Martinsson removed his coat, sat down on the folding chair and rubbed his hands together. Wallander summarised his conversation with Höglund. Martinsson could see the importance of the discovery.
"That gives us a way in," he said when Wallander had finished.
"It gives us more than that," Wallander said. "We're finally starting to make sense of this."
"I've never seen a case like this," Martinsson said. "There's still much we can't account for. We don't know why the electrical relay was placed in the morgue. We don't know why Falk's body was removed. I just don't think cutting off his fingers was the driving motive."
"We'll do what we can to fill in the gaps," Wallander said. "I'm going back to the station. But let me know if anything happens."
"We'll keep going until 10 p.m.," Modin said. "But then I need to sleep."
Once on the street, Wallander felt at a loss. Should he push himself for a few more hours? Or should he head straight home?
He decided to do both. There was no reason he couldn't work at the kitchen table. All he needed was time to digest what Höglund had told him. He got into his car and drove home.
He sat down at the table and spread out his notes. Höglund's theory was on his mind and he wanted to go through the case methodically. At 11 p.m. he finally went to bed.
The gaps are still there, he thought. But it still seems that Höglund's insight has brought us forward.
He fell asleep almost immediately.
Modin packed up his computers on the dot of 10 p.m. and Martinsson drove him home. He would pick him up at 8 a.m. the following day.
His parents had already gone to bed. The house was silent. But Modin did not go to bed after Martinsson left. Although the memory of what happened after he broke into the Pentagon system was still raw, the temptation was too great. Besides, he had learned his lesson, he knew now to erase all his tracks.
Martinsson hadn't been watching when Modin copied some of the material he had accessed in Falk's computer. He hooked up his computers and started going through those files again, looking once more for clues and openings, new ways to climb the firewall.
A storm front came in over Luanda.
Carter had spent the evening reading a report that criticised the International Monetary Fund's operations in some East African countries. The criticisms were well formulated and devastating. Carter could not have done the job better himself, but he remained convinced of the necessity of what he had planned. There was no alternative at this point. If the world's financial systems remained as they were, there could be no true reform.
He put the report down and from the window watched the lightning dance across the sky. His night-time guards huddled under their makeshift rain shelter.
The air-conditioning unit in the study droned loudly. He was on his way to bed, but something led him to his desk. He knew at once that someone was trying to break into the server. But this time it was different. After a while he saw what it was. Whoever it was had become careless.
Carter dried his hands on a handkerchief. Then he began the pursuit of the person who was threatening to uncover his secret.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Wallander stayed at home until nearly 10 a.m. on Thursday. He had woken early, feeling fully rested. His joy at having been able to sleep undisturbed for a whole night was so great that it gave him a guilty conscience. He often wondered where his overdeveloped work ethic had come from. His mother had been a housewife who had never regretted not being free to work away from home. At least she had never complained about it.
His father had certainly never opted for extra work. Wallander had occasionally spied on him and was surprised by how little time he spent at his easel. Sometimes he had been reading a book and sometimes he had been fast asleep on the old mattress in a corner of the studio. Or he had been playing solitaire at the rickety old table. Wallander was beginning to look a lot like his father, but on the inside he was driven by a constant state of unrest and dissatisfaction, demons he had never seen in either of his parents.
He had called the station at 8 a.m. The only person he could get through to was Hansson. Everyone else was busy with their investigative tasks. He told Hansson to postpone their meeting until the afternoon. Then he went down to the laundry room to sign up ahead and found that all the morning hours were free. He had booked the next two hours and went back to collect his dirty washing.
The letter arrived while he was loading his clothes into the washing machine. It was on the floor in the hall. There was no stamp, no return address on the envelope. His name and address were handwritten. He put it on the kitchen table supposing that it must be some kind of invitation. He hung his bedclothes on the balcony to air. It was getting colder again, but there was no frost. He only opened the letter when it was time for his second cup of coffee. There was a second envelope inside with no name on it. He read the letter. At first he couldn't make any sense of it, but then it dawned on him that he had received a reply to his ad. He put the letter down, walked once round the table, then read it again.
