The Man Who Smiled - Wallander 04

  He drove along the road to Kristianstad and slowed down as he passed the place where Gustaf Torstensson had died. When he came to Skåne-Tranås he stopped at the cafe and went in. It was getting windy: he ought to have put on a thicker jacket. In fact, he ought to have given more thought to his clothes in general: the worn Terylene trousers and dirty windcheater he had on were perhaps not ideal for visiting a lord of the manor. As he entered the cafe he wondered what Björk would have worn for a visit to a castle, supposing it had been on business.

  He was the only customer. He ordered coffee and a sandwich. It was 6.45, and he leafed through a well-thumbed magazine on a shelf. He soon tired of that, and tried to think instead about what he was going to say to Alfred Harderberg, or whoever might be able to tell him about Gustaf Torstensson's last visit to his client. He waited until 7.30, then asked to use the telephone on the counter next to the old-fashioned cash register, and first called the police station in Ystad. The only one of his colleagues there that early was Martinsson. He explained where he was, and said that he expected the visit to take an hour or two.

  "Do you know the first thing that entered my head when I woke up this morning?" Martinsson said. "No."

  "That it was Sten Torstensson who killed his father." "How do you explain what then happened to the son?" Wallander said.

  "I don't," Martinsson said. "But what seems to me to be clearer and clearer is that the explanation has to do with their professional rather than their private lives."

  "Or a combination of the two."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just something I dreamed last night," Wallander said, ducking the question. "Anyway, I'll be back at the station in due course."

  He hung up, lifted the receiver again and dialled the number of Farnholm Castle. It was answered on the very first ring. "Farnholm Castle," said a woman's voice. She had a slight foreign accent.

  "This is Detective Chief Inspector Wallander of the Ystad police. I'd like to speak to Mr Harderberg."

  "He's in Geneva," the voice said.

  Wallander ought to have foreseen the possibility that an international businessman might be abroad. "When will he be back?" "He hasn't said."

  "Do you expect him tomorrow or next week?"

  "I can't give you that information over the telephone. His schedule is strictly confidential."

  "Maybe so, but I am a police officer," Wallander said, his anger rising.

  "How am I to know that?" the woman said. "You could be anybody."

  "I'll be at Farnholm Castle in half an hour," Wallander said. "Who shall! ask for?"

  "That's for the guards at the main gate to decide," the woman said. "I hope you have some acceptable form of identification with you."

  "What do you mean by 'acceptable'?" Wallander shouted, but she had hung up.

  Wallander slammed down the receiver. The powerfully built waitress was putting buns out on a plate, and looked up at him with displeasure. He put some coins on the counter, and left without a word.

  Fifteen kilometres further north he turned to the west and was soon swallowed up by the dense forest to the south of Linderöd Ridge. He braked when he came to the turning for Farnholm Castle and a granite plaque with gold lettering told him he was on course. Wallander thought the plaque looked like an expensive gravestone.

  The castle road was asphalted and in good condition. Tucked discreetly into the trees was a high fence. He stopped and wound down his window to get a better view. It was a double fence with about a metre gap. He drove on. Another kilometre or so and the road swung sharply to the right. Just beyond the turn were the gates. Next to them was a grey building with a flat roof looking more like a pillbox than anything else. He drove forward and waited. Nothing happened. He sounded his horn. Still no reaction. He got out of the car, he was getting annoyed. He had a vague feeling of being humiliated by all these fences and closed gates. Just then a man emerged through one of the steel doors in the pillbox. He was wearing a dark red uniform Wallander had never seen before. He still had not familiarised himself with these new security companies that were popping up all over the country.

  The man in the uniform came up to him. He was about the same age as Wallander.

  Then he recognised him.

  "Kurt Wallander," said the guard. "Long time no see." "Indeed," Wallander said. "How long ago was it we last met? Fifteen years?

  "Twenty," the guard said. "Maybe more."

  Wallander had dug out the man's name from his memory. Kurt Ström. They had been colleagues on the Malmö police force. Wallander was young then and inexperienced, and Ström was a year or so older. They had never had more than professional contact with each other, but Wallander had moved to Ystad and many years later he had heard that Ström had left the force. He had a vague memory that Ström had been sacked, something had been hushed up, possibly excessive force on a prisoner, or stolen goods vanishing from a police storeroom. He didn't know for sure.

  "I was warned you were on your way," Ström said.

  "Lucky for me," Wallander said. "I was told I'd have to produce an 'acceptable form of identification'. What do you find acceptable?"

  "We have a high level of security at Farnholm Castle," Ström said. "We're pretty careful about who we let in."

  "What kind of treasure do you have hidden away here?"

  "No treasure, but there's a man with very big business interests."

  "Harderberg?"

  "That's the one. He has something a lot of people would like to get their hands on." "What's that?"

  "Knowledge, know-how. Worth more than owning your own mint."

  Wallander had no patience with the servile manner Ström was displaying as he spoke of the great man.

  "Once upon a time you were a police officer," Wallander said. "I still am. Perhaps you understand why I'm here?"

