The Troubled Man (29 page)

Wallander flew to Stockholm that same evening, having handed over Jussi once again to his neighbor, who asked somewhat ironically if Wallander was beginning to get tired of his dog. He called Linda from the airport; she said she wasn’t surprised—she had expected no less of him.

“Take lots of photos,” she said. “There’s something here that doesn’t add up.”

“Nothing adds up,” said Wallander. “That’s why I’m going to Stockholm.”

His flight was ruined by a screeching child in the seat behind him. He
spent nearly the entire journey with his fingers in his ears. He managed to find a room in a little hotel not far from the Central Station. As he walked in the door, the skies opened. He looked out the window of his room and watched people scurrying to find shelter from the heavy rain. Can loneliness get any worse than this? he suddenly found himself thinking. Rain, a hotel room, me at sixty years old. If I turn around, there’s nobody else there. He wondered how things were going for Mona. She’s probably just as lonely as I am, he thought. Probably even more so, as she tries to conceal all the turmoil that’s bubbling away inside her.

When the rain stopped, Wallander went back to the Central Station and bought a map of Stockholm. Then he got on the phone and booked a car for the following day. Because it was summer, rental cars were in high demand, and the best deal he could find was much more expensive than he’d hoped for. He ate dinner in the Old Town. He drank red wine, and was reminded of a summer many years ago, shortly after his divorce from Mona, when he had met a woman. Her name was Monika, and she had been visiting friends in Ystad. Their first encounter was at a less than enjoyable dance, and they arranged to see each other again in Stockholm for dinner. Even before they’d finished their appetizers, he realized that it was a disaster. They had nothing to talk about; the silences became longer and longer, and he got very drunk. He now drank a toast to her memory, and hoped that she had achieved happiness in her life. He was tipsy when he left the restaurant and wandered through the alleys and cobbled streets before returning to his hotel. That night he dreamed once again about horses running into the sea. When he woke up the next morning he dug out his blood sugar meter and stuck the needle into his finger: 100. What it should be. The day had begun well.

Thick clouds covered the sky over Stockholm when he reached the place on Värmdö where Louise von Enke’s body had been found. It was ten o’clock. Police tape was still scattered around. The ground was waterlogged, but Wallander could see traces of the marks the police had made where the body had been lying.

He stood there motionless, held his breath, listened. The first impression was always the most important. He looked around in a slow circle. They had found Louise in a shallow depression, with outcrops of rock and low mounds on both sides. If she had lain down here so as not to be seen, she had chosen the right place.

Then he thought about the roses. Linda’s words, the first time she told him about her future mother-in-law.
A woman who loves flowers, who always dreamed of having a beautiful garden, a woman with a green thumb
. That’s
what Linda had said. He remembered very clearly. But this was as far from a beautiful garden as you could get. Was that why she had chosen this place? Because death was not beautiful, had nothing to do with roses and a well-tended garden? He walked around the site, viewing it from different angles. She must have walked a short way, he thought. From the same direction as where my car is. But how did she get there? By bus? By taxi? Had somebody driven her?

He walked over to an old hunting stand in the middle of the cleared area. The steps were slippery. He climbed up cautiously. The floor was littered with a few cigarette butts and some empty beer cans. A dead mouse was lying in one corner. Wallander climbed down again and continued walking around. He tried to imagine himself as the person about to commit suicide. A lonely spot, ugly and covered in scrub, a bottle of sleeping pills. He stopped dead.
A hundred sleeping pills
. Ytterberg had said nothing about a bottle of water. Was it possible to swallow that many pills without anything to drink? He retraced his steps to see if there was something he’d missed. As he studied the ground, he tried to channel Louise. The silent woman who was always willing to listen to what other people had to say.

That was the moment Wallander really and truly began to comprehend that he was on the periphery of a world he knew nothing about. It was Håkan and Louise von Enke’s world, a world he had never thought about before. He didn’t know what he saw and felt during the time he spent in the clear-cut area; it wasn’t something tangible, nor was it a kind of revelation. It was more a feeling of being close to something he had no qualifications for understanding.

