The Troubled Man

  When Wallander came home that evening he went to the room his father used as a studio. He could still remember even now that his father was busy painting in the forest background he used in all his pictures. When he was a teenager Wallander had a good relationship with his father – that might have been the best time in their shared existence. It would be another three, perhaps four years before Wallander came home and announced that he was going to become a police officer. His father had gone through the roof and come close to throwing him out – in any case, he refused to talk to him for quite some time.

  Wallander had sat on a stool next to his father and told him about his visit to the People’s Park. His father often muttered that he wasn’t interested in politics, but Wallander eventually realised that this wasn’t the case. His father always voted faithfully for the Social Democrats, was angrily sceptical about the Communists, and always criticised the non-socialist parties for favouring citizens who were already leading a comfortable life.

  The conversation with his father that day came back to him now, almost word for word. Earlier, his father had always spoken positively about Erlander, maintaining that he was an honest man you could trust, unlike many other politicians.

  ‘He said that Russia is our enemy,’ Wallander said.

  ‘That’s not completely true. It wouldn’t do any harm if our politicians devoted a thought or two to the role America plays nowadays.’

  Wallander was surprised by what he said. Surely America represented the good guys? After all, they were the ones who had defeated Hitler and the Nazis’ Thousand-Year Reich. America produced movies, music, clothes. As far as Wallander was concerned, Elvis Presley was the King, and there was nothing to beat ‘Blue Suede Shoes’. He had stopped collecting everything he could find about Hollywood stars, but still there was nobody to beat Alan Ladd. Now his father was implying that you had to be on your guard where America was concerned. Was there something Wallander didn’t know?

  Wallander repeated the prime minister’s words: the neutrality of Sweden, with its freedom from all kinds of pacts and treaties. ‘Is that what he said?’ his father had commented. ‘The fact is, American jets fly through Swedish airspace. We pretend to be neutral, but at the same time we play along with NATO and more specifically with America.’

  Wallander pressed his father on what he meant, but he didn’t get an answer, only some inaudible mumbling and then a request to be left in peace.

  ‘You ask too many questions.’

  ‘But you’ve always said that I shouldn’t be afraid to ask you if there was something I wondered about.’

  ‘There has to be a limit.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Right here. I’m making mistakes when I paint.’

  ‘How is that possible? You’ve been painting the same picture every day since long before I was born.’

  ‘Go away! Leave me in peace!’

  And then, as he stood in the doorway, Wallander said: ‘I got a five-krona tip for getting the flowers to Elander in time.’

  ‘Erlander. Learn people’s names.’

  And at that precise moment, as if the memory had opened a door for him, Wallander saw that he was totally on the wrong track. He’d been deceived, and he’d allowed himself to be deceived. He’d been following the path dictated by his assumptions instead of reality. He sat motionless at his desk, his hands clenched, and allowed his thoughts to lead him to a new and unexpected explanation of what had happened. It was so mind-boggling that at first he couldn’t believe he could be right. The only thing that kept him focused was that his instincts had warned him. He really had overlooked something. He had mixed up the truth and the lies and assumed that the cause was the effect and vice versa.

  He went to the bathroom and took off his shirt, which was soaked in sweat. When he had given himself a good wash, he went down to his locker in the basement and put on a clean shirt. He recalled in passing having received it from Linda for his birthday a few years earlier.

  When he returned to his office he searched through his papers until he found the photograph he had been given by Asta Hagberg, the one of Colonel Stig Wennerström in Washington talking to a young Håkan von Enke. He studied the faces of the two men. Wennerström was smiling coolly, Martini glass in hand, facing Håkan von Enke, who looked serious listening to what Wennerström had to say.

  He lined up his Lego pieces in his mind’s eye once more. They were all there: Louise and Håkan von Enke, Hans, Signe in her bed, Sten Nordlander, Hermann Eber, Steven Atkins in America, George Talboth in Berlin. He added Fanny Klarström, and then another piece – but he didn’t yet know whom it represented. Then he slowly removed piece after piece until there were only two left. Louise and Håkan. It was Louise who fell over. That’s how her life came to an end; she was knocked over somewhere on Värmdö. But Håkan, her husband, was still standing.

  Wallander recorded his thoughts. Then he put the photograph from Washington in his jacket pocket and left the police station. This time he left through the main entrance, greeted the girl in reception, spoke to a few traffic officers who had just come in, then walked down the hill into town. Anybody watching him might have wondered why he was walking so erratically – now fast, now slow. Occasionally he held out one hand, as if he were talking to somebody and needed to emphasise what he was saying with various gestures.

  He stopped at the sausage stand opposite the hospital and stood there for ages wondering what to order; but then he kept on walking without having eaten anything at all.

  The whole time, the same thoughts were running through his mind. Could what he now envisaged really be true? Could he have misinterpreted what had happened so fundamentally?

