The Man Who Smiled (32 page)

"I'll explain when I can," Wallander said. "But what I do know on the basis of what I've learned this last month is that the real owner of a company can be someone quite different from what it says on the company logo."

Åkeson shook his head. "You're a hard nut to crack," he said. He consulted his desk diary. "Let's say Monday, December 20. Unless we've made a breakthrough before then. But I'm not going to allow you a single day more if the investigation hasn't produced significant results by then."

"We'll make the most of the time," Wallander said. "I trust you realise that we're busting ourselves here."

"I know," Åkeson said. "But the bottom line is that I'm the prosecutor, and I have to do my duty."

The meeting was over. Björk and Wallander went back to their offices.

"It was good of him to give you as much time as that," Björk said as they parted in the corridor.

"Give
me
time?" Wallander said. "You mean us, don't you?"

"You know exactly what I mean," Björk said. "Let's not waste time discussing it."

"I entirely agree," Wallander said.

When he had got to his office and closed the door, he felt at a loose end. Somebody had put on his desk a photograph of Harderberg's jet parked at Sturup. Wallander glanced at it, then pushed it aside.

I've lost my touch, he thought. The whole investigation's gone to pot. I ought to pass it on to somebody else. I can't handle this.

He sat there in his chair, inert. His mind went back to Riga and Baiba. When he could no longer cope with doing nothing he penned her a letter, inviting her to Ystad for Christmas and New Year. To make sure that the letter would not just lie there or get torn to pieces, he put it in an envelope and without more ado handed it to Ebba in reception.

"Could you post that for me today?" he said. "It's really urgent." "I'll take care of it myself," she said, with a smile. "Incidentally, you look shattered. Are you getting enough sleep?" "Not as much as I need," Wallander said.

"Who's going to thank you if you work yourself to death?" she said. "Not me, for sure."

Wallander went back to his office.

A month, he thought. A month in which to wipe the smile off Harderberg's face. He doubted if it would be possible.

He forced himself to work, despite everything. Then he phoned Widén.

He also made up his mind to buy some cassettes of opera recordings. He missed his music.

CHAPTER
13

At around noon on Monday, November 22, Kurt Wallander got into the police car that was still doing service as a temporary replacement for his own burned-out wreck and set off west from Ystad. He was heading for the stables next to the ruins of Stjärnsund Castle where Sten Widén ran his business. When he reached the top of the hill outside Ystad he turned off into the lay-by, cut the engine and stared out to sea. On the far horizon he could just dimly see the outline of a cargo vessel sailing out into the Baltic. All of a sudden he was overcome by a fit of dizziness. He was terrified that it was his heart, but then he realised it was something else, that he seemed to be about to faint. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back and tried not to think. After a minute or so he opened his eyes. The sea was still there and the cargo vessel was still sailing out to the east.

I'm tired, he thought. Despite having rested all weekend. The feeling of exhaustion goes deep, deep down, I'm only half aware of the causes, and there is probably nothing I can do about it. Not now that I've made up my mind to return to work. The beach on Jutland no longer exists as far as I'm concerned. I renounced it of my own free will.

He did not know how long he sat there, but when he began to feel cold he started the engine and drove on. He would have preferred to go home and disappear into the security of his flat, but he forced himself to continue. He turned off towards Stjärnsund. After about a kilometre the road deteriorated badly. As always when he visited Widén, he wondered how big horseboxes could negotiate such a wretchedly maintained track.

The path sloped steeply towards the extensive farm with row upon row of stable blocks. He drove down into the yard and switched off the engine. A flock of crows were screeching in a nearby tree.

He got out of the car and made for the red-brick building Widén used as a combined home and office. The door was ajar, and he could hear Widén talking on the phone. He knocked and went in. As usual it was untidy and smelled strongly of horses. Two cats were lying asleep on the unmade bed. Wallander wondered how his friend could put up with living like this year after year.

