The Man Who Smiled (41 page)

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National boundaries have been replaced by ever-changing demarcation lines between different companies whose turnover and influence are greater than the budgets of many whole countries.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.

He made up his mind to resign responsibility for the case if that did happen. Martinsson could take over. That was not only reasonable, it was also necessary. Wallander was the one who had pushed through the strategy of concentrating on Harderberg. He would sink to the bottom with the rest of the wreckage, and when he came up to the surface again it would be Martinsson who would be in charge.

When at last he went back to bed he slept badly. His dreams kept collapsing and blending into one another, and he could see the smiling face of Alfred Harderberg at the same time as Baiba's unfailingly serious expression.

He woke at 7 a.m. He made a pot of coffee and thought about the letter from Baiba, then sat down at the kitchen table and read the car adverts in the morning paper. He still had not heard anything from the insurance company, but Björk had assured him that he could use a police car for as long as he needed to. He left the flat just after 9.00. The temperature was above freezing and there was not a cloud in the sky. He spent a few hours driving from one car showroom to another, and spent a long time examining a Nissan he wished he could afford. On the way back he parked the car in Stortorget and walked to the music shop in Stora Ostergatan. There was not much in the way of opera, and rather reluctantly he had to settle for a recording of selected arias. Then he bought some food and drove home. There were still several hours to go before he was due to meet Kurt Ström in Svartavägen.

It was 2.55 when Wallander parked outside the red doll's house in Sandskogen. When he knocked on the door there was no reply. He wandered around the garden, and after half an hour he started to get worried. Instinct told him something had happened. He waited until 4.15, then scribbled a note to Ström on the back of an envelope he had found in the car, giving him his phone numbers at home and at the station, and pushed it under the door. He drove back to town, wondering what he ought to do. Ström was acting on his own, and knew he had to take care of himself. He was perfectly capable of getting himself out of awkward situations, Wallander had no doubt, but even so, he felt increasingly worried. After establishing that nobody in the investigative team was still in the building, he went to his office and called Martinsson at home. His wife answered and told Wallander that Martinsson had taken his daughter to the swimming baths. He was about to phone Svedberg, but changed his mind and called Höglund instead. Her husband answered. When she came to the phone, Wallander told her that Ström had failed to turn up at their rendezvous. "What does that mean?" she said.

"I don't know," Wallander said. "Probably nothing, but I'm worried." "Where are you?" "In my office."

"Do you want me to come in?"

"That's not necessary. I'll phone you back if anything happens." He hung up and carried on waiting. At 5.30 p.m. he drove back to

Svartavagen and shone his torch on the door. The corner of the envelope was still sticking out underneath, so Ström had not been home. Wallander had his mobile phone with him, and dialled Ström's number at Glimmingehus. He let it ring for about a minute, but there was no answer. He was now convinced that something had happened, and decided to go back to the station and get in touch with Åkeson.

He had just stopped at a red light on Osterleden when his mobile phone rang.

"There's a Sten Widén trying to get in touch with you," said the operator at the police switchboard. "Have you got his number?"

"Yes, I have," Wallander said. "I'll phone him now."

The lights had changed and the driver of a car behind him sounded his horn impatiently. Wallander pulled in to the side of the road, then dialled Widén's number. One of the stablegirls answered.

"Is that Roger Lundin?" she asked.

"Yes," Wallander said, surprised. "That's me."

"I was to tell you that Sten is on his way to your flat in Ystad."

"When did he leave?"

"A quarter of an hour ago."

Wallander made a racing start to beat the amber light and drove back to town. Now he was certain something had happened. Ström had not returned home, and Sofia must have contacted Widén and had something so important to tell him that Widén had felt it was necessary to drive to his flat. When he turned into Mariagatan there was no sign of Widén's old Volvo Duett. He waited in the street, wondering desperately what could have happened to Ström.

When Widén's Volvo appeared Wallander opened the door before Widén even had time to switch off the engine.

"What's happened?" he said, as Widén tried to extricate himself from the tattered safety belt.

