'I'm sure you would have,' Wallander said. 'But he may not have been in the habit of seeing her here.'
'One should not speak ill of the dead,' she said and started up the stairs.
Wallander wondered how it could be considered speaking ill of the dead to suggest that there may have been a woman in an otherwise lonely existence.
Once he was in his apartment, Wallander could no longer push aside thoughts of Mona. He should call her. Or would she call him of her own accord in the evening? In order to shake off his anxiety, Wallander started to gather up and throw out old newspapers. Then he started in on the bathroom. He did not have to do much before he realised that there was much more old, ingrained dirt than he could have imagined. He kept going at it for over three hours before he felt satisfied with the result. It was five o'clock. He put some potatoes on to boil and chopped some onions.
The phone rang. He thought at once it had to be Mona, and his heart started to beat faster.
But it was another woman's voice. She said her name, Maria, but it took a few seconds before he realised it was the girl from the newsagent.
'I hope I'm not disturbing you,' she said. 'I lost the piece of paper you gave me. And you're not in the phone book. I could have called directory assistance, I suppose. But I called the police instead.'
Wallander flinched.
'What did you say?'
'That I was looking for an officer by the name of Kurt Wallander. And that I had important information. At first they didn't want to give me your home phone number. But I didn't give in.'
'So you asked for Detective Inspector Wallander?'
'I asked for Kurt Wallander. What does it matter?'
'It doesn't,' Wallander said and felt relieved. Gossip moved quickly at the station. It could have brought about complications and spawned an unnecessary funny story about Wallander walking around claiming to be a detective inspector. That was not how he envisioned starting his career as a criminal investigator.
'I asked if I was disturbing you,' she repeated.
'Not at all.'
'I was thinking,' she said. 'About Hålén and his betting forms. He never won, by the way.'
'How do you know?'
'I would entertain myself by checking to see how he had bet. Not just him. And he was very ill-informed when it came to English football.'
Exactly what Hemberg said, Wallander thought. There can be no more doubt in that regard.
'But then I was thinking about the phone calls,' she went on. 'And then I thought of the fact that a couple of times he also called someone other than that woman.'
Wallander increased his concentration.
'Who?'
'He called the cab company.'
'How do you know that?'
'I heard him place an order for a car. He gave his address as the building right next to the shop.'
Wallander thought about it.
'How often did he order a cab?'
'Three or four times. Always after first calling the other number.'
'You didn't happen to hear where he was going?'
'He didn't mention it.'
'Your memory isn't half bad,' Wallander said admiringly. 'But you don't remember when he made those calls?'
'It must have been on a Wednesday.'
'When did it happen last?'
The answer came quickly and confidently.
'Last week.'
'Are you sure of that?'
'Of course I'm sure. He called a cab last Wednesday, the twenty-eighth of May, for your information.'
'Good,' Wallander said. 'Very good.'
'Is that of any help?'
'I'm certain it is.'
'And you're still not planning to tell me what it is that has happened?'
'I couldn't,' Wallander said. 'Even if I wanted to.'
'Will you tell me later?'
Wallander promised. Then he hung up and thought about what she had told him. What did it mean? Hålén had a woman somewhere. After calling her, he ordered a taxi.
Wallander checked the potatoes. They were not yet soft. Then he reminded himself that he actually had a good friend who drove a cab in Malmö. They had been schoolmates since year one and had kept in touch over the years. His name was Lars Andersson and Wallander recalled that he had written his number on the inside of the telephone directory.
He found the number and dialled it. A woman answered, Andersson's wife Elin. Wallander had met her a few times.
'I'm looking for Lars,' he said.
'He's out driving,' she said. 'But he's on a day shift. He'll be back in about an hour.'
Wallander asked her to tell her husband he had called.
'How are the children?' she asked.
'I have no children,' Wallander said, amazed.
'Then I must have misunderstood,' she answered. 'I thought Lars said that you had two sons.'
'Unfortunately, no,' Wallander said. 'I'm not even married.'
'That never stopped anyone.'
