The Troubled Man (51 page)

‘I just got back from the chemist’s. Klara’s not well.’

‘Is it serious?’

‘You don’t need to sound as if she were at death’s door every time. She has a temperature and a sore throat. That’s all.’

‘Has the doctor seen her?’

‘I called the health centre. I think I have everything under control. As long as you don’t get all excited and irritate me. Where have you been?’

‘I’m not saying at the moment.’

‘Aha, a woman, in other words. Good.’

‘Not a woman. But I have an important piece of news. I received a phone call not long ago. From Hakan.’

At first she didn’t seem to understand. Then she shouted into the receiver.

‘What? Hakan called you? What the hell are you saying? Where is he? How is he? What’s happened?’

‘Stop shouting at me! I don’t know where he is. He didn’t want to tell me. He just said that he was well. It didn’t sound as if there was anything wrong with him.’

Wallander could hear her heavy breathing. He felt very uncomfortable lying to her. He regretted having made that promise before he left the island. I’ll tell her the facts, he thought. I can’t deceive my own daughter.

‘It seems so unlikely. Did he say anything about why he ran away?’

‘No. But he did say that he had nothing to do with Louise’s death. He was just as shocked as the rest of us. He hadn’t had any contact with her after he left.’

‘Were Hans’s parents both crazy?’

‘I can’t comment on that. But in any case, we can be glad that he’s still alive. That was the only message he wanted me to pass on to you. That he was well. But he couldn’t say when he would return, or why he was in hiding.’

‘Did he say that? That he was in hiding?’

Wallander realised that he had revealed too much. But it was too late for him to retract.

‘I don’t remember exactly what words he used. Don’t forget that I was astonished by the call as well.’

‘I have to speak to Hans. He’s in Copenhagen.’

‘I’ll be out all afternoon. Call me this evening. Then we can talk more. I want to know how Hans reacts.’

‘He can hardly be anything but happy.’

Wallander replaced the receiver in disgust. When Linda discovered the truth he would have to deal with her fury.

He left for Limhamn. He didn’t really know what to expect, but when he arrived he experienced the usual mixture of discomfort and loss that always affected him when he returned to the place where he grew up. He parked the car not far from Asta Hagberg’s house, then strolled to the apartment building where he had lived as a child. The facade had been renovated and a new fence had been put up, but nevertheless he remembered everything. The sandbox he used to play in was bigger now than it was in those days, and the two birch trees he used to climb were no longer there. He paused on the pavement and watched some children playing. They were dark-skinned, no doubt from the Middle East or North Africa. A woman wearing a hijab was sitting by the entrance door, knitting and keeping an eye on the children. He could hear Arabic music wafting through an open window. This is where I used to live, he thought. In another world, another time.

A man came out of the building and approached the gate. He was also dark-skinned. He smiled at Wallander.

‘You looking for someone?’ he asked in uncertain Swedish.

‘No,’ said Wallander. ‘I used to live here many years ago.’

He pointed up at a window on the first floor, which in the old days had belonged to their living room.

‘This is a nice house,’ said the man. ‘We like it here; the children like it. We don’t have to feel afraid.’

‘Good. People shouldn’t be afraid.’

Wallander nodded and left. The feeling of growing old was oppressive. He quickened his pace, in order to get away from himself.

The garden surrounding the house where Asta Hagberg lived was well tended, but the woman who answered the door was just as fat as he remembered Solve Hagberg being on the TV show. She was sweaty; her hair was tousled and her skirt much too short. At first he thought she was wearing strong perfume, but then he realised that the whole house reeked of unusual aromas. Does she go around spraying the furniture with perfume? he wondered. Does she drench the pot plants in musk?

She offered him coffee, but he declined. He was already feeling sick, thanks to the overpowering smells streaming into his nose from all over the house. When they went into the living room, Wallander had the feeling that he was entering the bridge of a large ship. Wherever he looked there were ships’ wheels, compasses with beautifully polished brass fittings, votive ships hanging from the ceiling and an old-fashioned hammock attached to one of the walls. Asta Hagberg crammed herself into a captain’s chair that Wallander presumed had also come from a seagoing vessel. He sat down on what at first looked like a perfectly normal sofa - but a brass plate proclaimed that it had once belonged to the Swedish American Line’s
Kungsholm
.

