The Man Who Smiled - Wallander 04

  "He wants to speak to you," she said.

  Wallander braked and pulled in to the side before taking the phone. "What's going on?" Martinsson asked. "Can't these cars wait until tomorrow?"

  "If Ann-Britt calls you and says it's urgent, then it's urgent," he said. "What have they done, these cars?"

  "It would take too long now. I'll tell you tomorrow. When you've got the information you can phone us here in the car."

  He brought the call to an end, so as to give Martinsson no chance to ask any more questions. He saw that Höglund had been offended.

  "Why can't he trust me? Why does he have to check with you?"

  Her voice had become shrill. Wallander wondered if she could not control her disappointment, or did not want to.

  "It's nothing to worry about," he said. "It takes time to get used to changes. You are the most shattering thing that's happened to the police station in Ystad for years. You're surrounded by a pack of old dogs who haven't the slightest desire to learn new tricks."

  "Does that include you?"

  "Of course it does " Wallander said.

  Wallander failed to find a phone box before they had reached the ferry terminal. There was no sign of the white Audi. Wallander parked outside the railway station, and found a dirty map on the wall inside showing Gjutargatan on the eastern edge of the town. He memorised the route, and returned to the car.

  "Who could it be that's following us?" she said as they turned left and passed the white theatre building.

  "I don't know," Wallander said. "There's too much about Gustaf and Sten Torstensson that's odd. I get the feeling we're always shooting off in the wrong direction."

  "I have the feeling we're standing still," she said.

  "Or that we're going round in circles," Wallander said. "And we don't see that we're treading in our own footsteps."

  Still no sign of the Audi. They drove into a housing estate. There was no-one about. Wallander parked at number 12, and they got out of the car. The wind threatened to blow the doors off their hinges. The house was a red-brick bungalow with garage incorporated, and a modest garden. Wallander thought he could see the outline of a boat under a tarpaulin.

  The door opened before he had chance to ring the bell. An elderly, white-haired man in a tracksuit eyed them up and down with an inquisitive smile.

  Wallander produced his ID.

  "My name's Wallander," he said. "I'm a detective inspector, and this is Ann-Britt Höglund, a colleague. We're from the Ystad police."

  The man took Wallander's ID and scrutinised it - he was obviously short-sighted. His wife appeared in the hall, and bade them welcome. Wallander had the impression he was standing on the threshold of a contented couple's home. They invited them into their living room, where coffee and cakes were prepared. Wallander was about to sit down when he noticed a picture on one of the walls. He could not believe his eyes at first - it was one of his father's paintings, one without a grouse. He saw that Höglund had noticed what he was looking at, and she gave him a questioning look. He shook his head, and sat down. This was the second time in his life he had gone into a strange house and discovered one of his father's paintings. Four years ago he had found one in a flat in Kristianstad, but there had been a grouse in the foreground of that one.

  "I apologise for calling on you so late," Wallander said, "but I'm afraid we have some questions that simply can't wait."

  "I hope you've time for a cup of coffee," said the lady of the house.

  They said that of course they had. It occurred to Wallander that Höglund had been keen to accompany him so that she could find out how he conducted an interview of this nature, and he felt insecure. There's been a lot of water under this bridge, he thought. It's not a case of me teaching her, but of me relearning how to do it, trying to remember all that I had written off as the end of an era in my life, until a couple of days ago.

  His mind went back to those limitless beaches at Skagen. His private territory. Just for a moment, he wished he were back there. But that was history. More water under the bridge.

  "Until a year ago you ran a hotel, the Linden Hotel," he began.

  "For 40 years," Bertil Forsdahl said, and Wallander could hear he was proud of what he had achieved.

  "That's a long time" he said.

