"On which side?"
"The side that paid better. But it looked like turning out badly at the start. When Angola kicked the Portuguese out in 1975 they captured about 20 mercenaries who were sent for trial. Fifteen of them were condemned to death. Including Tolpin. Fourteen of them were shot. I've no idea why they spared Tolpin. Presumably because he could be of use to the new regime."
"How old is he?"
"Young forties. Very fit. Karate expert. An excellent shot."
"And the other one?"
"From Belgium. Maurice Obadia. Also a soldier. Younger than Tolpin. Could be 34, maybe 35. That's all I know about him."
"What are they doing at Farnholm Castle?"
"They're called 'special advisers'. But they're just Harderberg's bodyguards. You couldn't find people who were more skilful, or more dangerous. Harderberg seems to enjoy their company."
"How do you know that?"
"Sometimes they have shooting practice in the grounds at night. Their targets are quite special." "Tell me more."
"Dummies, big dolls, looking like people. They aim at their heads. And they usually score."
"Does Harderberg join in?"
"Yes. They sometimes keep going all night."
"Do you know whether either of them, Tolpin or Obadia, has a Bernadelli pistol?"
"I keep as far away from their guns as possible," Ström said. "There are some people you'd rather keep at arm's length."
"But they must have gun licences," Wallander said.
Ström smiled. "Only if they're resident in Sweden," he said.
"What does that mean? Farnholm Castle is in Sweden, surely?"
"There's something special about 'special advisers'," Ström said. "They've never set foot in Sweden. So you can't say that they are in this country."
Carefully he stubbed out his cigarette before he said: "There's a helicopter pad at the castle. It's always at night, the landing lights are switched on, a helicopter lands, sometimes two. They are off again before dawn. They fly low so they aren't tracked by radar. Whenever Harderberg is going to leave in his Gulfstream, Tolpin and Obadia disappear the night before by helicopter. Then they meet somewhere or other. Could be Berlin. That's where the helicopters are registered. When they come back, it's the same procedure. In other words, you could say they don't go through customs like ordinary folk."
Wallander nodded thoughtfully. "Just one more question," he said. "How do you know all this? You're confined to your bunker by the main gate. You can't possibly be allowed to roam about wherever you want."
"That's a question you'll never get the answer to," Ström said. "Let's just say it's a trade secret I don't want to pass on to anybody else."
"I'll fix that certificate for you," Wallander said.
"What do you know?" Ström said, with a smile. "I knew we'd strike a deal."
"You didn't know that at all," Wallander said. "When are you next on duty?"
"I work three nights in a row. I start tonight at 7.00."
"I'll be here at 3.00 this afternoon," Wallander said. "I'll have something to show you. Then I'll ask my question."
Ström stood up and checked through the curtains.
"Is there somebody following you?" Wallander asked.
"You can't be too careful," Ström said. "I thought you'd caught on to that."
Wallander went back to his car and drove to the police station. He paused in reception and asked Ebba immediately to summon a meeting of the investigation team.
"You look pretty stressed," Ebba said. "Has something happened?"
"Yes," Wallander said. "At long last something has happened. Don't forget Nyberg. I need him to be there."
Twenty minutes later they were ready to start, although Ebba hadn't been able to reach Hanson, who had left the building early that morning without saying where he was going. Åkeson and Björk came into the conference room just as Wallander had decided he could not wait for them any longer. Without mentioning the fact that he had done a deal with Ström, he described their exchanges at the house in Svartavägen. The listlessness that had characterised recent sessions with the team was noticeably reduced, even though Wallander could read the doubt in his colleagues' faces. He felt a bit like a football manager trying to convince his players that they were about to enter a boom period even though they had lost every match for the last six months.
"I believe in this," he said in conclusion. "Ström can be very useful to us."
Åkeson shook his head. "I don't like it," he said. "The success of this investigation now seems to depend on a security guard who's been kicked out of the police force, but is nevertheless cast as our saviour."
"What choice do we have?" Wallander said. "Besides, I can't see that we're doing anything illegal. He was the one who came to us, not the other way round."
Björk was more scathing. "It's out of the question. We can't use a disgraced police officer for a grass. There would be a major scandal if this went wrong and the media got on to it. The National Police Commissioner would have my guts for garters if I gave you the go-ahead."
"Let him carve me up instead," Wallander said. "Ström is serious. He wants to help. As long as we do nothing illegal, we're hardly risking scandal."
"I can see the headlines," Björk said. "They're not nice."
"I see different headlines," Wallander said. "Something about two more murders the police haven't been able to solve."
Martinsson could see that the discussion was getting out of hand, and intervened. "It seems a bit odd that he didn't want anything in return for giving us a bit of help," he said. "Can we really believe that his being upset at having lost his job is sufficient reason for him to start helping the police whom he hates?"
"He hates the police, no doubt about that," Wallander said. "But I still think we can trust him."
You could have heard a pin drop. Åkeson poked at his upper lip, wondering what he ought to think. "Martinsson's question - you didn't answer it," he said.
"He didn't ask for anything in return," Wallander said, lying through his teeth.
