Everything would have been just as before, it seemed to Wallander, had it not been for the woman in jeans and a blue blouse sitting by herself at the opposite end of the table. He had never met her, but he knew who she was, and even knew her name. It was almost two years since they had started talking about strengthening the Ystad force, and that was when the name Ann-Britt Höglund had cropped up for the first time. She was young, had graduated from the police academy barely three years before, but had already made a name for herself. She had received one of two prizes awarded on the basis of final examinations and general achievements in the assessment of her fellow cadets. She came from Svarte originally, but had grown up in the Stockholm area. Police forces all over the country had tried to recruit her, but she made it clear she would like to return to Skåne, the province of her birth, and took a job with the Ystad force.
Wallander caught her eye, and she smiled fleetingly at him.
So, it is not the same as it was before, he thought. With a woman among us, nothing can stay as it used to be.
That was as much as he had time to think. Björk had risen to his feet, and Wallander sensed that he was nervous. Perhaps it had been too late. Perhaps his contract had already been terminated without his knowing?
“Monday mornings are normally tough,” Björk said. “Especially when we have to deal with the particularly unpleasant and incomprehensible murder of one of our colleagues, Mr. Torstensson. But today I am able to commence our meeting with some good news. Kurt has announced that he is back in good health, and is starting work again as of now. I am the first to welcome him back, of course, but I know all my colleagues feel the same. Including Ann-Britt Höglund, whom you haven’t met yet.”
There was silence. Martinsson stared at Björk in disbelief, and Svedberg put his head to one side, gaping at Wallander as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Ann-Britt Höglund looked as if what Björk had just said hadn’t sunk in.
Wallander felt obligated to say something. “It’s true,” he said. “I’m starting work again today.”
Svedberg stopped rocking to and fro and slammed the palms of his hands down on the table with a thud. “That’s terrific news, Kurt. We couldn’t have managed another damned day without you.”
Svedberg’s spontaneous comment made the whole room burst out laughing. One after another they stood up in a line to shake Wallander by the hand. Björk tried to organize coffee and pastries, and Wallander had difficulty hiding the fact that he was moved.
It was all over in a few minutes. There was no more time for emotional outpourings, for which Wallander was grateful, at least for now. He opened the notebook he had brought with him from his office, containing nothing but Sten Torstensson’s name.
“Kurt has asked me if he can join the murder investigation without more ado,” Björk said. “Of course he can. I think the best way to kick off is by making a summary of how things stand. Then we can give Kurt a little time to familiarize himself with the particulars.”
He nodded to Martinsson, who had obviously been the one to take on Wallander’s role as team leader.
“I’m still a bit confused,” Martinsson said, leafing through his papers. “But basically this is how it looks. On the morning of Wednesday, October 27, in other words five days ago, Mrs. Berta Dunér—secretary to the law firm—arrived for work as usual, a few minutes before eight A.M. She found Sten Torstensson shot dead in his office. He was on the floor between the desk and the door. He had been hit by three bullets, each one of which would have been enough to kill him. Since nobody lives in the building, which is an old stone-built house with thick walls, and located on a main road as well, nobody heard the shots. At least, nobody has come forward as of yet. The preliminary postmortem results indicate he was shot at around eleven P.M. That would fit in with Mrs. Dunér’s statement to the effect that he often worked late at night, especially after his father died in such tragic circumstances.”
Martinsson paused at this point and looked questioningly at Wallander.
“I know his father died in a road accident,” Wallander said.
Martinsson nodded and continued: “That’s more or less all we know. In other words, we know next to nothing. We don’t have a motive, no murder weapon, no witness.”
Wallander wondered if he should say something about Torstensson’s visit to Skagen. All too often he had committed what was a cardinal sin for a police officer and held back information that he should have passed on to his colleagues. On each occasion, it’s true, he figured that he had good grounds for keeping quiet, but he had to concede that his explanations had almost always been unconvincing.
I’m making a mistake, he thought. I’m starting my second life as a police officer by disowning everything previous experience has taught me. Nevertheless, something told him it was important in this particular case. He treated his instinct with respect. It could be one of his most reliable messengers, as well as his worst enemy. He was certain he was doing the right thing this time.
Something Martinsson had said made him prick up his ears. Or perhaps it was something he had not said.
His train of thought was interrupted by Björk slamming his fist on the table. This normally meant that the chief of police was annoyed or impatient.
“I’ve asked for pastries,” he said, “but there’s no sign of them. I suggest we break off at this point and that you fill Kurt in on the details. We’ll meet again this afternoon. We might even have something to go with our coffee by then.”
When Björk had left the room, they all gathered around the end of the table he had vacated. Wallander felt he had to say something. He had no right simply to barge in on the team and pretend nothing had happened.
“I’ll try to start at the beginning,” he said. “It’s been a rough time. I honestly didn’t think I’d ever be able to get back to work. Killing a man, even if it was in self-defense, hit me hard. But I’ll do my best.”
Nobody said a word.