  "I read the papers," Ström said. "I suppose it's got something to do with that lawyer."

  "Two lawyers have died, not just one," Wallander said. "But if I understand it right, only the elder one worked with Harderberg."

  "He came here a lot," Ström said. "A nice man. Very discreet."

  "He was last here on October 11, in the evening," Wallander said. "Were you on duty then?" Ström nodded.

  "I take it you make notes on all the cars and people that come in and out?"

  Ström laughed out loud. "We stopped that a long time ago," he said. "It's all done by computer nowadays."

  "I'd like to see a printout for the evening of October 11," Wallander said.

  "You'll have to ask them up at the castle," Ström said. "I'm not allowed to do things like that."

  "But I dare say you're allowed to remember," Wallander said.

  "I know he was here that evening," Ström said. "But I can't remember when he arrived and when he left."

  "Was he on his own in the car?"

  "I can't say."

  "Because you're not allowed to say?" Ström nodded again.

  "I've sometimes thought about applying for a job with a security company," Wallander said, "but I think I'd find it hard to get used to not being allowed to answer questions."

  "Everything has its price," Ström said.

  Wallander thought he could say "hear, hear" to that. He watched Ström for a few moments. "Harderberg," he said eventually. "What's he like as a person?"

  The reply surprised him.

  "I don't know," Ström said.

  "You must have some sort of an opinion, surely? Or aren't you allowed to comment on that either?" "I've never met him," Ström said. "And you have been working for him how long?" "Nearly five years." "You've never once seen him?" "Never."

  "He's never passed through these gates?"

  "His car has one-way glass in the windows."

  "I take it that's part of the security system?" Wallander thought for a moment. "In other words, you are never completely sure whether he's here or not. You don't know if he's in the car when it passes in or out through the gates?"

 
"No. It's all to do with security," Ström said.

  Wallander went back to his car. Ström disappeared through the steel door, and shortly afterwards the gates opened without a sound. It's like entering a different world, Wallander thought.

  After about a kilometre the forest opened up. The castle stood on a hill, surrounded by extensive and well-tended grounds. The large main building, like the free-standing outbuildings surrounding it, was in dark red brick. The castle had towers and steeples, balustrades and balconies. The only thing to break the mood of another world, another age, was a helicopter on a concrete pad. Wallander had the impression of a large insect with its wings half folded, a wild beast at rest but liable to come back to life with a jerk.

  He drove slowly up to the main entrance. Peacocks strolled leisurely around on the road, in front of the car. He parked behind a black BMW and got out. It was very quiet all around. The tranquillity reminded him of the previous day when he'd walked up the gravel drive to Gustaf Torstensson's house. Perhaps tranquillity is what distinguishes the environment in which wealthy people live, he thought. It's not the orchestral fanfares, but the tranquillity.

  Just then one of the double doors at the main entrance to the castle opened. A woman in her thirties, dressed in well-fitting and, Wallander guessed, expensive clothes emerged on to the steps.

  "Please come in," she said with a ready smile, a smile that seemed to Wallander just as cold and unwelcoming as it was correct.

  "I don't know if I have any identification papers you would regard as acceptable," he said, "but the guard who goes by the name of Ström recognised me."

  "I know," said the woman.

  It was not the woman who'd answered the phone when he rang from the cafe. He went up the steps, held out his hand and introduced himself. She ignored his hand but simply reproduced the same distant smile. He followed her in through the doors. They walked across a large entrance hall. Modernistic sculptures on stone pedestals were dotted around, illuminated by invisible spotlights. In the background, by the wide staircase leading to the upper floor, he detected two men lurking in the shadows. Wallander could sense their presence, but could not make out their faces. Tranquillity and shadows, he thought. The world of Harderberg, as I know it so far. He followed her through a door on the left, leading into a large oval room that was also decorated with sculptures. But as a reminder of the fact that they were in a castle with a history going back deep into the Middle Ages, there were also some suits of armour keeping watch over him. In the centre of the highly polished oak parquet floor was a desk and a single visitor's chair. There was no paper on the desk, only a computer and an advanced telephone exchange that was hardly any bigger than an ordinary telephone. The woman invited him to sit down, then keyed a command into the computer. She handed him a sheet from a printer invisible somewhere under the desk.

  "I gather you wanted a printout of the gate-control data for the evening of October 11," the woman said. "You can see from this when Mr Torstensson arrived, and when he left Farnholm."

  Wallander took the printout and put it on the floor beside him.

  "That's not the only reason why I've come," he said. "I have several other questions."

  "Fire away."

  The woman had sat down behind the desk. She pressed various buttons on the telephone exchange. Wallander assumed she was switching all incoming calls to another exchange somewhere in the huge building.

  "The information I've received informs me that Gustaf Torstensson had Alfred Harderberg as a client," Wallander said. "If I understand it rightly, he's out of the country at present."

  "He's in Dubai," the woman said.

  Wallander frowned. "An hour ago he was in Geneva," he said.

  "That's right," the woman said without batting an eyelid. "But he's now left for Dubai."