Wallander returned to the potatoes and onions. Then he composed a meal using some of the leftovers that had accumulated in the fridge. Mona had still not called. It had started to rain again. He could hear accordion music from somewhere. He asked himself what the hell he was doing. His neighbour Hålén had committed suicide, after first swallowing some precious stones. Someone had tried to retrieve them and had subsequently set fire to the apartment in a rage. There were plenty of lunatics around, also greedy people. But it was no crime to commit suicide. Nor to be greedy per se.
It was half past six. Lars Andersson had not called. Wallander decided to wait until seven o'clock. Then he would try again.
The call from Andersson came at five minutes to seven.
'Business always picks up when it's raining. I heard that you had called?'
'I'm working on a case,' Wallander said. 'And I was thinking that you could perhaps help me. It's a matter of tracking down a driver who had a client last Wednesday. Around three o'clock. A pickup from an address here in Rosengård. A man by the name of Hålén.'
'What's happened?'
'Nothing that I can talk about right now,' Wallander said and felt his discomfort grow every time he avoided giving an answer.
'I can probably find out,' Andersson said. 'The Malmö call centre is very organised. Can you give me the details? And where should I call to? The police headquarters?'
'It's best if you call me. I'm leading this thing.'
'From home?'
'Right now I am.'
'I'll see what I can do.'
'How long do you think it will take?'
'With a little luck, not very long.'
'I'll be home,' Wallander said.
He gave Andersson all the details he had. When the call was over he had a cup of coffee. Still no call from Mona. Then he thought of his sister. Wondered what excuse his father would give for him having left the house so abruptly. If he even bothered to say that his son had been there. Kristina often took her father's side. Wallander suspected it had to do with cowardice, that she was afraid of their father and his unpredictable temper.
Then he watched the news. The auto industry was doing well. There was an economic boom in Sweden. After that they showed footage from a dog show. He turned down the volume. The rain continued. He thought he heard thunder somewhere in the distance. Or else it was a Metropolitan plane coming in for landing at Bulltofta.
It was ten minutes past nine when Andersson called back.
'It's as I expected,' he said. 'The Malmö taxi call centre is extremely well organised.'
Wallander had already pulled over a pen and paper.
'The drive went out to Arlöv,' he said. 'There is no record of another name. The driver's name was Norberg. But I can probably hunt him down and ask him if he remembers what the client looked like.'
'There's no chance that it could have been another trip?'
'No one else ordered a taxi to that address on Wednesday.'
'And the
car went out to Arlöv?'
'More specifically, to Smedsgatan 9. That's right next to a sugar mill.
An old neighbourhood with rows of terraced houses.'
'No rented apartments then,' Wallander said. 'Only a family must live there. Or a single person, I suppose.'
'You would think so.'
Wallander made a note of it.
'You've done good,' he said.
'I may have even more for you,' Andersson replied. 'Even if you never asked me for it. There is also a record of a cab ride from Smedsgatan. Specifically, Thursday morning at four o'clock. The driver's name was Orre. But you won't be able to get hold of him right now. He's on holiday in Mallorca.'
Can taxi drivers afford to do that? Wallander thought. Is that because they make money under the table? But of course he mentioned nothing of these speculations to Andersson.
'It could be important.'
'Do you still not have a car?'
'Not yet.'
'Are you planning to go there?'
'Yes.'
'You can use a police car, of course, can't you?'
'Of course.'
'Because otherwise I could take you. I'm not doing anything in particular. It's a long time since we had a chat.'
Wallander decided to take him up on his offer and Lars Andersson promised to pick him up in half an hour. During that time Wallander called directory assistance and asked who was registered on telephone service at Smedsgatan 9. He received the answer that there was service there but that the number was private.
It was raining harder. Wallander put on his rubber boots and a raincoat. He stood at the kitchen window and saw Andersson slow down in front of his building. The car had no sign on the roof. It was his private car.
A crazy expedition in crazy weather, Wallander thought as he locked the front door. But rather this than pacing around the apartment waiting for Mona to call. And if she does it'll serve her right. That I don't answer.