“You mustn’t think we don’t understand,” Martinsson said, at last. “Even if police work trains you to get used to just about everything, making you think there’s no end to how awful life can be, it really strikes home when adversity lands on somebody you know well. If it makes you feel any better, I can tell you that we’ve missed you just as much as we missed Rydberg a few years ago.”
Dear old Chief Inspector Rydberg, who died in the spring of 1991, had been their patron saint. Thanks to his enormous abilities as a police officer, and his willingness to treat everybody in a way that was both straightforward and personal, he had always been right at the heart of every investigation.
Wallander knew what Martinsson meant.
Wallander had been the only one who had grown so close to Rydberg that they had been good friends. Behind Rydberg’s surly exterior was a person whose knowledge and experience went far beyond the criminal cases they investigated together.
I’ve inherited his status, Wallander thought. What Martinsson is really saying is that I should take on the mantle that Rydberg had but never displayed publicly. Even invisible mantles exist.
Svedberg stood up.
“If nobody has any objection I’m going over to Torstensson’s offices,” he said. “Some people from the Bar Council have turned up and are going through his papers. They want a police officer to be present.”
Martinsson slid a pile of case documents over to Wallander.
“This is all we have so far,” he said. “I expect you’d like a little peace and quiet to work your way through them.”
Wallander nodded. “The road accident. Gustaf Torstensson.”
Martinsson looked up at him in surprise. “That’s finished and done with,” he said. “The old man drove into a field.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d still like to see the reports,” Wallander said, tentatively.
Martinsson shrugged. “I’ll drop them off in Hanson’s office.”
“Not any more,” Wallander said. “My old room is mine again.”
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Martinsson got to his feet. “You disappeared one day, and now you’re back just as suddenly. Forgive the slip of the tongue.”
Martinsson left the room. Only Wallander and Ann-Britt Höglund were left now.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said.
“I’m sure what you’ve heard is absolutely true, I regret to say.”
“I think I could learn a lot from you.”
“I very much doubt that.”
Wallander hurriedly got to his feet to cut short the conversation, gathering the papers he had been given by Martinsson. Höglund held open the door for him. When he was back in his office and had closed the door behind him, he noticed he was dripping with sweat. He took off his jacket and shirt, and started drying himself on one of the curtains. Just then Martinsson opened the door without knocking. He hesitated when he caught sight of the half-naked Wallander.
“I was just bringing you the reports on Gustaf Torstensson’s car accident,” Martinsson said. “I forgot it wasn’t Hanson’s door any longer.”
“I may be old-fashioned,” Wallander said, “but please knock in the future.”
Martinsson put a file on Wallander’s desk and beat a hasty retreat. Wallander finished drying himself, put on his shirt, then sat at his desk and started reading.
It was 10:30 by the time he finished the reports.
Everything felt unfamiliar. Where should he start? He thought back to Sten Torstensson, emerging out of the fog on the Jutland beach. He asked me for help, Wallander thought. He wanted me to find out what had happened to his father. An accident that was really something else, and not suicide. He talked about how his father’s state of mind had seemed to change. A few days later Sten himself was shot in his office late at night. He had talked about his father being on edge, but he was not on edge himself.
Deep in thought, Wallander pulled toward him the notebook in which he had previously written Torstensson’s name. He added another: Gustaf Torstensson. Then he wrote them again in reverse order.
He picked up the phone and dialed Martinsson’s number. No answer. He tried again, still no answer. Then it dawned on him that the numbers must have been changed while he was away. He walked down the corridor to Martinsson’s office. The door was open.
“I’ve been through the investigation reports,” he said, sitting down on Martinsson’s rickety visitor’s chair.
“Nothing much to go on, as you’ll have noted,” Martinsson said. “One or more intruders break into Torstensson’s office and shoot him. Apparently nothing was stolen. His wallet still in his inside pocket. Mrs. Dunér’s been working there for more than thirty years and she is sure that nothing is missing.”
Wallander nodded. He still hadn’t unearthed what it was that Martinsson had said or not said earlier which had made him react.
“You were first on the scene, I suppose?” he said.
“Peters and Norén were there first, in fact,” Martinsson said. “They sent for me.”
“One usually gets a first impression on occasions like this,” Wallander said. “What did you think?”
“Murder with intent to rob,” Martinsson said without hesitation.
“How many of them were there?”
“We’ve found no evidence to suggest whether there was just one or more than one. But only one weapon was used, we can be pretty sure of that, even if the technical reports are not all in yet.”
“So, was it a man who broke in?”
“I think so,” Martinsson said. “But that’s just a gut feeling with nothing to support or reject it.”
“Torstensson was hit by three bullets,” Wallander said. “One in the heart, one in the stomach just below the navel, and one in his forehead. Am I right in thinking that that suggests a marksman who knew what he was doing?”
“That struck me too,” Martinsson said. “But of course it could have been pure coincidence. They say death is caused just as often by random shots as by shots from a skilled marksman. I read that in some American report.”