  "I bought it in 1952," Forsdahl said. "It was called the Pelican Hotel in those days, a bit on the scruffy side and with not a good reputation. I bought it off a man called Markusson. He was an alcoholic, and just wasn't bothered. The last year of his tenancy the rooms were used mainly by his drunken cronies. I have to admit I got the hotel cheaply. Markusson died the following year. His wake was a drunken orgy in Elsinore. We renamed the hotel. In those days there was a linden tree outside. It was next to the old theatre - that's been demolished now, of course, like everything else. The actors used to stay with us sometimes. Inga Tidblad was our overnight guest on one occasion. She wanted an early-morning cup of tea."

  "I expect you've kept the ledger with her name in it," Wallander said.

  "I've kept all of them," Forsdahl said. "I've got 40 years of history tucked away downstairs."

  "We sometimes sit down after dinner," Forsdahl's wife said, "and we leaf through them all, remembering the good old days. You see the names and you remember the people."

  Wallander exchanged glances with Höglund. They already had the answer to one of their key questions.

  A dog started barking in the street outside.

  "Next door's guard dog," Forsdahl explained apologetically. "He keeps an eye on the whole street."

  Wallander took a sip of the coffee, and noticed that it said Linden Hotel on the cup.

  "I'll explain why we're here," he said. "You have the name of your hotel on the coffee cups, and you had printed letterheads and envelopes. In July and August last year, two letters were posted from here in Helsingborg. One was in one of your printed envelopes. That must have been during the last few weeks you were open."

  "We closed on September 15," Forsdahl said. "We made no charge for the final night."

  "Might I ask why you closed down?" Höglund said.

  Wallander was irritated by her intervention, but he hoped she would not notice his reaction. As if it were natural for a woman to be answered by another woman, it was Forsdahl's wife who responded.

  "What else could we do?" she said. "The building was condemned, and the hotel wasn't making any money. No doubt we could have kept going for another year or two if we'd wanted, and if we'd been allowed. But that wasn't how it turned out."

  "We tried to maintain the highest standards for as long as we could," Forsdahl said. "But in the end it was just too expensive for us. Colour TV in every room and such like. It was just too much outlay."

  "It was a very sad day, September 15," his wife said. "We still have all the room keys. We had number 17. The site's a car park now. And they've cut the linden tree down. They said it was rotten. I wonder if a tree can die of a broken heart."

  The dog was still barking. Wallander thought about the tree that no longer existed.

  "Lars Borman," he said eventually. "Does that name mean anything to you?"

  The response was a complete surprise. "Poor man," Forsdahl said. "A very sad story," his wife said. "Why are the police interested in him now?"

  "So you know who he is?" Wallander said. He saw that Höglund had produced a notebook from her handbag.

  "Such a nice man," Forsdahl said. "Calm, quiet. Always friendly, always polite. They don't make them like him any more."

  "We'd very much like to get in touch with him," Wallander said.

  Forsdahl exchanged looks with his wife. Wallander had the impression they were ill at ease.

  "Lars Borman's dead," Forsdahl said. "I thought the police knew that."

  Wallander thought for a while before answering. "We know next to nothing about Borman," he said. "All we do know is that last year he wrote two letters, and one of them was in one of your hotel's envelopes. We wanted to get
in touch with him. Obviously that isn't possible now. But we'd like to know what happened. And who he was."

  "A regular customer," Forsdahl said. "He stayed with us about every four months for many years. Usually two or three nights."

  "What was his line of work? Where was he from?"

  "He worked at the County Offices," Mrs Forsdahl said. "Something to do with finance."

  "An accountant," Forsdahl said. "A very conscientious and honest civil servant at the Malmöhus County Offices."

  "He lived in Klagshamn," his wife added. "He had a wife and children. It was a terrible tragedy."

  "What happened?" Wallander said.

  "He committed suicide," Forsdahl said. Wallander could see it pained him to revive the memory. "If there was one person we'd never have expected to take his own life it was Lars Borman. Evidently he had some kind of secret we never imagined."

  "What happened?" Wallander asked again.

