Wallander's First Case

  ‘This is news,’ Wallander said. ‘May I ask when you’re planning to move?’

  ‘The removal men are coming this Friday.’

  ‘You’re already moving this week?’

  ‘You heard what I said. Next time we play cards we’ll be in the middle of the Skåne mud.’

  Wallander threw his arms out.

  ‘When will you pack? Everything is a terrible mess.’

  ‘I assumed that you wouldn’t have any time. So I asked your sister to come down and help me.’

  ‘So you’re saying that if I hadn’t come over tonight I would have found an empty house the next time I came for a visit?’

  ‘Yes, you would have.’

  Wallander held out his glass for more cognac, which his father parsimoniously only filled halfway.

  ‘I don’t even know where it is. Löderup? Is that on this or the far side of Ystad?’

  ‘It’s on this side of Simrishamn.’

  ‘Can you answer my question?’

  ‘I already have.’

  His father stood up and put the bottle of cognac away. Then he pointed to the cards.

  ‘One more hand?’

  ‘I have no money left. But I’ll try to drop by in the evenings and help you pack. How did you pay for this house?’

  ‘I’ve already forgotten that.’

  ‘You can’t have done. Do you have that much money?’

  ‘No. But money doesn’t interest me.’

  Wallander realised he was not going to get a clearer answer than this. It was already half past ten. He needed to get home and sleep. At the same time he had trouble leaving. This was where he had grown up. When he was born they had lived in Klagshamn but he had no real memories of it.

  ‘Who is going to live here now?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve heard it will be demolished.’

  ‘You don’t seem to care very much about that. How long have you lived here, anyway?’

  ‘Nineteen years. More than enough.’

  ‘I can’t accuse you of being sentimental, at any rate. Do you realise that this is my childhood home?’

  ‘A house is a house,’ his father answered. ‘Now I’ve had enough of the city. I want to get out into the countryside. I’ll be left in peace there and paint and plan my travels to Egypt and Italy.’

  Wallander walked all the way back to Rosengård. It was overcast. He realised he was anxious that his father was going to move and that his childhood home was going to be torn down.

  I am sentimental, he thought. Perhaps that’s why I like opera. The question is, can you be a good police officer if you have a tendency towards sentimentality?

  The day after, Wallander called to enquire about train departures for their holiday. Mona had booked a room in a bed and breakfast that sounded cosy. Wallander spent the rest of the day patrolling down-town Malmö. The whole time he thought he saw the girl who had accosted him in the cafe. He longed for the day he could take off his uniform. Everywhere gazes were directed at him, expressing distaste or disdain, especially from people his own age. He was patrolling with an overweight and slow policeman by the name of Svanlund, who spent the whole time talking about the fact that he was going to retire in one year and move to his ancestral farm outside Hudiksvall. Wallander listened absently and mumbled something inconsequential from time to time. Apart from escorting some drunks away from a playground, nothing else happened other than Wallander’s feet starting to hurt. It was the first time, even though he had patrolled so often during his working life thus far. He wondered if it was due to his increased desire to become a criminal investigator. When he came home he took out a washbowl and filled it with warm water. A feeling of well-being spread throughout his entire body when he put his feet into the water.

  He closed his eyes and started to think about the tempting holiday. He and Mona would have undisturbed time to plan their future. And soon he hoped to be able to hang up his uniform at long last and move up to the floor where Hemberg was.

  He nodded off in the chair. The window was open a crack. Someone appeared to be burning rubbish. He picked up a faint smell of smoke. Or perhaps dry twigs. There was a weak crackling sound.

  He jerked and opened his eyes. Was there really someone burning rubbish in their garden? There were no free-standing houses with gardens in the neighbourhood.

  Then he saw the smoke.

  It was filtering in from the hallway. When he ran to the front door he knocked over the bowl of water. The stairwell was full of smoke, but he had no trouble determining the source of the fire.

  Hålén’s apartment was engulfed in flames.

  CHAPTER 2

  Afterwards Wallander thought that for once he had really managed to act according to the rule book. He had run back into his apartment and called the fire brigade. Then he had returned to the stairwell, run up a floor, and banged on Linnea Almquist’s door and made sure that she got out onto the street. She had at first protested but Wallander had insisted, grabbing her by the arm. When they made it out the front door Wallander discovered that he had a large cut on one knee. He had tripped over the bowl when he had gone back into the apartment and had hit his knee on a corner of the table. He only discovered now that it was bleeding.

  Extinguishing the blaze had gone quickly since the fire had not really had a chance to establish itself before Wallander had smelled the smoke and alerted the fire brigade. When he approached the fire chief to find out if they had already determined the cause of the blaze, he had been turned away. Furious, he had gone to his apartment and retrieved his police badge. The fire chief’s name was Faråker and he was in his sixties, with a ruddy face and a sonorous voice.

  ‘You could have told me you were police,’ he said.

  ‘I live in this building. I was the one who called in the alarm.’

  Wallander told him what had happened with Hålén.

  ‘Too many people are dying,’ Faråker said firmly. Wallander was not completely sure how to take this unexpected comment.

  ‘So this means that the apartment was empty,’ Wallander said.