The man who nodded to him as he came in without interrupting his telephone call was thin, with tousled hair and an angry red patch of eczema on his chin. He looked just as he had 15 years back. In those days they had seen a lot of each other. Widén had dreamed then of becoming an opera singer. He had a fine tenor voice, and they had planned a future with Wallander acting as his impresario. But the dream had collapsed, or rather, faded away; Wallander had become a police officer and Widén had inherited his father's business, training racehorses. They had drifted apart, without either of them really knowing why, and it was not until the early 1990s, in connection with a lengthy and complicated murder case, that they had come into contact again.

There was a time when he was my best friend, Wallander thought. I haven't had another one since then. Perhaps he will always be the best friend I ever had.

Widén finished his call and slammed the receiver down.

"What a bastard!" he snarled.

"A horse owner?" Wallander said.

"A crook," Widén said. "I bought a horse from him a month ago. He has some stables over at Höör. I was going to collect it, but he's changed his mind. The bastard."

"If you've paid for the horse, there's not much he can do about it," Wallander said.

"Only a deposit," Widén said. "But I'm going to collect that horse no matter what he says."

Widén disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back Wallander could smell alcohol on his breath.

"You always come when I'm not expecting you," Widén said. "Would you like some coffee?"

Wallander accepted the offer and they went out to the kitchen. Widén shifted piles of old racing programmes to one side, exposing a small patch of plastic tablecloth.

"How about a drop of something stronger?" he asked, as he set about making the coffee.

"I'm driving," Wallander said. "How's it going with the horses?"

"It hasn't been a good year. And next year's not going to be any better. There isn't enough money in circulation. Fewer horses. I keep having to raise my training fees to make ends meet. What I'd really like to do is close down and sell up, but property prices are too low. In other words, I'm stuck fast in the Scanian mud."

He poured the coffee and sat down. Wallander noticed Widén's hand shaking as he reached for the cup. He's well on the way to drinking himself to death, he thought. I've never seen his hand shake like that in the middle of the day.

"What about you?" Widén asked. "What are you doing nowadays? Are you still off sick?"

"No, I'm back at work. A police officer again."

Widén looked bemused. "I didn't think so," he said.

"Didn't think what?"

"That you'd go back."

"What else could I do?"

"You were talking about getting a job with a security company. Or becoming head of security for some firm."

"I'll never be anything but a police officer."

"No," Widén agreed, "and I don't suppose I'll ever get away from these stables. That horse I've bought in Höör is a good 'un, by the way. Out of Queen Blue. Nothing wrong with its pedigree."

A girl rode past the window on horseback.

"How many staff have you got?"

"Three. But I can't afford more than two. I really need four."

"That's why I'm here, actually," Wallander said.

"Don't tell me you want a job as a stableboy," Widén said. "I don't think you've got the necessary qualifications."

"I'm sure I haven't," Wallander said. "Let me explain."

Wallander could see no reason why he shouldn't explain about Alfred Harderberg; he knew Widén would never breathe a word to anybody else.

"It's not my idea," Wallander said. "We've recently acquired a new woman police officer in Ystad. She's good. She was the one who saw the advert and told me about it."

"You mean I should second one of my girls to Farnholm Castle, is that it?" Widén said. "As a sort of spy? You must be out of your mind."

"Murder is murder," Wallander said. "The castle is impenetrable. This advert gives us an opportunity to get in. You say you have a girl too many."

"I said I had one too few."

"She can't be stupid," Wallander said. "She has to be wide awake and notice things."

"I have a girl who would fit the bill," Widén said. "She's sharp, and nothing scares her. But there is a problem." "What's that?" "She doesn't like the police." "Why's that?"

"You know that I often employ girls who've gone off the rails a bit. Over the years I've found them pretty good. I cooperate with a youth employment agency in Malmö. I have a girl from there at the moment, 19 years old. Name's Sofia. She was the one riding past the window just now."

"We don't need to mention the police," Wallander said. "We can think up some reason why you need to keep an eye on what's cooking at the castle. Then you can pass on to me what she tells you."