He left the place, drove back to town, parked in Grevgatan, and walked up the stairs to the apartment. He wandered silently through the deserted rooms, collected the mail lying on the floor next to the door, and picked out the bills Hans would need to pay. The mail forwarding wasn’t yet working. He examined the letters to see if there was anything unexpected among them, but found nothing. The apartment was stuffy and stifling, and he had a headache, probably due to the poor-quality red wine he’d drunk the night before, so he carefully opened a window overlooking the street. He glanced at the answering machine. The red light was flashing, indicating new messages. He listened.
Märta Hörnelius wonders if Louise von Enke is interested in joining a book club that will start this fall, to discuss works of classical German literature
. That was all. Louise von Enke won’t be joining any book club, Wallander thought. She has closed her last book for good.

He made some coffee in the kitchen, checked that there was nothing in the refrigerator starting to smell, then went into the room where she had two
large closets. He didn’t bother with the clothes but took out all the shoes, carried them into the kitchen, and stood them on the table. By the time he had finished there were twenty-two pairs in total, plus two pairs of Wellingtons, and he’d been forced to use a counter and the draining board as well. He put on his glasses and started to work methodically through them all, one shoe at a time. He noticed that she had large feet and bought only exclusive brands. Even the rubber boots were an Italian make that Wallander suspected was expensive. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but both he and Linda had been surprised to hear that she had taken off her shoes before she died. She wanted everything to be neat and tidy, Wallander thought. But why?

It took him half an hour to go through the shoes. Then he called Linda and told her about his visit to Värmdö.

“How many shoes do you have?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Louise has twenty-two pairs, in addition to the ones the police have. Is that a lot or a little?”

“It seems about right. She cared what she looked like.”

“That was all I wanted to know.”

“Do you have anything else to tell me?”

“Not now.”

Despite her protests, he hung up and called Ytterberg. To Wallander’s surprise a small child answered. Then came Ytterberg.

“My granddaughter loves answering the phone. I have her with me in my office today.”

“I don’t want to disturb you, but there’s something I’ve been wondering about.”

“You’re not disturbing me. But aren’t you supposed to be on vacation? Or did I misunderstand?”

“I am on vacation.”

“What do you want to know? I don’t have any new information about Louise von Enke’s death. We’re waiting to see what the pathologist has to tell us.”

Wallander suddenly remembered his doubts about the water.

“I have two questions, basically. The first one is simple. If she swallowed so many pills, surely she must have drunk something as well?”

“There was a half-empty liter bottle of mineral water next to the body. Didn’t I mention that?”

“No doubt you did. I probably wasn’t listening carefully enough. Was it Ramlösa?”

“No, Loka, I think. But I’m not sure. Is it important?”

“Not at all. Then there’s that matter of the shoes.”

“They were standing by the side of the body, very neatly.”

“Can you describe the shoes?”

“Brown, low heels, new, I think.”

“Does it seem reasonable that she would wear shoes like that in the woods?”

“They weren’t exactly party shoes.”

“But they were new?”

“Yes. They looked new.”

“I don’t think I have any more questions.”

“I’ll be in touch as soon as the pathology report is in. But it might take some time, now that it’s summer.”

“Do you have any idea how she got out to Värmdö?”

“No,” said Ytterberg. “We haven’t figured that out yet.”

“I was just wondering. Many thanks yet again.”

Wallander sat in the silent apartment, gripping the phone tightly, as if it were the last thing he possessed in this life.
Brown shoes. New. Not party shoes
. Slowly, deep in thought, he moved the shoes back into the closets.

Early the next day he flew back to Ystad. That afternoon he returned the faulty hedge clippers to the store he had bought them from, and explained how useless they were. Because he made a fuss, and because one of the managers knew who he was, he was given a better pair at no extra charge.