  ‘It appears to have been started in the entrance hall,’ Faråker said. ‘I’ll be damned if it wasn’t arson.’

  Wallander looked quizzically at him.

  ‘How can you know that already?’

  ‘You learn a thing or two as the years go by,’ Faråker said at the same time that he handed out some instructions.

  ‘You will do this too one day,’ he continued and started stuffing an old pipe with tobacco.

  ‘If this is arson, the crime division will have to be called in, won’t it?’ Wallander said.

  ‘They’re already on their way.’

  Wallander joined some colleagues and helped them keep curious onlookers at bay.

  ‘The second one today,’ one of the officers said. His name was Wennström. ‘This morning we had a pile of burning timber out near Limhamn.’

  Wallander wondered briefly if his father had decided to burn the house since he was moving anyway. But he did not pursue this line of thought.

  A car pulled up to the kerb. Wallander saw to his surprise that it was Hemberg. He waved Wallander over.

  ‘I heard the dispatch,’ he said. ‘Lundin was supposed to take it, but I thought I would take over since I recognised the address.’

  ‘The fire chief thinks it’s arson.’

  Hemberg made a face.

  ‘People believe a hell of a lot of things,’ he said. ‘I’ve known Faråker for almost fifteen years. It doesn’t matter if it’s a burning chimney or car engine. For him everything is a suspected case of arson. Come with me and you may learn something.’

  Wallander followed him.

  ‘What do you say about this?’ Hemberg asked.

  ‘Arson.’

  Faråker sounded extremely sure. Wallander sensed that there was a deep-seated, mutual antipathy between the two men.

  ‘The man who lives here is dead. Who would have started a fire in there?’


  ‘That’s your job to find out. I’m just saying it was arson.’

  ‘Can we go in?’

  Faråker shouted out to one of the firemen, who gave an all-clear signal. The fire was out and the worst of the smoke gone. They went in. The part of the entrance hall by the front door was scorched. But the flames had never reached further than the curtain that divided the hall from the main room. Faråker pointed to the letter box in the door.

  ‘It might have been started here,’ he said. ‘Smouldered first, and then caught fire. There aren’t any electrical wires or anything else that could catch fire on their own.’

  Hemberg crouched down next to the door. Then he sniffed.

  ‘It’s possible that you’re right for once,’ he said and stood back up. ‘It has a smell. Kerosene, maybe.’

  ‘If it had been petrol, the fire would have been different.’

  ‘So someone put it through the letter box?’

  ‘That’s the most likely scenario.’

  Faråker poked the remains of the hall mat with his foot.

  ‘Hardly paper,’ he said. ‘More likely a piece of cloth. Or cotton batting.’

  Hemberg shook his head gloomily.

  ‘Damn people who start fires in the homes of people who are already dead.’

  ‘Your problem,’ Faråker said. ‘Not mine.’

  ‘We’ll have to ask forensics to take a look at this.’

  For a moment Hemberg appeared concerned. Then he looked at Wallander.

  ‘Any possibility of getting a cup of coffee?’

  They walked into Wallander’s apartment. Hemberg looked at the overturned bowl and the pool of water on the floor.

  ‘Were you trying to put the fire out yourself?’

  ‘I was taking a footbath.’

  Hemberg regarded him with interest.

  ‘Footbath?’

  ‘Sometimes my feet hurt.’

  ‘Then you must have the wrong kind of shoes,’ Hemberg said. ‘I patrolled for more than ten years but my feet never gave me any trouble.’

  Hemberg sat down at the kitchen table while Wallander prepared the coffee.

  ‘Did you hear anything?’ Hemberg asked. ‘Anyone on the stairs?’

  ‘No.’

  Wallander thought it was embarrassing to admit he was sleeping this time as well.

  ‘If anyone had been moving around out there, would you have heard them?’

  ‘You can hear the front door slam,’ Wallander said with deliberate vagueness. ‘I probably would have heard someone come in. If the person didn’t stop the door from slamming.’

  Wallander set out a packet of plain vanilla wafers. It was the only thing he had to serve with the coffee.

  ‘There’s something strange here,’ Hemberg said. ‘Everything points to the fact that it was a perfect suicide. Hålén must have had a steady hand. He aimed well. Straight through the heart, no hesitation. The medical examiners aren’t done yet, but we don’t need to look for a cause of death other than suicide. There is none. The question is rather what this person was looking for. And why someone tried to burn down the apartment. It’s probably the same person.’

  Hemberg nodded to Wallander, indicating that he wanted more coffee.

  ‘Do you have an opinion on this?’ Hemberg asked abruptly. ‘Show me now if you can think.’

  Wallander was completely unprepared for this.

  ‘The person who was here last night was looking for something,’ he started. ‘But probably he didn’t find anything.’

  ‘Because you interrupted him? Because otherwise he would have left already?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was he looking for?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And now tonight someone sets fire to the apartment. Let us assume it is the same person. What does this mean?’

  Wallander pondered this.

  ‘Take your time,’ Hemberg said. ‘If you are to make a good detective you have to learn to think methodically, and it is often the same thing as thinking slowly.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t want anyone else to find what he had been looking for?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Hemberg said. ‘Why “perhaps”?’