The woman who had written to him was called Elvira Lindfeldt. She had not included a photograph of herself, but Wallander decided she must be very beautiful. Her handwriting was elegant and firm, no fussy loops or twiddly bits. The dating agency had forwarded his ad and she had found it interesting. She was 39 years old and divorced. She lived in Malmö, and worked for a shipping company called Heinemann & Nagel. She ended her letter by giving her phone number and saying she hoped to hear from him soon. Wallander felt like a ravenous wolf who had at last succeeded in bringing down his prey. He was tempted to call her straight away. But then he controlled himself and decided he should throw the letter away. The meeting was doomed. She would be disappointed because probably she imagined him to be different.
Furthermore, he had no time for this. He was in the throes of the most complicated investigation he had ever led. He walked round the table a few more times. Then he realised the absurdity of ever having written to the dating agency. He took the letter, tore it into pieces and threw it in the bin. Then he sat down to think about the case. Before driving to the station, he put his laundry in the dryer. The first thing he did when he got to his office was write himself a reminder to collect his laundry when he went home. He met Nyberg striding down the corridor with a plastic bag.
"We're going to be getting some results in today," he said. "Among other things we've been cross-checking a number of fingerprints."
"Do you have a better idea of what happened in the engine room?"
"I don't envy the pathologist, I'll tell you that. The body was so crushed there wasn't a whole piece of bone in there. Well, you saw it, you know what it looked like."
"Hökberg was probably already unconscious or even dead by the time she was thrown against the high-voltage wires," Wallander said. "Do you think that was the case with Landahl? If it was Landahl."
"Oh, it was him," Nyberg said.
"How do you know that?"
"He was identified by an unusual birthmark above one of his ankles. The parents have been contacted."
"Good. Then that's taken care of," Wallander said. "First Hökberg, then her boyfriend."
Nyberg raised his eyebrows. "I was under the impression that you thought he had killed her? That could suggest he committed suicide. Although I admit it's a pretty horrendous way to die."
"There are other possibilities," Wallander said. "But the key thing for now is we've established who he was."
Wallander returned to his office. He had just taken off his coat and was beginning to regret having thrown Elvira's letter away when the phone rang. It was Holgersson. She wanted to see him straight away. He approached her office with a sense of dread. Normally he enjoyed his discussions with her, but ever since she had openly displayed her mistrust of him a week ago, he had been doing his best to avoid her. As he had anticipated, the atmosphere was far from relaxed. Holgersson was sitting at her desk and her trademark smile was forced. Ev
en as he sat down, Wallander felt his anger bubbling up in anticipation of whatever was about to come his way.
"I'm going to get right to the point," she said. "The investigation into allegations made against you by Eva Persson and her mother is now under way."
"Who's in charge?"
"A man from Hässleholm."
"A man from Hassleholm? That sounds like the name of a bad television series."
"He's a highly regarded officer. I also need to inform you that you have been reported to the Justice Department ombudsman. And not just you. We have both been reported."
"Did you slap her too?"
"I'm responsible for the conduct of my officers."
"Who filed the report?"
"Persson's lawyer, Klas Harrysson."
"Thanks for letting me know," Wallander said and got up. He was furious now. The energy from the morning was draining from his body, and he didn't want it to go.
"I'm not finished."
"We have a homicide investigation on our hands."
"I spoke to Hansson earlier. I am aware of how it's going."
He said nothing about having talked to her, Wallander thought. Are all my colleagues going behind my back?
He sat down heavily.
"This is a difficult situation," she said.
"Not really," Wallander said, interrupting her. "What happened between Persson, her mother and me happened exactly as I told you. I haven't changed a syllable of my account of it since it happened. You should be able to tell that I don't flinch or get nervous when you press me on details. What makes me mad as all hell, however, is that you don't believe me."
"What do you expect me to do?"
"I want you to believe me when I tell you something."
"But the girl and her mother have a different story. And there's two of them."
"There could be a hundred of them and it wouldn't change an iota. You should believe me, not them. They have a reason to he."
"So do you."
"I do?"
"If you hit her without provocation."
Wallander got up a second time, this time more forcefully. "I won't even dignify that remark with an answer. It's a gross insult." She started to protest, but he interrupted her. "Is there anything else?"
