with lots of people involved. You shouldn’t just thank me.”
Her reply surprised him. “This is no time for false modesty,” she said. “Everybody knows that you’re the one we have to thank.”
Wallander did not know what to say, and began to open the package. It contained one of the icons he had found in Gustaf Torstensson’s basement.
“I can’t possibly accept this,” he said. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, it’s from Mr. Torstensson’s collection.”
“Not any more it isn’t,” Mrs. Dunér replied. “He left them all to me in his will. And I’m only too happy to pass one of them on to you.”
“It must be very valuable,” Wallander said. “I’m a police officer, and I can’t accept such gifts. At the very least I’d have to talk to my boss first.”
She surprised him yet again. “I’ve already done that. He said it was OK.”
“You’ve spoken to Björk already?” Wallander said, astonished.
“I thought I’d better,” she said.
Wallander looked at the icon. It reminded him of Riga, of Latvia. And most especially of Baiba Liepa.
“It’s not as valuable as you might think,” she said. “But it’s beautiful.”
“Yes. It’s very beautiful. But I don’t deserve it.”
“That’s not the only reason I’m here,” Mrs. Dunér said.
Wallander looked at her, waiting for what was coming next.
“I have a question for you,” she said. “Is there no limit to human wickedness?”
“I’m hardly the right person to answer a question like that,” Wallander said.
“But who can, if the police can’t?”
Wallander carefully laid the icon on his desk.
“I take it you’re wondering how anybody can kill another human being to get a body part to sell for profit,” he said. “I don’t know what to say. It’s as incomprehensible to me as it is to you.”
“What’s the world coming to?” she said. “Alfred Harderberg was a man we could all look up to. How can anybody donate money to charity with one hand and kill people with the other?”
“We just have to fight it as best we can,” Wallander said.
“How can we fight something we can’t understand?”
“I really don’t know,” Wallander said. “But we have to do our best.”
The brief conversation died out. Martinsson’s cheerful laughter echoed down the corridor.
She rose to her feet. “I won’t disturb you any longer,” she said.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a better answer,” he said, opening the door.
“At least you were honest,” she said.
It occurred to Wallander that he had something to give her. He went to his desk and took the postcard with a picture of a Finnish landscape from one of the drawers.
“I promised to give this back to you,” he said. “We don’t need it any longer.”
“I’d forgotten all about it,” she said, putting it into her handbag.
He escorted her out of the police station.
“May I wish you a merry Christmas,” she said.
“Thank you,” Wallander said. “And the same to you. I’ll take good care of the icon.”
He went back to his office. Her visit had made him uneasy. He had been reminded of the melancholy he had had to live with for so long. But he thrust it to one side, took his jacket, and left the building. He was on vacation. Not just from his job, but from any thought that might depress him.
I may not deserve the icon, he thought, but I do deserve a few days off.
He drove home through the fog and parked.
Then he cleaned his apartment. Before going to bed he improvised something to stand the Christmas tree in and decorated it. He had hung the icon up in his bedroom. He studied it before putting the light out.
He wondered
if it would be able to protect him.
The next day was Christmas Eve, the big day in Sweden. It was still foggy and gray outside. But Wallander felt that today he could rise above all the grayness.
He drove to Sturup Airport at 2 P.M., despite the fact that the plane was not due until 3:30. He felt very uncomfortable as he parked his car and approached the yellow airport building. He had the feeling everybody was looking at him.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist walking over to the gates to the right of the terminal.
The Gulfstream was no longer there. There was no sign of it.
It’s all over, he thought. I’m putting an end to it, here and now.
His relief was immediate.
The image of the smiling man faded away.
He went into the departure lounge, then out again, feeling more nervous than he could remember at any time since he was a teenager. He counted the stone tiles in the entrance, rehearsed his inadequate English, and tried in vain to think about anything except for what was about to happen.
When the plane landed he was still standing outside the terminal. Then he hurried inside and positioned himself next to the newspaper stand, waiting.
She was one of the last to emerge.
But there she was. Baiba Liepa.
She was exactly as he remembered her.
Copyright © 1994 by Henning Mankell English translation copyright © 2005 by Laurie Thompson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, without written permission
from the publisher.
Requests for permission to reproduce selections from this book should be
mailed to: Permissions Department, The New Press, 38 Greene Street,
New York, NY 10013.
Originally published as Mannen son log by Ordfront Förlag, Stockholm, 1994
First published in English by The Harvill Press, London, 2005
Published in the United States by The New Press, New York, 2006
Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York
eISBN : 978-1-595-58580-6