"My name is Carl-Anders Setterkvist and I own this building. There have been a number of complaints from other residents lately about excessive noise and loud visits by military men. I would prefer to speak to Mr Falk about it personally, if possible."
"Mr Falk is dead," Wallander said brusquely.
Setterkvist stared at him. "Dead? Whatever do you mean?"
"I'm a police officer," Wallander said,"CID. There's been a burglary here. But Mr Falk died last Monday. There are no military personnel running up and down these stairs, they're police."
Setterkvist seemed to be trying to gauge whether Wallander was telling the truth.
"I would like to see your identification badge, please," he said.
"Badges disappeared a long time ago," Wallander said, "but you can see my identification card." Setterkvist studied it carefully.
Wallander told him briefly what had happened.
"How unfortunate," Setterkvist said. "What will happen to the flats?"
Wallander frowned. "The flats?"
"I simply mean that it's difficult when new people move in. One wants to know what kind of people they are before renting the place, especially in this sort of building with a number of elderly tenants."
"Do you live here yourself?"
Setterkvist was clearly insulted. "I live in a house outside town."
"You said 'flats'."
"What else would I have called them?"
"Did you mean that Falk rented more than one flat?"
Setterkvist gestured that he wanted to be let in. Wallander stepped aside for him.
"I should warn you that it's so messy in here because there's been a burglary."
"I've been the victim of a burglary myself," Setterkvist said calmly. "I know how it is."
Wallander ushered him into the kitchen.
"Mr Falk was an excellent tenant" Setterkvist said. "Never late with the rent. At my age one is surprised by nothing, but I must admit to being a little shaken by the complaints that have come in these past few days. That is why I am here in person."
"He rents more than one flat, did you say?"
"I have a wonderful old building by Runnerströms Torg," Setterkvist said. "Falk had a small flat there, in the attic. He needed it for his work."
That would explain the absence of computers, Wallander thought. There certainly isn't anything in this flat to suggest that he worked here.
"I need to see that office," Wallander said.
Setterkvist thought for a moment, then drew out the largest set of keys Wallander had ever seen. Setterkvist knew at once which keys he needed. He removed them from the key chain.
"I'll write out a receipt," Wallander said.
Setterkvist shook his head.
"One has to be able to trust people," he said. "Or rather, one has to be able to rely on one's own judgement."
Setterkvist marched off, while Wallander called the station and arranged for someone to come and help him seal the flat. Then he walked straight down to Runnerströms Torg. It was close to 7 p.m. The wind buffeted him. Wallander was cold. Martinsson had lent him a coat, but it was thin. He thought about the bullet. It still seemed unreal. He wondered what his reaction would be in a couple of days, when the realisation of how close to death he had been sank in.
The house on Runnerströms Torg was a three-storey, turn-of-the-century building. Wallander walked to the other side of the street and stared up at the attic windows. No lights. Before he walked to the front door he looked about him. A man cycled past, then he was alone. Wallander let himself in. He heard music coming from one flat. He turned on the light in the hall. When he had climbed all the way to the attic floor there was only one door on the landing. It was a security door, no name or letter box. Wallander listened, but heard nothing. He unlocked the door. Pausing in the doorway, he listened again. For a split second he thought he heard someone breathing in the darkness and he almost jumped out before he realised it was his imagination. He turned on the light and let the door close behind him.
It was a large room, almost empty. The only furniture was a desk and a chair. There was a large computer on the desk. Wallander approached it and saw that on the desk next to the computer there was something like a blueprint. He turned on the desk lamp. It took him a moment to see what it was. He was looking at a blueprint of the power substation where Hökberg had been killed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wallander held his breath. At first he thought he was mistaken. It had to be a blueprint of something else. Then all doubt disappeared. He knew he was right. Carefully, he laid the paper back on the desk, next to the computer with its large dark screen. He could see his face reflected in it. There was a phone on the desk. He thought he should call someone, either Martinsson or Höglund. And Nyberg. But he didn't lift the receiver. Instead he started slowly walking around the room. This is where Falk worked, he thought. Behind a reinforced steel door that would have been very hard for someone to open without a key. This is where he worked. A computer consultant. One evening his body is found next to an ATM. His body disappears from the morgue, and now I find a blueprint for the power substation next to his computer.