  "He'd been in Helsingborg," Forsdahl said. "It was a few days before we closed down. He did whatever he had to do during the day and spent the evenings in his room. He would read a lot. That last morning he paid his bill and checked out. He promised to keep in touch even though the hotel was closing. Then he drove away. A few weeks later we heard that he'd hanged himself in a clearing outside Klagshamn, a few kilometres from his house. There was no explanation, no letter to his wife and children. It came as a shock to us all."

  Wallander nodded slowly. He had grown up in Klagshamn, and wondered which clearing it was Borman had hanged himself in. Perhaps it was somewhere he had played as a child?

  "How old was he?"

  "He'd passed 50, but he can't have been much more," Mrs Forsdahl said.

  "So he lived in Klagshamn," Wallander said, "and worked as an accountant at the County Offices. It strikes me as being a bit odd, staying in a hotel. It's not that far between Malmö and Helsingborg."

  "He didn't like driving," Forsdahl said. "Besides, I think he enjoyed it here. He could shut himself away in his room in the evening and read his books. We used to leave him in peace, and he appreciated that."

  "You have his address in your ledgers, of course," Wallander said.

  "We heard his wife had sold the house and moved," Mrs Forsdahl said. "She couldn't cope with staying there after what had happened. And his children are grown up."

  "Do you know where she moved to?"

  "To Spain. Marbella, I think it's called."

  Wallander looked at Höglund, who was making copious notes. "Do you mind if I ask you a question now?" Forsdahl said. "Why are the police interested in Borman so long after his death?"

  "It's pure routine," Wallander said. "I'm afraid I can't tell you more than that. Except that there's no question of his being suspected of any crime."

  "He was an honest man," Forsdahl insisted. "He thought people ought to lead a simple life and always do the right thing. We talked quite a lot over the years. He would always get angry when we touched on the dishonesty that seems to be common nowadays in society."

  "Was there really no explanation as to why he had committed suicide?" Wallander asked.

  Both Forsdahl and his wife shook their heads.

  "OK," Wallander said. "Just one more thing. We'd like to take a look at the record books for the final year, if you don't mind."

  "They're in the basement," Forsdahl said, getting to his feet.

  "Martinsson might ring," Höglund said. "I'd better fetch the car phone."

  Wallander gave her the keys and Mrs Forsdahl went with her. He heard her slamming the car door without the neighbour's dog starting to bark. When she returned they all went down into the basement. In a room that was surprisingly big for a basement was a long row of ledgers on a shelf running the whole length of one wall. There was also the old hotel sign, and a board with 17 room keys hanging on it. A museum, Wallander thought, how touching. This is where they hide their memories of a long working life. Memories of a little hotel that got to the point where it was viable no more.

  Forsdahl took down the last of their ledgers and put it on a table. He looked up August, then the 26th, and pointed to one of the columns. Wallander and Höglund leaned forward to examine it. Wallander recognised the handwriting. He also thought the letter had been written by the same pen as Borman used when he signed the register. He was born on October 12, 1939, and described himself as a County Offices accountant. Höglund noted his address in Klagshamn: Mejramsvägen 23. Wallander did not recognise the street name. It was probably one of the housing estates that had sprung up after he had left. He turned back to the records for June, and found Borman's name there again, on the day that the first of the letters had been posted.

  "Do you understand any of this?" Höglund said, quietly.

  "Not a lot," Wallander said.

  The mobile phone rang, and Wallander nodded to indicate she should answer it. She sat down on a stool and started writing down what Martinsson had to say. Wallander closed the ledger and watched Forsdahl return it to its place. When the call was finished they went back upstairs, and on the way Wallander asked what Martinsson had said.

  "It was the Audi," she said. "We can talk about it later." Wallander and Höglund prepared to leave.

  "I am sorry for it being so late," Wallander said. "Sometimes the police can't wait."

  "I hope we've been of some help," Forsdahl said. "Even though it's painful to be reminded of poor old Lars Borman."