Lars Andersson immediately started to bring up old school memories. Half of it Wallander no longer had any recollection of. He often thought Andersson tiring because he constantly returned to their school years, as if they represented the best time of his life so far. For Wallander, school had been a grey drudge, where only geography and history enlivened him somewhat. But he still liked the man who sat behind the wheel. His parents had run a bakery out in Limhamn. For a while, the boys had been in frequent contact. And Lars Andersson was someone Wallander had always been able to count on. Someone who took their friendship seriously.
They left Malmö behind and were soon in Arlöv.
'Do you often get requests out here?' Wallander asked.
'It happens. Mostly on the weekends. People who have been drinking in Malmö or Copenhagen and who are on their way home.'
'Has anything bad ever happened to you?'
Lars Andersson glanced over at him.
'What do you mean?'
'Muggings, threats. I don't know.'
'Never. I've had a guy who tried to slip away without paying. But I caught up with him.'
They were now in the centre of Arlöv. Lars Andersson drove straight to the address.
'Here it is,' he said and pointed through the wet windscreen. 'Smedsgatan 9.'
Wallander cranked down his window and squinted out into the rain. Number 9 was the last of a row of six town houses. There was a light on in one window. Someone must be home.
'Aren't you going to go in?' Lars Andersson asked with surprise.
'It's a matter of surveillance,' Wallander answered vaguely. 'If you drive up a little I'll get out and take a look around.'
'Do you want me to come along?'
'That won't be necessary.'
Wallander got out of the car and pulled up the hood of his raincoat.
What do I do now? he wondered. Ring the doorbell and ask if it is possible that Mr Hålén was here last Wednesday between three in the afternoon and four in the morning? Is it a matter of adultery? What do I say if a man answers the door?
Wallander felt silly. This is senseless and childish and a waste of time, he thought. The only thing that I have managed to prove is that Smedsgatan 9 is actually an address in Arlöv.
Nonetheless, he couldn't help crossing the street. There was a mailbox next to the gate. Wallander tried to read the name on it. He had cigarettes and a box of matches in his pocket. With some difficulty he was able to light one of the matches and read the name before his flame was extinguished by the rain.
'Alexandra Batista,' he read. So Maria in the newsagent had been right, it was the first name that started with A. Hålén had called a woman named Alexandra. The question now was if she lived there alone or with family. He looked over the fence to see if there were any children's bicycles or other items that would indicate a family's presence. But he saw nothing like that.
He walked round the house. On the other side there was an undeveloped piece of property. Several old rusty drums had been placed behind a dilapidated fence. That was all. The house was dark from the back. Light was only coming from the kitchen window facing the street. Despite a rising feeling of being involved in something absolutely unjustified and senseless, Wallander decided to complete his investigation.
He stepped over the low fence and ran across the lawn to the house. If anyone sees me they will call the police, he thought. And I will get caught. And then the rest of my police career goes up in smoke.
He decided to give up. He could find the telephone number for the Batista family tomorrow. If it was a woman who answered he could ask a few questions. If it was a man he could hang up.
The rain was letting up. Wallander dried off his face. He was about to go back the same way that he had come when he discovered that the door to the balcony was open. Maybe they have a cat, he thought. That needs free passage at night.
At the same time he had a feeling that something wasn't right. He could not put his finger on what it was. But he was not able to dismiss it. Carefully he walked over to the door and listened. The rain had stopped almost completely now. In the distance he heard the sound of a tractor trailer die away and disappear. From inside the house he heard nothing. Wallander left the balcony door and walked over to the front of the house again.
The light was still shining in the window, which was open a little. He pressed up against the wall and strained to hear something. Everything was still, quiet. Then he gently raised himself on tiptoe and peered in through the window.
He jumped. Inside, there was a woman sitting in a chair, staring straight at him. He ran out to the street. At any moment someone was going to come running out onto the front steps and call for help. Or else there would be police cars. He hurried over to the car where Andersson was waiting and jumped into the front seat.