For one breathtaking moment he thought he could see the connection. But the kaleidoscope of facts was too confusing. Wallander kept walking around. What is here, he thought, and what is missing? There is a computer, a chair, a desk, a lamp. There is a telephone and a blueprint, but no shelves, no binders, no books. Not one pen.
He turned the lampshade so that the beam of light was directed at the wall. He turned it so that each wall in turn was illuminated. The light was strong, but he could detect no hidden places. He sat in the chair. The silence was overwhelming. If Martinsson had been here, Wallander would have asked him to turn on the computer. Martinsson would have loved that job. Wallander didn't dare touch it himself. Again he thought that he should call him, but hesitated. I have to understand how this hangs together, he thought. That's the most important thing right now. Many new connections have been revealed in a much shorter span of time than I would have thought. The problem is just that I can't see the pattern yet.
He decided to call Nyberg. It didn't help that it was almost 8 p.m. and Nyberg had been working for the last few days with hardly any sleep. Someone else would probably have decided that the search of the flat could wait until the following day. But Wallander was plagued by a sense of urgency that was only growing stronger. Nyberg listened without saying anything. He made a note of the address, and once they ended the conversation, Wallander made his way to street level to wait for him.
Nyberg arrived alone. Wallander helped him carry up his bags.
"What am I looking for here?" Nyberg asked once they were in the attic flat.
"Prints. Secret compartments."
"Then I won't need anyone else for now. Can we wait on the photography and videotape?"
"Do it in the morning."
Nyberg took off his shoes. He found a pair of plastic shoes in one of his bags. Nyberg had always been frustrated with the protective shoe covers that were commercially available. He had finally designed his own and found someone to make them. Wallander assumed he had paid for them out of his own pocket.
"Are you good at computers?" he said.
"I know as little as the next man about how they actually work," Nyberg said. "But I can probably get it started for you."
"Martinsson would never forgive me if I let anyone else deal with it," Wallander said.
Then he showed Nyberg the paper on the table. Nyberg saw at once what it was. He looked questioningly at Wallander.
"What does this mean? Did Falk kill the girl?"
"He died before she was murdered."
Nyberg got a magnifying glass out of his bags and sat down. He studied the blueprint while Wallander waited in silence.
"This is an original," Nyberg said.
"Are you sure?"
"Not 100 per cent, but almost."
"You'd think someone should be mis
sing it."
"I talked to that man Andersson about the security procedures at the power company," Nyberg said. "It should have been virtually impossible for anyone to make a copy of this blueprint, much less steal it."
This was important. If the blueprint had been stolen from inside the power company a whole new avenue of clues would open up.
Nyberg positioned his spotlights. Wallander decided to leave him alone.
"I'm going to the station. Call if you need me."
Nyberg was already lost in his work.
Once on the street, Wallander realised that his mind was taking a slightly different direction. He wasn't going to go straight to the station. Mrs Falk had referred to a Siv Eriksson. She should be able to tell him more about Falk's work as a consultant. Her flat was nearby, or at least her office was. Wallander left his car. He walked down Långgatan towards the town centre and turned right on Skansgränd. The streets were deserted. He spun round twice, but there was no-one following him. The wind was strong still, and he was cold. He started thinking about the bullet. He wondered when he was going to take a hit, and he wondered how he would react.
When he arrived at the building that Mrs Falk had described, he at once saw the sign. Serkon. Siv Eriksson, consultant.
The office should be on the second floor. He pushed the buzzer and crossed his fingers. If this was only her office he would somehow have to discover her home address.
But someone answered. Wallander announced himself and said what he wanted. The door was unlocked and Wallander went in.
She was waiting for him in the doorway. Although the light in the hall was strong for his eyes, he recognised her at once. She had been at his lecture. He had been introduced to her, but had of course forgotten her name. It was odd that she hadn't explained who she was. She surely knew that Falk was dead. It threw him for a moment. Did she still not know? Was he going to be the bearer of this dreadful news?