"What exactly do you want us to do?"
Wallander nodded in the direction of Nyberg, who was sitting next to Höglund. "Sten Torstensson was killed by bullets that were probably from a Bernadelli pistol. Nyberg says that's a rare weapon. I want Ström to find out whether one of those bodyguards has a Bernadelli. Then we can go to the castle and make an arrest."
"We can do that anyway," Åkeson said. "People carrying guns, no matter what make they are, illegally resident in this country, that's good enough for me."
"But what then?" Wallander said. "We arrest them. We deport them.
We've put all our eggs in one basket and then dropped it. Before we can point to those men as possible murderers we have to know whether either of them has a gun that could be the murder weapon."
"Fingerprints," Nyberg said. "That would be good. Then we can run a check with Interpol and Europol."
Wallander agreed. He had forgotten about fingerprints.
Åkeson was still poking at his upper lip. "Is there anything else you have in mind?" he asked.
"No," Wallander said. "Not at the moment."
He knew he was walking a tightrope and could fall at any moment. If he went too far, Åkeson would put a stop to any further contact with Ström, or at the very least hold things up. So Wallander did not mention everything he intended to do.
While Åkeson continued to think the matter over, Wallander looked across at Nyberg and Höglund. She smiled. Nyberg nodded almost imperceptibly. They've understood, Wallander thought. They know what I'm thinking. And they're with me.
At last Åkeson stopped arguing with himself. "Just this once," he said. "But this once only. No more contact with Kurt Ström in future without first informing me. I'll want to know what you intend asking him before I approve of any more contributions from that gentleman. You can also expect me to say no."
"Of course," Wallander said. "I'm not even sure there will be
any more times."
When the meeting was over Wallander took Nyberg and Höglund into his office.
"I could tell that you had read my thoughts," he said when he had shut the door. "You didn't say anything, so I take it you agree with me that we should go a bit further than I led Åkeson to believe."
"The plastic container," Nyberg said. "If Ström could find a similar one at the castle, I'd be more than grateful."
"Exactly," Wallander said. "That plastic container is the most important thing we've got. Or the only thing, depending on how you look at it."
"But how is he going to be able to get away with it if he does find one?" Höglund said.
Wallander and Nyberg exchanged looks.
"If what we think is true, the container we found in Gustaf Torstensson's car was a substitute," Wallander said. "I thought we could give it back and replace it with the right one."
"I should have thought of that," she said. "Not thinking fast enough."
"I sometimes reckon it's Wallander who thinks too fast," Nyberg said quietly.
"I need it in a couple of hours," Wallander said. "I shall be seeing Ström again at 3.00."
Nyberg left, but Höglund stayed behind. "What did he want?" she asked.
"I'm not sure," Wallander said. "He said he wanted a certificate to say that he wasn't a bad police officer, but I think there's more to it than that."
"What?"
"I don't know yet, but I have my suspicions."
"And you don't want to say what your suspicions are?"
"I'd rather not just yet. Not until I know."
Nyberg came to Wallander's office with the plastic container just after 2.00. He had put it inside two black rubbish bags.
"Don't forget the fingerprints," Nyberg said. "Anything at all... glasses, cups, newspapers."
Half an hour later Wallander put the container on the back seat of his car and set off for Sandskogen. The rain was coming in off the sea in squalls. When he got out of his car Ström was in the doorway, already in uniform. Wallander carried the black rubbish bags into the red house.
"What uniform's that?" he said.
"Farnholm's own uniform. I've no idea who made it up." Wallander took the container out of the plastic bags. "Have you seen this before?" he said. Ström shook his head.
"There's an identical one somewhere at the castle," Wallander said. "There could be more than one. I want you to exchange this for one of them. Can you get into the main building itself?"
"I do my rounds every night."
"You're quite sure you've never seen this before?" "Never. I wouldn't even know where to start looking." Wallander thought for a moment. "Is there a cold-storage room anywhere?" "In the cellar."
"Look there. And don't forget the Bernadelli."
"That'll be more difficult. They always have their weapons with them, probably they take them to bed too."
"We need Tolpin and Obadia's fingerprints. That's all. Then you can have your certificate. If that's what you really want."
"What else would I want?"
"I believe what you really want is to show that you're not as bad a police officer as a lot of people think."
"You're wrong," Ström said. "I have to think about my future."
"It was just a thought."
"Same time tomorrow," Ström said. "Here."
"One more thing," Wallander said. "If anything goes wrong I'll deny all knowledge of what you're doing."
"I know the rules," Ström said. "If that's all, you might as well push off."
Wallander ran through the rain to his car. He stopped at Fridolf's Cafe for a coffee and some sandwiches. It worried him that he had not told the whole truth at the morning meeting, but he knew he would be ready to concoct a certificate for Ström if that should prove to be necessary. His mind went back to Sten Torstensson, coming to ask for his help. He had turned him down. The least he could do now was to bring his murderers to light.