"I'm still not finished."
Wallander remained where he was. The situation was almost unbearably tense. He was not going to back down, but he wanted to get out of the room as rapidly as possible.
"The situation is sufficiently serious for me to have to take action," she said. "For as long as the investigation is in progress I have to suspend you."
Wallander heard her words and knew what they meant. Both Svedberg and Hansson had been suspended. In Hansson's case, Wallander had been convinced that the allegations were false. In Svedberg's case, he hadn't been so sure, but Svedberg's word had later been corroborated. But in neither case had he supported Björk, who was chief then, in his decision to suspend his colleagues. It seemed to him to be taking sides against them before the investigation had even begun.
Suddenly his anger left him. He was completely calm.
"You do as you like," he said. "But if you suspend me I shall resign with immediate effect."
"That sounds like a threat."
"I don't care what the hell it sounds like. It's simply a fact. And don't think you can count on me coming back when the investigation proves that they were lying and I was telling the truth."
"I wish you would cooperate instead of threatening me with your resignation."
"I have been a police officer for a very long time," Wallander said, "and I know perfectly well that the step you say you are obliged to take is not in the regulations. There's someone higher up who's nervous about that picture in the paper and who wants an example made of me, and you are choosing to go along with it."
"It's nothing like that," she said.
"That's exactly what it's like. When were you planning to suspend me? As soon as you dismissed me from this meeting?"
"The man from Hässleholm has undertaken to work quickly. Since we are up to our ears in a case I was going to put it off."
"Why bother? Let Martinsson take charge. He'll do an excellent job."
"I thought we would finish the week as we are."
"No," Wallander said. "Nothing is as we are right now. Either you suspend me now or you don't do it at all."
"Why do you have to resort to these threats? I thought we had a good working relationship."
"I thought so too. But clearly I was wrong."
They were silent.
"So how is it going to be?" Wallander asked. "Am I suspended or am I not?"
"You are not suspended," she said. "At least not right now."
Wallander marched out of her office. He realised he was drenched in sweat. He locked his office door behind him, and the full force of his emotions assailed him. He wanted no more than to write his resignation, clear out his office and leave the station for good. The afternoon meeting, and every future meeting, would have to take place without him. He was never coming back.
At the same time something inside him resisted the furious urge. If he left now, it would look as if he was guilty. That way the verdict of the investigation wouldn't have much impact. He would be forever tainted.
Slowly he arrived at his decision. He would go on working for now, but he would inform his colleagues of the situation. The vital thing was that he had let Holgersson know how things stood. He did not intend to toe the line on this or to ask for mercy.
He began to calm down. He opened his door wide and got on with his work. At noon he went home and took his clothes out of the dryer. He picked out the pieces of Elvira's letter from the bin. He didn't have a very good reason for doing that; perhaps it was because she had nothing to do with the police.
He had lunch at István's restaurant and chatted with one of his father's friends who was there. He returned to the station shortly after 1.30 p.m.
He walked in, feeling somewhat on edge. Holgersson could have changed her mind since their meeting and decided to suspend him after all. He didn't know how he would react to this. He couldn't even begin to imagine what his life would look like after that. Secretly he found the idea of handing in his resignation appalling. But there were only a few unimportant messages waiting for him. Holgersson had not tried to reach him. Wallander took a few deep breaths and then called Martinsson. He was at Runnerströms Torg.
"We're working slowly but surely," he said. "He's managed to break a couple more codes." Wallander could hear the rustling of paper. Then Martinsson came back on the line. "We have a connection to a stockbroker in Seoul and to a British firm, called Lonrho. I contacted a person in Stockholm who was able to tell me that Lonrho was originally an African company that was involved in illegal operations in Southern Rhodesia during the time of sanctions."
"What are we supposed to deduce from this?" Wallander broke in. "A stockbroker in Korea? And this other company, whatever its name is. How does it relate to Falk and our investigation?"
"We're trying to work it out. Modin says there are about 80 companies entered into this program. But it will take us a while to find out what the connections between them are."
"But if you had to speculate, what would you say?"
Martinsson chuckled. "I see money."
"Anything else?"
"Isn't that enough?"