  He wandered around town and eventually went to the marina, walked to the end of the pier and sat down on his usual bench. He took the photo out of his pocket and examined it yet again, then put it back.

  *

  The penny had dropped. Baiba had been right, his beloved Baiba whom he was now longing for more than ever.

  Behind every person there’s always somebody else. The mistake he had made was to confuse those in the foreground with those lurking in the background.

  Everything added up at last. He could see the pattern that had eluded him thus far. And he could see it very clearly.

  A fishing boat was on its way out of the harbour. The man at the helm raised a hand and waved to Wallander. He waved back. Thunderclouds were building up on the horizon. At this moment he missed his father. That didn’t happen often. For a short while after his father’s death, Wallander had been aware of a frightening vacuum, but at the same time it was a relief that he had passed away. But at this moment neither the vacuum nor the relief was still there; he simply missed his father and longed to relive the good times they’d had together, despite everything.

  Perhaps I never saw him as he really was, didn’t know who he really was, nor what he meant for me and for others. Just as little as I understood until now about Håkan von Enke’s disappearance and Louise’s death. At last I feel I’m getting closer to a solution, rather than drifting further and further away from it.

  He realised that he would have to make another journey this summer, which had already involved so much travelling. But he had no choice. He knew now what he needed to do.

  Once again he took the photo out of his jacket pocket. He held it in front of him, then tore it in two, right down the middle. Once there had been a world that brought Stig Wennerström and Håkan von Enke together, but now he had torn them apart.

  ‘Was that the case even in those days?’ he said out loud to himself. ‘Or was it something that came about much later?’

  He didn’t know. But he intended to find out.

  Nobody heard him as he sat there, at the very end of the pier, speaking aloud to himself.

  39

  Looking back, he had only vague and disjointed memories of that day. He eventually left the pier and went back into town, stopped outside a newly opened cafe
in Hamngatan, peered in through the door, then left immediately. He made another tour of the streets before stopping at the Chinese restaurant near Stora Torget that he usually frequented. He sat down at an empty table – there were not many customers at this time in the afternoon – and somewhat absent-mindedly chose a dish from the menu.

  If anybody had asked him afterwards what he had eaten, he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell them. His thoughts were elsewhere. He was formulating a plan to confirm his suspicions. He now held different cards in his hand; everything he had believed earlier had been proved wrong.

  He sat there for ages, poking at his food with his chopsticks, then suddenly devoured everything, far too quickly, paid the bill and left the restaurant. He returned to the police station. On the way to his office he was stopped by Kristina Magnusson, who invited him to join her family for dinner that weekend. He could pick the day, Saturday or Sunday. Since he couldn’t think of an excuse to turn her down, he told her he’d be delighted to join her on Sunday. He hung his home-made ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the handle of his office door, switched off his mobile phone, and closed his eyes. After a while he straightened his back, scribbled a few notes in his notepad and knew that he had now made up his mind. For better or worse, he needed to determine whether things really were as he now thought. To make sure he wasn’t mistaken, hadn’t allowed himself to be fooled again. In a sudden outburst of anger he hurled his pen at the wall and cursed loudly. Just once, no more. Then he called Sten Nordlander. The connection was poor. When Wallander insisted that it was absolutely vital that they talk, Nordlander promised to call him back. Wallander hung up, and wondered why it was so difficult to call certain parts of the archipelago. Or was Nordlander actually somewhere else?

  He waited. He spent the time going over all the thoughts filling his head. His brain was like a tank full to the brim. He was worried that it might start to overflow.

  Sten Nordlander called forty minutes later. Wallander had placed his watch on the desk in front of him and noted that the hands pointed to ten minutes past six. The connection was now perfect.

  ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m moored at Utö now.’

  ‘Not far from Muskö, then,’ said Wallander. ‘Or am I wrong?’

  ‘Not at all. You could say without fear of contradiction that I’m in classic waters. Submarine waters, that is.’

  ‘We need to meet,’ said Wallander. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Did something happen?’

  ‘Something’s always happening. But I want to talk to you about a thought that’s occurred to me.’

  ‘So nothing’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing. But I don’t want to discuss this on the phone. What are you doing for the next few days?’

  ‘It must be important if you’re thinking of coming here.’

  ‘There’s something else I need to take care of in Stockholm,’ said Wallander, as calmly as he could.

  ‘When were you thinking of coming?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I know it’s short notice.’

  Nordlander thought for a moment. Wallander could hear his heavy breathing.

  ‘I’m on my way home,’ he said. ‘We could meet in town.’

  ‘If you tell me how to get to wherever you’ll be, I can make my way there.’

  ‘I think that would be best. Shall we meet in the lobby of the Mariners’ Hotel? What time?’

  ‘Four o’clock,’ said Wallander. ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me.’

  Nordlander laughed.

  ‘Do you give me any choice?’