When he got back home he saw that Ytterberg had called. Wallander dialed his number.

“You made me think,” Ytterberg said. “I had to take another look at those shoes. As I said, they were almost brand-new.”

“You didn’t need to do that for my sake.”

“It’s not really the shoes I’m calling about,” said Ytterberg. “While I was at it I took another look at her purse, and I discovered a sort of inner lining. You could even call it a secret pocket. There was something very interesting in it.”

Wallander held his breath.

“Papers,” said Ytterberg. “Documents. In Russian. And also some microfilm. I don’t know what it is, but it’s remarkable enough for me to phone our Säpo colleagues.”

Wallander found it difficult to grasp what he had just heard.

“You’re saying she was carrying secret material around in her purse?”

“We don’t know that. But microfilm is microfilm, and secret pockets are secret pockets. And Russian is Russian. I thought you should know. It might
be best to keep this to ourselves for now. Until we know what it actually means. I’ll call again when I have more to tell you.”

After the call Wallander went out and sat in the garden. It was warm again. It would be a pleasant summer evening.

But he had begun to feel very cold.

Wallander had no intention of keeping his promise. He decided immediately that he would talk to Linda and Hans. When it came to a choice between respecting his family and respecting the Swedish security services, he didn’t hesitate. He would tell them, word for word, what he had heard. It was his duty to them.

Wallander sat thinking for a long time after his conversation with Ytterberg. His first reaction was that something didn’t make sense. Louise von Enke a Russian agent? Even if the police had discovered classified documents in her purse, even in a hidden compartment, he couldn’t believe it.

But why would Ytterberg tell him things that weren’t true? After having met him briefly on a couple of occasions, Wallander had every confidence in him. He would never have called if he hadn’t been sure about what he was going to say.

Wallander knew what he had to do. Trying to protect Linda by withholding facts wouldn’t help her. He must take seriously what Ytterberg had said. Whatever eventually emerged as the truth, it would not show that Ytterberg’s account of the facts was wrong; rather there would—or must—be different conclusions to draw.

He got into his car and drove to Linda and Hans’s house. Klara’s stroller was standing in the shade of a tree; her parents were sitting side by side in the garden hammock, cups of coffee in their hands.

Wallander sat down on one of the garden chairs and told them what he had heard. Both Hans and Linda reacted with furrowed brows and incredulous expressions. While Wallander was speaking, he thought of Stig Wennerström—the colonel who had sold Sweden’s defense secrets to the Russians nearly fifty years previously. But it was impossible for him to link Louise von Enke with this man who had been active as a spy for so many years, displaying so much greed and cunning.

“I don’t doubt that I was told the facts,” he concluded. “But nor do I have any doubt that there is a plausible explanation for those papers in her purse.”

Linda shook her head, turned to her partner, then looked her father in the eye.

“Is this really true?”

“I wouldn’t give you anything other than an exact account of what I’ve just heard myself.”

“Don’t get annoyed. We have to be able to ask you questions.”

“I’m not annoyed. But don’t start asking me unnecessary questions.”

Both Wallander and Linda realized that a quarrel was about to break out, and they managed to smooth things over. Hans didn’t appear to notice anything amiss.

Wallander turned to him and could see the dejection in his face.

“Do you have any thoughts?” he asked cautiously. “After all, you knew her better than any of us.”

“Absolutely none. I recently discovered that I have a sister I knew nothing about. And now this. It feels as if my parents are becoming more and more like strangers. The telescope is turned around. They are disappearing from my view.”

“No distant memories? Words that were said, people who came to visit?”

“Nothing. All I feel is a stomachache.”

Linda took Hans’s hand. Wallander stood up and walked over to the stroller under the apple tree. A bumblebee was buzzing around the mosquito net. He carefully wafted it away and observed the sleeping bundle. Remembered Linda in her stroller, Mona’s constant anxiety, and his own joy at having a child.

He returned to his chair.

“She’s asleep.”

“Mona says I used to cry at night.”