"Sofia phoned," he said. "She sounded hysterical."

"What about?"

"Do we really have to be out here in the street?" Widén said. "It's just that I'm worried," Wallander said. "On Sofia's account?" "No, Kurt Ström's." "Who the hell is he?"

"We'd better go inside," Wallander said. "You're right, we can't stand out here in the cold."

As they went up the stairs Wallander noticed that Widén smelled of strong drink. He had better have a serious word with him on that score - one of these days when they had resolved who killed the two solicitors.

They sat at the kitchen table, with Baiba's letter still lying there between them.

"Who's this Ström?" Widén asked again.

"Later," Wallander said. "You first. Sofia?"

"She phoned about an hour ago," Widén said, pulling a face. "I couldn't understand what she was saying at first. She was off her rocker."

"Where was she calling from?" "From her flat at the stables." "Oh, shit!"

"I don't think she had much choice," Widén said, scratching his stubble. "If I understood her rightly, she had been out riding. Suddenly she comes across a dummy lying on the path ahead of her. Have you heard about the dummies? Life size?"

"She told me," Wallander said. "Go on."

"The horse stopped and refused to go past. Sofia dismounted to pull the dummy out of the way. Only it wasn't a dummy." "Oh, hell!" said Wallander slowly.

"You sound as if you already know about it," Widén said.

"I'll explain later. Go on."

"It was a man lying there. Covered in blood."

"Was he dead?"

"It didn't occur to me to ask. I assumed so." "What next?"

"She rode away and phoned me." "What did you tell her to do?"

"I don't know if it was the best advice, but I told her to do nothing, to sit tight."

"Good," Wallander said. "You did exactly the right thing."

Widén excused himself and went to the bathroom. Wallander could hear the faint clinking of a bottle. When he came back Wallander told him about Ström.

"So you think he was the one there on the path?" Widén said. "I'm afraid so."

Widén suddenly boiled over, and smashed his fist down on the table. Baiba Liepa's letter fluttered down to the floor.

"The police had bloody better get themselves out there right away! What the hell's going on at that castle? I'm not letting Sofia stay there a moment longer."

"That's exactly what we're going to do," Wallander said, getting to his feet.

"I'm going home," Widén said. "Call me as soon as you've got Sofia out of there."

"No," Wallander said. "You're staying here. You've been at the hard stuff. I'm not going to let you drive. You can sleep here."

Widén stared at Wallander as if he did not know what he was talking about. "Are you suggesting that I'm drunk?" he said.

"Not drunk, but you're over the limit. I don't want you getting into trouble."

Widén had left his car keys on the table. Wallander put them in his pocket. "Just to be on the safe side," he said. "I don't want you changing your mind while I'm gone."

"You must be out of your mind," Widén said. "I'm not drunk."

"We can argue about that when I get back," Wallander said. "I've got to go this very minute."

"I don't give a shit about your Kurt Ström," Widén said, "but I don't want anything to happen to her."

"I take it she's more than just a stablehand to you," Wallander said.

"Yes," Widén said. "But that's not why I don't want anything to happen."

"That's nothing to do with me," Wallander said. "Too right. It isn't."

Wallander found a pair of unused trainers in his wardrobe. He had many times vowed to start jogging, but had never got round to it. He put on a thick sweater and a woollen cap, and was ready to leave.

"Make yourself at home," he said to Widén, who'd openly planted his whisky bottle on the kitchen table.

"You worry about Sofia, not about me," Widén said.

Wallander closed the door behind him, then paused on the dark staircase, wondering what to do. If Ström was dead, everything had failed. He felt as if he was back to where he had been the previous year, when death was waiting in the fog. The men at Farnholm Castle were dangerous, whether they smiled like Harderberg or skulked in the shadows like Tolpin and Obadia.

I've got to get Sofia out of there, he thought. I must phone Björk and organise an emergency call-out. We'll bring in every police district in Sk&ne if we have to.

He switched on the light and ran down the stairs. He rang Björk from his car, but as soon as Björk answered he switched off the phone.