Wallander got to his feet. “Why should anybody want to break into a lawyer’s office?” he asked. “Presumably because lawyers are said to earn huge amounts of money. But would anybody really expect to find the money piled up in their office?”
“There’s only one or perhaps two persons who could answer that question,” Martinsson said.
“We’ll catch them,” Wallander said. “I think I’ll go there and have a look around.”
“Mrs. Dunér is pretty shaken, naturally,” Martinsson said. “In less than a month the whole fabric of her life has collapsed. First old man Torstensson dies. She has hardly finished making the funeral arrangements when his son is murdered. She’s in shock, but even so it’s surprisingly easy to talk to her. Her address is on the transcript of the conversation Svedberg had with her.”
“Stickgatan 26,” Wallander read. “That’s just behind the Continental Hotel. I sometimes park there.”
“Isn’t that an offense?” Martinsson said.
Wallander picked up his jacket and left the station. He had never seen the receptionist before. He thought that perhaps he should have introduced himself. Not least to find out whether Ebba, who had been there for years, had stopped working evenings. But he let it pass. The time he had spent in the station so far today had seemed on the face of it to be nothing dramatic, but that did not reflect the tension inside him. He felt he needed to be by himself. For some considerable time now he had spent most of his days alone. He needed time to make the transformation. He drove down the hill toward the hospital, and just for a moment felt a vague yearning for the solitariness of Skagen, for his isolated sentry duty and his beach patrols that were guaranteed not to be disturbed.
But that was all in the past. He was back at work now.
I’m not used to it, he thought. It’ll pass, even if it takes time.
The law firm was located in a yellow-painted stone building on Sjömansgatan, not far from the old theater that was being renovated. A patrol car was parked outside, and on the opposite pavement a handful of onlookers were discussing what had happened. The wind was gusting in from the sea, and Wallander shuddered as he clambered out of his car. He opened the heavy front door and almost collided with Svedberg on his way out.
“I thought I’d get a bite to eat,” he said.
“Go ahead,” Wallander said. “I expect to be here for a while.”
A young clerk was sitting in the front office with nothing to do. She looked anxious. Wallander remembered from the reports that her name was Sonia Lundin, and that she had been working there only a few months. She had not been able to provide the investigation with any useful information.
Wallander shook hands with her and introduced himself.
“I’m just going to take a look around,” he said. “Mrs. Dunér’s not here, I suppose?”
“She’s at home, crying,” the girl said.
Wallander had no idea what to say.
“She’ll never survive all this,” Lundin said. “She’ll die too.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Wallander said, conscious of how hollow his response sounded.
The Torstensson legal practice had been a workplace for solitary people, he thought. Gustaf Torstensson had been a widower for more than fifteen years and so his son Sten had been without a mother all that time and was a bachelor to boot. Mrs Dunér had been divorced since the early 1970s. Three solitary people who came into contact with each other day after day. And now two of them were gone, leaving the third more alone than ever.
Wallander had no difficulty in understanding why Mrs. Dunér was at home crying.
The door to the meeting room was closed. Wallander could hear murmuring from inside. The lawyers’ nameplates were on the doors on either side of the meeting room, fancily printed on highly polished brass plates.
On the spur of the moment he opened first the door to Gustaf Torstensson’s office. The curtains were drawn and the room was in darkness. There was
a faint aroma of cigar smoke. Wallander looked around and had the feeling that he had gone back to an earlier age. Heavy leather sofas, a marble table, paintings on the walls. It occurred to him that he had overlooked one possibility: that whoever murdered Sten Torstensson was there to steal the objets d’art. He walked up to one of the paintings and tried to decipher the signature, trying also to establish whether it was a copy or an original. Without having been successful on either count, he moved on. There was a large globe next to the solid-looking desk, which was empty, apart from some pens, a telephone, and a Dictaphone. He sat in the comfortable desk chair and continued to look around the room, thinking again about what Sten Torstensson had said to him in the café at the museum in Skagen.
A car accident that wasn’t a car accident. A man who had spent the last months of his life trying to hide something that was worrying him.
Wallander asked himself what would be the characteristics of an lawyer’s life. Supplying legal advice. Defending when a prosecutor prosecutes. An attorney was always receiving confidential information. Lawyers were under a strict oath of confidentiality. It dawned on him that they had a lot of secrets to keep. He hadn’t thought of that before.
He got to his feet after a while. It was too soon to draw any conclusions.
Lundin was still sitting motionless in her chair. He opened the door to Sten Torstensson’s office. He hesitated for a second, as if half-expecting to see the dead man’s body lying there on the floor, as it was in the photographs he had seen in the case reports, but all that was left was a plastic sheet. The technical team had taken the dark green carpet away with them.
The room was not unlike the one he had just left. The only obvious difference was a pair of visitors’ chairs in front of the desk. This time Wallander refrained from sitting down. There were no papers on the desk.
I’m still only scraping at the surface, he thought. I feel as if I’m listening as much as I am trying to get my bearings by looking.