  "I understand how you feel," Wallander said. "If you should remember anything else, please phone the Ystad police."

  "What else is there to remember?" asked Forsdahl, in surprise.

  "I don't know what it might be," Wallander said, shaking hands.

  They left the house and got into the car. Wallander switched on the inside light. Höglund had taken out her notebook.

  "I was right," she said, looking at Wallander. "It was the white Audi. The number didn't fit the car. The registration plate had been stolen. It should have been on a Nissan that hasn't even been sold yet. It's registered with a showroom in Malmö."

  "And the other cars?"

  "All in order."

  Wallander started the engine. It was 11.30, and there was no sign of the wind dropping. They drove out of town. There was not much traffic on the motorway. And there were no cars behind them.

  "Are you tired?" Wallander said.

  "No," she replied.

  "In that case let's stop for a while," he said. He drove into a 24-hour petrol station with a cafe attached just south of Helsingborg. "We can have a little late-night conference, just you and me, and see if we can work out how far we got this evening. We can also see what other cars stop. The only one we don't need to bother about is a white Audi."

  "Why so?"

  "If they do come back they'll be using a different car," Wallander said. "Whoever they are, they know what they're doing. They won't appear twice in the same car."

  They went into the cafe. Wallander ordered a hamburger, but Höglund didn't want anything. They found a seat with a view of the parking area. A couple of Danish lorry drivers were drinking coffee, but the other tables were empty.

  "So, what do you think?" Wallander said. "About an accountant with the County Offices writing threatening letters to a couple of lawyers, then going out to the forest to hang himself."

  "It's hard to know what to say," she said.

  "Try," Wallander said.

  They sat in silence, lost in thought. A lorry from a rental firm pulled up outside. Wallander's burger was called; he fetched it and returned to the table.

  "The accusation in Borman's letter is injustice," she said. "But it doesn't say what the injustice was. Borman wasn't a client. We don't know what their relationship was. In fact, we don't know anything at all."

  Wallander put down his fork and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "I'm sure you've heard about Rydberg," he said. "An old detective inspector who died a couple of years ago. He was a wise bird. He once said that police officers always tend
to say they know nothing, whereas in fact we always know a lot more than we think."

  "That sounds like one of those pearls of wisdom they were forever feeding us at college," she said. "The kind we used to write down and then forget as quickly as possible."

  Wallander was annoyed. He did not like anybody questioning Rydberg's competence. "I couldn't care less what you wrote down or didn't write down at Police Training College," he said. "But at least take notice of what I say. Or what Rydberg said."

  "Have I made you angry?" she said, surprised.

  "I never get angry," Wallander said, "but I think your summary of what we know about Lars Borman was poor."

  "Can you do any better, then?" she said, her voice shrill again.

  She's thin-skinned, he thought. No doubt it's a lot harder than I think to be a lone woman among the Ystad detectives.

  "I don't really mean your summary was poor," he said. "But I do think you're overlooking a few things."

  "I'm listening," she said. "I know I'm good at that."

  Wallander slid his plate to one side and went to fetch a cup of coffee. The Danish lorry drivers had left, leaving the two police officers as the only customers. A radio could be heard faintly from the kitchen.

  "It's obviously impossible to draw any reliable conclusions," Wallander said, "but we can make a few assumptions. We can try fitting a few pieces of the puzzle together and see what they look like, see if we can work out a motive perhaps."

  "I'm with you so far," she said.

  "Borman was an accountant," Wallander said. "We also know that he seemed to be an honest, upright man. That was the most characteristic thing about him, according to the Forsdahls. Apart from the fact that he was quiet and liked reading. In my experience it's quite rare for anybody to start by categorising a man like that. Which suggests he really was a passionately honest man."

  "An honest accountant," she said.

  "This honest man suddenly writes two threatening letters to the Torstenssons' firm of solicitors in Ystad. He signs them with his own name, but he crosses out the name of the hotel on one of the envelopes. This provides us with several assumptions we can deduce."