"I'm sorry to bother you," he said.
She let him into the flat. There was the smell of an open fire coming from somewhere. Now he saw her clearly. She was in her forties, with medium-length dark hair and sharp features. He had been too nervous when he met her yesterday to notice her appearance, but the woman he now saw made him self-conscious, the way he always felt when he saw someone he found attractive.
"I should explain why . . . I know that Tynnes is dead. Marianne phoned me."
He was relieved. He would never get used to telling a relative, or a friend even, of a death. He noticed that she seemed sad. "As colleagues you must have been close," he said.
"Yes and no," she said. "We were close, very close. But only when it came to work."
Wallander wondered if their close working relationship had ever grown to be more than that. He felt an unreasonable pang of jealousy.
"You must have something important to discuss with me since you are here so late," she said, and handed Wallander a coat hanger.
He followed her into a stylish living room with a log fire burning in the grate. It seemed to Wallander that both the furniture and the paintings were probably as expensive as they looked.
"Can I offer you anything?"
I really could do with a whisky, Wallander thought. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary," he said.
He sat on a dark blue sofa, and she sat in an armchair. He silently admired her shapely legs and noticed that she had guessed his thoughts.
"I came straight from Falk's office," he said. "Where there appears to be only a computer."
"Tynnes was an ascetic. He wanted everything around him as pared back, as minimalist as possible. It helped him work."
"That's my real reason for being here, to ask you what his work consisted of. What your work consisted of, I should say."
"We worked together on some things, but not all the time."
"May we begin by your telling me what he did when he worked alone?" Wallander regretted not having called Martinsson. There was a good chance he was going to get answers he wouldn't be able to understand. It wasn't too late to call him, even now, but for the third time this evening Wallander decided to let it go.
"I should warn you I don't know a great deal about computers," he said. "You'll have to be very clear, or I won't be able to follow you."
She smiled. "That surprises me," she said. "From your lecture last night I gathered that computers are a police officer's best friend."
"That doesn't go for me personally. Some of us still have to engage in the old-fashioned process of talking to people, not just running names through the computer registers. Or batting e-mails back and forth."
She got up and walked over to the hearth, bending down to rearrange the logs. Wallander watched her, but swiftly lowered his gaze as she turned around.
"What exactly do you want me to tell you? And why?"
Wallander began with the second question. "We're not 100 per cent sure that Falk died of natural causes, although the autopsy report pointed pretty conclusively to his having suffered a heart attack."
"A heart attack?" She was astonished, and Wallander thought immediately of the doctor who had come to see him. "There was nothing wrong with his heart. Tynnes was in terrific shape."
"That's what I've been told. That's one of the reasons we wanted to have one more look at the case. The question then is: what else could it have been? An attack, or perhaps an accident."
She shook her head. "Not an attack. Tynnes would never have let anyone get that close."
"How do you mean?"
"He was forever on his guard. He often talked about how he felt vulnerable in public. So he was prepared, and I know that he was quick on his feet. He was quite advanced in some martial art that I forget the name of."
"He could split bricks with his bare hands?"
"That sort of thing."
"So you believe it was an accident?"
"Yes. It had to be."
Wallander paused. "I had other reasons for coming at this hour, but I think we'll put those aside for the moment."
"You must realise that that makes me curious." She poured herself a glass of wine, and carefully balanced it on the armrest.
"I can't, unfortunately, share much information with you at this stage." That's nonsense, Wallander thought. I could tell her a lot more if I wanted to. For some reason I'm enjoying having some momentary hold over her.
She interrupted his thoughts. "What else was it you asked me?"
"About his work."
"Right. He was a highly accomplished creator of computer systems."
Wallander waited for more.
"He designed computer programs for businesses. Sometimes he just customised and improved existing systems. When I say he was highly accomplished, I mean it. He had offers from heavyweight companies in Asia and in North America. But he always declined them for all that they would have earned him a great deal of money."
"Why do you think he did that?"
"I honestly don't know," she said, and an anxious frown crossed her brow.
"Did you ever talk about the offers he received?"
"He told me what they were and how much money they were offering. Personally, I would have accepted them on the spot."