He sat in his car without starting the engine, watching the people hurrying through the rain. He thought of the occasion a few years back when he had driven home from Malmö while very drunk, and been stopped by some of his colleagues. They had protected him, and it had never been known about. That night he had not been an ordinary citizen: he had been a police officer, taken care of by the police force, instead of being punished, suspended or perhaps thrown out of the force. Peters and Norén, the officers who had seen him swerving all over the road and stopped him, had earned his loyalty. What if one day one of them tried to cash in on the favour they had done him?
In his heart of hearts Ström wanted to be back in the police force, Wallander was sure of it. The antagonism and hatred he displayed was only a superficial front. No doubt he dreamed of one day being a police officer again.
Wallander drove back to the station. He went to Martinsson's office, and found him on the phone. When he finished the call he asked Wallander how it had gone.
"Ström is going to look for an Italian pistol and he's going to collect some fingerprints," Wallander said.
"I find it hard to believe he's done that for nothing," Martinsson said.
"Me too," Wallander said. "But I suppose even somebody like Kurt Ström has a good side."
"He made the mistake of getting caught," Martinsson said. "And then he made another mistake by making everything seem so big and significant. Did you know he has a severely handicapped daughter, by the way?"
Wallander shook his head.
"His wife left him when the girl was very small. He looked after her for years. She has some form of muscle illness. But then it got so bad that she couldn't stay at home any longer, and she had to go into a special home. He still visits her whenever he can."
"How do you know all this?"
"I phoned Roslund in Malmö and asked him. I said I'd happened to bump into Ström. I don't think Roslund knew he works at Farnholm Castle, and I didn't mention it, of course."
Wallander stood staring out of the window.
"There's not much else we can do but wait," Martinsson said.
Wallander did not respond. It eventually dawned on him that Martinsson had said something. "I didn't hear what you said."
"All we can do is wait."
"Yes," Wallander said. "And right now there's nothing I find harder to do."
Wallander went back to his office, sat at his desk and contemplated the enlarged overview of Alfred Harderberg's worldwide empire they'd received from the fraud squad in Stockholm. He had pinned it to the wall.
What I'm looking at is really an atlas of the world, he thought.
National boundaries have been replaced by ever-changing demarcation lines between different companies whose turnover and influence are greater than the budgets of many whole countries. He searched through the papers on his desk until he found the summary of the ten largest companies in the world that had been sent to him as an appendix by the fraud squad - they must have had a hyperactivity fit. Six of the biggest companies were Japanese and three American. The other was Royal Dutch/Shell, which was shared by Britain and Holland. Of those ten largest companies, four were banks, two telephone companies, one a car manufacturer and one an oil company. The other two were General Electric and Exxon. He tried to imagine the power wielded by these companies, but it was impossible for him to grasp what this concentration really meant. How could he when he did not feel he could get to grips with Harderberg's empire, even though that was like a mouse in the shadow of an elephant's foot compared with the Big Ten?
Once upon a time Alfred Harderberg had been Alfred Hansson. From insignificant beginnings in Vimmerby he had become one of the Silk Knights who ruled the world, always engaged in new crusades in the battle to outmanoeuvre or crush his competitors. On the surface he observed all the laws and regulations, he was a respected man who had been awarded honorary doctorates, he displayed great generosity and donations flowed from his apparently inexhaustible resources.
In describing him as an honourable man who was
good for Sweden, Björk had given voice to the generally accepted view.
What I'm really saying is that there is a stain somewhere, Wallander thought, and that smile has to be wiped from his face if we're going to nail a murderer. I'm trying to identify something which is basically unthinkable. Harderberg doesn't have a stain. His suntanned face and his smile are things we should, all of us Swedes, be proud of, and that's all there is to it.
Wallander left the police station at 6 p.m. It had stopped raining and the wind had died down. When he got home he found a letter among all the junk mail in the hall that was postmarked Riga. He put it on the kitchen table and looked hard at it, but did not open it until he had drunk a bottle of beer. He read the letter, and then, to be certain he had not misunderstood anything, read it through again. It was correct, she had given him an answer. He put the letter down on the table and pinched himself. He turned to the wall calendar and counted the days. He could not remember the last time he had been so excited. He had a bath, then went to the pizzeria in Hamngatan. He drank a bottle of wine with his meal, and it was only when he had become a bit tipsy that he realised he had not given a thought to Alfred Harderberg or Kurt Ström all evening. He was humming an improvised tune when he left the pizzeria, and then wandered about the streets until almost midnight. Then he went home and read the letter from Baiba one more time, just in case there was something in her English that he had misunderstood after all.
It was as he was about to fall asleep that he started thinking about Ström, and immediately he was wide awake again. Wait, Martinsson had said. That was the only thing they could do. He got out of bed and went to sit on the living-room sofa. What do we do if Ström doesn't find an Italian pistol? he thought. What happens to the investigation if the plastic container turns out to be a dead end? We might be able to deport a couple of foreign bodyguards who are in Sweden illegally, but that's about all. Harderberg, in his well-tailored suit, with that constant smile on his face, will depart from Farnholm Castle, and we'll be left with the wreckage of a failed murder investigation. We'll have to start all over again, and that will be very hard. We'll have to start examining every single thing that's happened as if we were seeing it for the first time.