The Man Who Smiled (12 page)

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 spoke 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?"

"That's something you'll have to ask Dr Harderberg."

Wallander closed his notebook. "Absolutely right," he said. "I'd like you to send him a message, whether he's in Geneva or Dubai or wherever, and inform him that Inspector Wallander wants to talk to him as soon as possible. The day he gets back here, in other words."

He stood up and gingerly placed the cup and saucer on the desk.

"The Ystad police don't have eleven secretaries," he said, "but our receptionists are pretty efficient. You can leave a message with them saying when he can see me."

He followed her out into the hall. Next to the front door, lying on a marble table, was a thick leather-bound file.

"Here's the overview of Dr Harderberg's business affairs you asked for," Anita Karlén said.

Somebody's been listening in, Wallander thought. Somebody's overheard the whole of our conversation. Presumably a transcript is already on its way to Harderberg, wherever he is. In case he's interested. Which I doubt.

"Don't forget to stress that it's urgent," Wallander said. This time Anita Karlén did shake hands with him.

Wallander glanced at the big unlit staircase, but the shadows had gone.

The sky had cleared. He got into his car. Anita Karlén was standing on the steps, her hair fluttering in the wind. As he drove off he could see her in his rear-view mirror, still on the steps, watching him. This time he didn't need to stop at the gates, which started opening as he approached. There was no sign of Kurt Ström. The gates closed automatically behind him, and he drove slowly back to Ystad. It was only three days since he'd suddenly made up his mind to return to work, but even so, it seemed like a long time. As if he were on his way somewhere while his memories went dashing off at an enormous pace in an entirely different direction.

Just after the turning into the main highway there was a dead hare lying on the road. He drove round it, and thought how he was still no nearer to finding out what had happened to Gustaf Torstensson or his son. It seemed to him highly unlikely that he would find any connection between the dead solicitors and the people in the castle behind that double fence. Nevertheless, he would go through that leather file before the day was out, and try to get some idea of Alfred Harderberg's business empire.

His car phone started ringing. He picked it up and heard Svedberg's voice.

"Svedberg here," he shouted. "Where are you?" "Forty minutes from Ystad."

"Martinsson said you were going to Farnholm Castle." "I've been there. Drew a blank."

The conversation was cut off by interference for a few seconds. Then Svedberg's voice returned.

"Berta Dunér phoned and asked for you," he said. "She was keen for you to get in touch with her right away."

"Why?"

"She didn't say."

"If you give me her number I'll give her a call." "It would be better if you drove round there. She seemed very insistent."

Wallander glanced at the clock. It was 8.45 already. "What happened at the meeting this morning?" "Nothing special."

"I'll drive straight to her place when I get back to Ystad," Wallander said.

"Do that," Svedberg said.

Wallander wondered what Mrs Dunér wanted that was so urgent. He could feel himself growing tense, and increased his speed.

At 9.25 he parked any old how opposite the pink house. He hurried across the street and rang her bell. The moment she opened the door he could see something was amiss. She looked to be in shock. "You've been asking for me," he said.

She nodded and ushered him in. He was about to take off his shoes when she grasped his arm and dragged him into the living room that overlooked her little garden. She pointed.

"Somebody's been there during the night," she said.

She looked really frightened. Something of her anxiety rubbed off on Wallander. He stood at the French windows and examined the lawn: the flower beds, dug over ready for winter, the climbers on the whitewashed wall between Mrs Dunér's garden and her neighbour's. "I can't see anything," he said.

She had been hovering in the background, as if she did not dare go up to the window. Wallander began to wonder if she was suffering from some temporary mental aberration as a result of the violent events that had shaken her life to its foundations.

She came to his side, and pointed. "There," she said. "There. Somebody's been there during the night, digging."

"Did you see anybody?"

"XT "

No.

"Did you hear anything?"

"No. But I know somebody's been there during the night."

Wallander tried to follow where she was pointing. He had the vague impression he could see that a tiny piece of lawn had been trodden down.

"It could be a cat," he said. "Or a mole. Even a mouse." She shook her head. "No, somebody's been there during the night," she said.

Wallander opened the French windows and stepped out into the garden. He walked on to the lawn. From close up it looked as if a square of turf had been lifted and then put back. He squatted down and ran his hand over the grass. His fingers touched something hard, something plastic or iron, a little spike sticking up out of the turf. Very carefully, he bent back the blades of grass. A greyish-brown object was buried just under the surface.