Something in his voice discouraged her from saying more.
Wallander continued to walk away. For some reason, nobody tried to stop him.
CHAPTER 18
On the morning of Thursday, December 23, Wallander went rather reluctandy to Österportstorg in Ystad and bought a Christmas tree. It was distinctly misty - there was not going to be a white Christmas in Skåne in 1993. He spent a considerable time examining the trees, not at all sure what he really wanted, but in the end he picked one just about small enough to put on his table. He took it home and then spent ages searching in vain for a stand he distinctly remembered having: probably it disappeared when he and Mona had divided up their possessions after the divorce. He made a list of the things he needed to buy for Christmas. It was obvious that for the last few years he had been living in a state of increasing squalor. Every cupboard was bare. The list he made filled a whole page of A4. When he turned over to continue on the next page, he found there was something written there already. Sten Torstensson.
He recalled that this was the very first note he had made in the case, that morning at the beginning of November, almost two months ago, when he had decided to go back to work. He remembered sitting at this table and being intrigued by the death notices in Ystad Allehanda. Now, everything had changed. That November morning seemed an age away.
Alfred Harderberg and his two shadows had been arrested. Once the Christmas holiday was over Wallander would get down to the investigation that seemed likely to keep on going for a very long time.
He wondered what would happen to Farnholm Castle.
He also thought he ought to phone Widén and find out how Sofia was faring, after all she had been through.
He stood up, went to the bathroom and examined himself in the mirror. His face looked thinner. But he had also aged. No-one could now avoid seeing that he was approaching 50. He opened his mouth wide and peered gloomily at his teeth. Despondent or annoyed, he couldn't make up his mind which, he decided he would have to make an appointment with the dentist in the new year. Then he returned to his list in the kitchen, crossed out the name Sten Torstensson, and noted that he would have to buy a new toothbrush.
It took him three hours, in the pouring rain, to buy all the things on his list. He had to resort to hole-in-the-wall machines twice to draw out more money, and he was outraged that everything was so expensive. He slunk home shordy before 1 p.m. with all his carrier bags, and sat down at the kitchen table to check his list. Needless to say, he had forgotten something: a stand for his Christmas tree.
The phone rang. He was supposed to be on holiday over Christmas, so he did not expect it to be from the police station. But when he picked up the receiver, it was Arin-Britt Höglund's voice he heard.
"I know you're on holiday," she said. "I wouldn't have phoned if it wasn't important."
"When I joined the force many years ago, one of the first things I learned was that a police officer is never on holiday," he said. "What do they have to say about that at Police Training College nowadays?"
"Professor Persson did talk about it once," she said. "But to tell you the truth, I haven't a clue what he said."
"What do you want?"
"I'm ringing from Svedberg's office. Mrs Dunér is in my room at the moment. She's very keen to talk to you." "What about?"
"She won't say. She won't talk to anybody but you." Wallander did not hesitate.
"Tell her I'll be there," he said. "She can wait in my office."
"Apart from that, there's nothing much happening here at the moment," Ann-Britt Höglund said. "There's only Martinsson and me here. The traffic boys are getting ready for Christmas. The population of Skåne is going to spend Christmas blowing into balloons."
"Good," he said. "There's too much of being drunk in charge. We have to stamp it out."
"You sometimes sound like Björk," she said, laughing.
"I hope not," he said, horrified.
"Can you tell me any kind of crime for which the figures are improving?" she said.
He thought for a moment. "The theft of black-and-white televisions," he said. "But that's about all."
He hung up, wondering what Mrs Dunér would have to say. He really could not imagine what it might be.
It was 1.15 when Wallander arrived at the police station. The Christmas tree was glittering away in reception, and he remembered that he hadn't yet bought the usual bunch of flowers for Ebba. On his way to his office he called in at the canteen and wished everybody a merry Christmas. He knocked on Ann-Britt Höglund's door, but there was no reply.
Mrs Dunér was sitting on his visitor's chair, waiting for him. The left arm looked as if it would fall off the chair at any moment. She stood up when he came in, they shook hands and he hung up his jacket before sitting down. Wallander thought she looked tired.
"You wanted to speak to me," he said, trying to sound friendly.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," she said. "It's easy to forget that the police have so much to do."
"I have time for you," Wallander said. "What is it you want?"
She took a parcel out of the plastic carrier bag at the side of her chair, and handed it to him over his desk.