"Only if I must," Widén said. "I'd rather not get involved. Alright, we don't need to tell her you're a police officer. You're just somebody who wants to know what's going on there. If I say you're OK, she'll take my word for it."

"We can try," Wallander said.

"She hasn't got the job yet," Widén said. "I expect there'll be lots of horsey girls interested in a job at the castle."

"Go and get her," Wallander said. "Don't tell her my name."

"What the hell shall I call you, then?"

Wallander thought for a moment. "Roger Lundin," he said.

"Who's he?"

"From now on it's me."

Widén shook his head. "I hope you're right about this," he said. "I'll go and fetch her."

Sofia proved to be thin and leggy with a mop of unkempt hair. She came into the kitchen, nodded casually in Wallander's direction, then sat down and drank what remained of the coffee in Widén's cup.

Wallander wondered if she was one of the girls who shared his bed. He knew of old that Widén often had affairs with the girls who worked for him.

"You know I have to cut back here," Widén said. "But we've heard about a job that might suit you at a castle over at Österlen. If you take the job, or rather get it, things might pick up here later, and I promise to take you back if they do."

"What sort of horses are they?" she asked.

Widén looked at Wallander, who could only shrug his shoulders.

"I don't suppose they'll be Ardennes," Widén said. "What the hell does it matter? It's only going to be temporary. Besides, you'd be helping Roger here, who's a friend of mine. He'd like you to keep your eyes peeled and see what goes on there at the castle. Nothing special, just keeping your eyes open."

"What's the money like?" she asked.

"I've no idea," Wallander said.

"It's a castle, for God's sake," Widén said. "Stop being awkward."

He disappeared into the living room and came back with the paper. Wallander found the advert.

"Interview," he said. "Applicants should phone first."

"We can fix that," Widén said. "I'll drive you there tonight."

She suddenly looked up from the plastic tablecloth and stared Wallander in the eye.

"What sort of horses are they?" she asked.

"I really have no idea," Wallander said.

She cocked her head to one side. "I think you're police," she said. "What on earth makes you think that?" Wallander said, astonished. "I can feel it."

Widén interrupted her. "His name's Roger. That's all you need to know. Don't ask so many stupid bloody questions. Try to look comparatively respectable when we go there tonight. Wash your hair, for instance. And don't forget that Winter's Moon needs a bandage on her left hind leg."

She left the kitchen without another word.

"You can see for yourself," Widén said. "She's nobody's fool."

"Thanks for your help," Wallander said. "Let's hope she pulls it off."

"I'll drive her over. That's the best I can do."

"Phone me at home," Wallander said. "I need to know right away if she gets the job."

They went out to Wallander's car.

"I sometimes feel so desperately bloody tired of this whole business," Widén said.

"It would be nice if we could have our time over again," Wallander said.

"I sometimes say to myself, is that all it was? Life, that is. A few arias, loads of third-rate horses, constant money problems." "Come on, it's not all that bad, is it?" "Convince me."

"We have a reason to meet more often now. We can talk about it." "She hasn't got the job yet." "I know," Wallander said. "Phone me tonight." He got into his car, nodded to Widén and drove off. It was still quite early in the day. He made up his mind to pay another visit.

Half an hour later he parked in a no-parking area in the narrow street behind the Continental Hotel and walked to Mrs Dunér's little pink house. He was surprised to see no sign of a police car in the vicinity. What had happened to the protection Mrs Dunér was supposed to be receiving? He grew annoyed and worried at the same time. He rang the doorbell. He would get on to Björk immediately.

The door opened a fraction, but when Mrs Dunér saw who it was, she seemed genuinely pleased.

"I apologise for not having phoned in advance," he said.

"It's always a pleasure to welcome Inspector Wallander," she said.

He accepted her offer of a cup of coffee, even though he knew he had drunk too much coffee already. While she was busy in the kitchen Wallander took another look at her back garden. The lawn had been repaired. He wondered if she was expecting the police to provide her with another phone directory.