  ‘Because there could be another explanation.’

  ‘Like what, for example?’

  Wallander searched frantically for an alternative without finding one.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I can’t find another alternative. At least not right now.’

  Hemberg took a wafer.

  ‘I can’t either,’ he said. ‘Which means that the explanation may still be in the apartment. Without us having been able to find it. If this had all stopped at the nightly visit, this case would have ended as soon as the results of the weapons examination and autopsy were in. But with this fire, we’ll probably have to do another round in there.’

  ‘Did Hålén really not have any relatives?’ Wallander asked.

  Hemberg pushed away his cup and got to his feet.

  ‘Come by my office tomorrow and I’ll show you the report.’

  Wallander hesitated.

  ‘I don’t know when I’ll get time for that. We have to do a sweep of the Malmö parks tomorrow. Drugs.’

  ‘I’ll talk to your superior officer,’ Hemberg said. ‘We’ll work it out.’

  A little after eight the following day, 7 June, Wallander was reading through all of the case material that Hemberg had collected on Hålén. It was extremely sparse. He had no fortune but also no debt. He appeared to have lived completely within the means of his pension. The only recorded relative was a sister who had died in 1967 in Katrineholm. The parents had passed away earlier.

  Wallander read the report in Hemberg’s office while Hemberg attended a meeting. He returned shortly after half past eight.

  ‘Have you found anything?’ he asked.

  ‘How can a person be so alone?’

  ‘You may ask,’ Hemberg said, ‘but it gives us no answers. Let’s go over to the apartment.’

  That morning the forensic technicians were making a thorough examination of Hålén’s apartment. The man leading the work was small and thin and said almost nothing. His name was Sjunnesson; he was a legend in Swedish forensics.

  ‘If there’s anything here, he’ll find it,’ Hemberg said. ‘Stay here and learn from him.’

  Hemberg suddenly received a message and left.

  ‘A man up in Jägersro has hanged himself in a garage,’ he said when he returned.

  Then he left again. When he returned, his hair had been trimmed.

  At three o’clock Sjunnesson called the work to a halt.

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ he said. ‘No hidden money, no drugs. It’s clean.’

  ‘Then there was someone who imagined there was something here,’ Hemberg said. ‘And who was wrong. Now we’ll close this case.’

  Wallander followed Hemberg out onto the street.

  ‘You have to know when it’s time to quit,’ Hemberg said. ‘That may be the most important thing of all.’

  Wallander went back to his apartment and called Mona. They agreed to meet later that evening and take a drive. She had borrowed a car from a friend. She would drop by and pick Wallander up at seven.

  ‘Let’s go to Helsingborg,’ she suggested.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve never been there.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Wallander said. ‘I’ll be ready at seven. And then we’ll go to Helsingborg.’

  But Wallander never made it to Helsingborg that evening. Shortly before six o’clock the phone rang. It was Hemberg.

  ‘Come down here,’ he said. ‘I’m in my office.’

  ‘Actually I have other plans,’ Wallander said.

  Hemberg interrupted him.

  ‘I thought you were interested in what had happened to your neighbour. Come down here and I’ll show you. It won’t take long.’

  Wallander’s curiosity was aroused. He called Mona at home but did not get a
n answer.

  I’ll make it back in time, he thought. I can’t really afford a taxi but that can’t be helped. He tore off a piece of paper from a bag and scribbled that he would be back at seven. Then he called for a cab. This time he was able to get through immediately. He attached the note to the door with a drawing pin and left for the police headquarters. Hemberg was sitting in his office with his feet on the table.

  He gestured for Wallander to sit down.

  ‘We were wrong,’ he said. ‘There was an alternative that we didn’t think of. Sjunnesson didn’t make a mistake. He told the truth: there wasn’t anything in Hålén’s apartment. And he was right. But there had been something there.’

  Wallander did not know what Hemberg was talking about.

  ‘I also admit that I was tricked,’ Hemberg said. ‘But Hålén had removed what was in the apartment.’

  ‘But he was dead.’

  Hemberg nodded.

  ‘The medical examiner called,’ he said. ‘The autopsy is complete. And he found something very interesting in Hålén’s stomach.’

  Hemberg swung his feet off the desk. Then he took out a little folded piece of cloth from one of the drawers and carefully unwrapped it in front of Wallander.

  There were stones inside. Precious stones. Of which type, Wallander was unable to determine.

  ‘I had a jeweller here just before you arrived,’ Hemberg said. ‘He made a preliminary examination. These are diamonds. Probably from South African mines. He said they were worth a minor fortune. Hålén had swallowed them.’

  ‘He had these in his stomach?’

  Hemberg nodded.

  ‘No wonder we didn’t find them.’

  ‘But why did he swallow them? And when did he do this?’

  ‘The last question is perhaps the most important. The doctor said that he swallowed them only a few hours before he shot himself. Before his intestines and stomach stopped working. Why do you think that might be?’

  ‘He was afraid.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Hemberg pushed the packet of diamonds away and put his feet back up on the table. Wallander caught a whiff of foot odour.