"It's a present," she said. "You can open it now, or wait until tomorrow."
"Why on earth would you want to give me a Christmas present?" Wallander asked in surprise.
"Because I now know what happened to my gentlemen," she said. "It's thanks to you that the perpetrators were caught."
Wallander shook his head and stretched out his arms in protest. "That's not true," he said. "It was teamwork, with lots of people involved. You shouldn't just thank me."
Her reply surprised him. "This is no time for false modesty," she said. "Everybody knows that you're the one we have to thank."
Wallander did not know what to say, and began to open the parcel. It contained one of the icons he had found in Gustaf Torstensson's basement.
"I can't possibly accept this," he said. "Unless I'm much mistaken, it's from Mr Torstensson's collection."
"Not any more it isn't," Mrs Dunér replied. "He left them all to me in his will. And I'm only too happy to pass one of them on to you."
"It must be very valuable," Wallander said. "I'm a police officer, and I can't accept such gifts. At the very least I'd have to talk to my boss first."
She surprised him yet again. "I've already done that. He said it was OK."
"You've spoken to Björk already?" Wallander said, astonished. "I thought I'd better," she said.
Wallander looked at the icon. It reminded him of Riga, of Latvia. And most especially of Baiba Liepa.
"It's not as valuable as you might think," she said. "But it's beautiful."
"Yes. It's very beautiful. But I don't deserve it." "That's not the only reason I'm here," Mrs Dunér said. Wallander looked at her, waiting for what was coming next. "I have a question for you," she said. "Is there no limit to human wickedness?"
"I'm hardly the right person to answer a question like that," Wallander said.
"But who can, if the police can't?"
Wallander carefully laid the icon on his desk.
"I take it you're wondering how anybody can kill another human being to get a body part to sell for profit," he said. "I don't know what to say. It's as incomprehensible to me as it is to you."
"What's the world coming to?" she said. "Alfred Harderberg was a man we could all look up to. How can anybody donate money to charity with one hand and kill people with the other?"
"We just have to fight it as best we can," Wallander said.
"How can we fight something we can't understand?"
"I really don't know," Wallander said. "But we have to do our best."
The brief conversation died out. Martinsson's cheerful laughter echoed down the corridor.
She rose to her feet. "I won't disturb you any longer," she said.
"I'm sorry I couldn't give you a better answer," he said, opening the door.
"At
least you were honest," she said.
It occurred to Wallander that he had something to give her. He went to his desk and took the postcard with a picture of a Finnish landscape from one of the drawers.
"I promised to give you this back" he said. "We don't need it any longer."
"I'd forgotten all about it," she said, putting it into her handbag.
He escorted her out of the police station.
"May I wish you a merry Christmas," she said.
"Thank you," Wallander said. "And the same to you. I'll take good care of the icon."
He went back to his office. Her visit had made him uneasy. He had been reminded of the melancholy he had had to live with for so long. But he thrust it to one side, took his jacket and left the building. He was on holiday. Not just from his job, but from any thought that might depress him.
I may not deserve the icon, he thought, but I do deserve a few days off.
He drove home through the fog and parked.
Then he cleaned his flat. Before going to bed he improvised something to stand the Christmas tree in, and decorated it. He had hung the icon up in his bedroom. He studied it before putting the light out.
He wondered if it would be able to protect him.
The next day was Christmas Eve, the big day in Sweden. It was still foggy and grey outside. But Wallander felt that today he could rise above all the greyness.
He drove to Sturup airport at 2 p.m., despite the fact that the plane was not due until 3.30. He felt most uncomfortable as he parked his car and approached the yellow airport building. He had the feeling everybody was looking at him.
Nevertheless, he couldn't resist walking over to the gates to the right of the terminal.
The Gulfstream was no longer there. There was no sign of it.
It's all over, he thought. I'm putting a full stop behind it, here and now.
His relief was immediate.
The image of the smiling man faded away.
He went into the departure lounge, then out again, feeling more nervous than he could remember at any time since he was a teenager. He counted the paving stones in the entrance, rehearsed his inadequate English, and tried in vain to think about anything but what was about to happen.
When the plane landed he was still standing outside the terminal. Then he hurried inside and positioned himself next to the newspaper stand, waiting.
She was one of the last to emerge.
But there she was. Baiba Liepa.
She was exactly as he remembered her.
Henning Mankell, The Man Who Smiled - Wallander 04
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