  Wallander took a notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket.

  "May I ask your name and what you do here?"

  "I'm one of Alfred Harderberg's secretaries," she said. "My name's Anita Karlén."

  "Does Mr Harderberg have many secretaries?" Wallander wondered.

  "That depends on how you look at it," Anita Karlén replied. "Is that really relevant?"

  Once again Wallander started to get annoyed at the way in which he was being treated. He decided he would have to change his approach if the whole visit to Farnholm were not to be a waste of time.

  "I shall decide if the question is relevant or not," he said. "Farnholm Castle is a private property and you have a legal right to surround it with as many fences as you like, as high as you like. Provided you have planning permission and are not contravening any laws or regulations. You also have the right to deny entry to whoever you like. With one exception: the police. Is that understood?"

  "We haven't denied you entry, Mr Wallander," she said, still without batting an eyelid.

  "Let me express myself more clearly," Wallander said, noting that the woman's indifference was making him feel insecure. Perhaps he was also distracted by the fact that she was strikingly beautiful.

  Just as he opened his mouth to continue, a door opened and a woman came in with a tray. To his surprise Wallander saw that she was black. Without saying a word she put the tray down on the desk, then disappeared again just as noiselessly as she'd appeared.

  "Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr Wallander?"

  He said he would. She poured and then handed him the cup and saucer. He examined the china.

  "Let me ask you a question that's relevant," he said. "What will happen if I drop this cup on the floor? How much will I owe you?"

  For the first time her smile seemed genuine.

  "Everything's insured, of course," she said. "But that's a classic Rörstrand special edition."

  Wallander put the cup and saucer gingerly down by the side of the printout on the oak parquet floor, and started again.

  "I'll express myself very precisely," he said. "That same evening, October 11, barely an hour after Mr Torstensson had been here, he died in a car accident."

  "We sent flowers to the funeral," she said. "One of my colleagues attended the service."

  "But not Alfred Harderberg, of course?"

  "My employer avoids appearing in public whenever possible."

  "I've gathered that," Wallander said. "But the fact is that we've reason to believe this wasn't in fact a car accident. Many things suggest Mr Torstensson was murdered. And to make matters worse, his son was shot dead in his office a few weeks later. Perhaps you sent flowers to his funeral as well?"

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  "We only dealt with Gustaf Torstensson," she said.

  Wallander nodded, and went on: "Now you know why I've come. And you still haven't told me how many secretaries there are working here."

  "And you haven't understood that it depends on how you look at it, Inspector Wallander," she said. "I'm all ears."

  "Here at Farnholm Castle there are three secretaries," she said. "Then there are two more who accompany him on his travels. In addition Dr Harderberg has secretaries stationed in various places around the world. The number can vary, but it's rarely fewer than six."

  "I make it eleven," Wallander said.

  She agreed.

  "You referred to your employer as Dr Harderberg," Wallander said.

  "He has several honorary doctorates," she said. "You can have a list if you'd like one."

  "Yes, I would," Wallander said. "I also want an overview of Dr Harderberg's business empire. But you can let me have that later. What I want now is to know what happened that evening when Gustaf Torstensson was here for the last time. Which one of all those secretaries can tell me that?"

  "I was on duty that evening."

  Wallander thought for a moment. "That's why you're here," he said. "That's why you are receiving me. But what would have happened if this had been your day off? You couldn't know the police were going to come this day of all days."

  "Of course not."

  Even as he s
poke Wallander realised he was wrong. And he also realised how it would be possible for people at Farnholm Castle to know. The thought worried him. He had to force himself to concentrate before continuing.

  "What happened that evening?" he asked.

  "Mr Torstensson arrived shortly after 7 p.m. He had a private conversation with Dr Harderberg and some of his closest colleagues, lasting an hour. Then he had a cup of tea. He left Farnholm at exactly 8.14"

  "What did they talk about that evening?" "I can't answer that."

  "But you said a moment ago that you were on duty." "It was a conversation with no secretary present. No notes were taken."

  "Who were the colleagues?" "I beg your pardon?"

  "You said Mr Torstensson had a private conversation with Dr Harderberg and some of his closest colleagues." "I can't answer that." "Because you're not allowed to?" "Because I don't know." "Don't know what?"

  "Who those colleagues were. I'd never seen them before. They had arrived that day and they left the following day."

  Wallander didn't know what to ask next. It seemed as if all the answers he was getting were peripheral. He decided to approach matters from a different angle.

  "You said a moment ago that Dr Harderberg has eleven secretaries. Might I ask how many solicitors he has?"

  "Presumably at least as many."

  "But you're not allowed to say exactly how many?"

  "I don't know."

  Wallander nodded. He could see he was entering another cul-de-sac.

  "How long had Mr Torstensson been working for Dr Harderberg?"

  "Ever since he bought Farnholm Castle and made it his headquarters. About five years ago."

  "Mr Torstensson worked as a solicitor in Ystad all his life," said Wallander. "All of a sudden he's considered to be qualified to advise on international business matters. Doesn't that seem a little remarkable?"