  ‘Do I sound that strict?’

  ‘Like an old schoolmaster. You’re sure that nothing’s happened?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ said Wallander evasively. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

  Wallander sat down at his computer and with some effort eventually managed to buy a train ticket and book a room at the Mariners’ Hotel. Since the train was due to leave early the following day, he drove home and took Jussi to his neighbours’. The husband was in the farmyard, tinkering with his tractor. He raised his eyebrows at Wallander when he saw him approaching with the dog.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to sell him?’

  ‘Completely sure. But I have to go away again. To Stockholm.’

  ‘I seem to recall that only the other day you were sitting in my kitchen and telling me how much you hated big towns.’

  ‘I do. But I have to go for work reasons.’

  ‘Don’t you have enough crooks to deal with down here?’

  ‘I certainly do. But I’m afraid I do have to go to Stockholm.’

  Wallander stroked Jussi and handed over the leash. Jussi was used to this by now, and didn’t react.

  But before leaving, Wallander had a question for his neighbour. It was only polite to ask at this time of year, as autumn was approaching.

  ‘How’s the harvest looking?’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  Very good, in other words, Wallander thought as he made his way back home. He’s usually pretty gloomy when it comes to forecasting crop yields.

  Wallander called Linda when he got in. He didn’t tell her the real reason for his journey; he simply said he’d been called to an important meeting in Stockholm. She didn’t question that, merely asked how long he was going to be away.

  ‘A couple of days. Maybe three.’

  ‘Where will you be staying?’

  ‘At the Mariners’ Hotel. For the first night, at least. I might stay with Sten Nordlander after that.’

  It was seven thirty by the time he had packed a few clothes into a bag, locked up the house and settled in his car to drive to Malmö. After much hesitation he had also packed his – or rather, his father’s – old shotgun and a few cartridges, as well as his service revolver. He was going to travel by train and wouldn’t need to pass through security checks. He didn’t like the idea of taking weapons, but on the other hand, he didn’t dare travel without them.

  He checked into a cheap hotel on the outskirts of Malmö, had dinner at a restaurant not far from Jägersro, and then went for a long walk to tire himself out. He was up and dressed by five the next morning. When he paid his bill, he made arrangements for his car to stay in the hotel car park until he returned, then ordered a taxi to take him to the train station. He could feel it was going to be a hot day.

  Wallander usually felt at his most alert in the mornings. That had been the case for as long as he could remember. As he stood outside the hotel, waiting for his taxi, he had no doubts. He was doing the right thing. At long last he felt he was approaching a solution to everything that had happened.

  He spent the train journey to Stockholm sleeping, leafing through various newspapers, half solving a few crossword puzzles, and simply sitting back and letting his mind wander. His thoughts returned over and over again to that evening in Djursholm. He recalled all the photos he had at home of that occasion. How Håkan von Enke seemed worried. And just one picture of Louise when she wasn’t smiling. The only picture in which she was serious.

  He ate a couple of sandwiches and drank coffee in the restaurant car, surprised by the prices, then sat with his head in his hands, gazing absent-mindedly out the window at the countryside hurrying past.

  Shortly after Nässjö, what he always dreaded nowadays happened. He suddenly had no idea where he was going. He had to check his ticket in order to remember. His shirt was soaked in sweat after this attack of forgetfulness. Yet again he had been shaken.

  He checked into the Mariners’ Hotel at about noon. Sten Nordlander arrived shortly after four. He was tanned, and his hair had been cut short. He also seemed to have lost weight. His face lit up when he saw Wallander.

  ‘You look tired,’ Nordlander said. ‘Haven’t you made the most of your holiday?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Wallander replied.

  ‘It’s lovely weather – shall we go out, or would you prefer to stay here?’

  ‘Let’s go out. How
about Mosebacke? It’s warm enough to sit out in the sun.’

  As they walked up the hill to the square, Wallander said nothing about why he had come to Stockholm. And Sten Nordlander didn’t ask any questions. The walk winded Wallander, but Nordlander seemed to be in good shape. They sat out on the terrace, where nearly all the tables were occupied. It would soon be autumn, with its chilly evenings. Stockholmers were taking advantage of the opportunity to sit outside for as long as possible.

  Wallander ordered tea – he had a stomach ache from drinking too much coffee. Nordlander decided on a beer and a sandwich.

  Wallander braced himself.

  ‘I wasn’t really telling you the truth when I said that nothing had happened. But I didn’t want to talk about it on the phone.’

  He was observing Nordlander carefully as he spoke. The expression of surprise on his face seemed to be completely genuine.

  ‘Håkan?’he asked.

  ‘Yes. I know where he is.’

  Nordlander’s eyes never left Wallander’s face. He doesn’t know, Wallander thought, and felt relieved. He hasn’t the slightest idea. Right now I need somebody I can rely on.