‘How can I help you?’ she asked, lighting a cigarette that she had put in a holder.

‘Hakan von Enke,’ Wallander said. ‘An old submarine commander, now retired.’

Asta Hagberg was suddenly stricken by a violent coughing fit. Wallander hoped that this overweight smoker wouldn’t collapse and die before his very eyes. He guessed she was his own age, about sixty.

She kept on coughing until tears came to her eyes. Then she continued smoking serenely.

‘The Hakan von Enke who’s gone missing,’ she said. ‘And his dead wife, Louise? Am I right?’

‘I know that Solve had a unique archive. I wonder if there might be something in it that can help me understand why Hakan von Enke has disappeared.’

‘He’s dead, of course.’

‘In which case it’s the cause of his death that I’m looking for,’ Wallander said non-comittally.

‘His wife committed suicide. That suggests the family was struggling with major problems. Doesn’t it?’

She went to a table and removed a cloth that had been draped over a computer. Wallander was surprised by how agile her fat fingers were as she tapped away at the keyboard. After a few minutes she leaned back and squinted at the screen.

‘Hakan von Enke’s career was as normal as can be. He progressed about as far as you might have expected. If Sweden had been dragged into the war, he might have achieved a rank or two higher, but that’s doubtful.’

Wallander stood up and joined her in front of the computer. The stench of perfume was so strong that he tried to breathe through his mouth. He read what it said on the screen, and looked at the photograph that must have been taken when von Enke was about forty.

‘Is there anything at all that’s unusual?’

‘No. As a young cadet he won a few prizes in Nordic athletics competitions. A good shot, very fit, first place in a few cross-country races. If you consider that unusual.’

‘Is there anything about his wife?’

Her fat fingers began dancing again. The coughing fit returned, but she carried on until a photograph of Louise appeared on the screen. Wallander guessed that she was about thirty-five, possibly forty. Smiling. Her hair was permed, and she was wearing a pearl necklace. Wallander studied the text. There was nothing that seemed unusual or surprising at first glance. Hagberg tapped away again and produced a new page. Wallander discovered that Louise’s mother came from Kiev. ‘In 1905 Angela Stefanovich married the Swedish coal exporter Hjalmar Sundblad. She moved to Sweden and became a Swedish citizen. She had four children with Hjalmar, and Louise was the youngest.’

‘As you can see, everything is normal,’ said Hagberg.

‘Apart from the fact that her roots are in Russia?’

‘Ukraine, we would say nowadays, I suppose. Most Swedes have roots outside our borders. We are a mixture of Finns, Dutchmen, Germans, Russians, Frenchmen. Solve’s great-grandfather came from Scotland, and my grandmother had links to Turkey. What about you?’

‘My ancestors were farmers in Smaland.’

‘Have you looked into your ancestry? Properly, I mean?’

‘No.’

‘When you do, you may find something unexpected. Mark my words. It’s always exciting, but not always pleasant. I have a good friend who’s a vicar in the Swedish Church. When he retired he decided to do some research into his family roots. He soon discovered two people, direct ancestors, who had been executed within the space of fifty years. One was at the beginning of the seventeenth century. He had been convicted of robbery and murder, and was beheaded. His grandson was conscripted into one of the German armies marching around Europe in the middle of the seventeenth century. He deserted, and was hanged. After that my friend the vicar gave up delving into his roots.’

She stood up with considerable difficulty and gestured to Wallander to follow her into an adjacent room. There were rows of filing cabinets along the walls. She unlocked one of the drawers.

‘You never know what you might find,’ she said as she started searching through the files.

She took one out and placed it on a table. It was full of photos. Wallander didn’t know if she was searching for something specific or just looking through them at random. She stopped when she came to a black-and-white photo and held it up to the light.

‘I had a vague memory of having seen this picture. It’s not without interest.’

She handed it to Wallander, who was surprised by what it depicted. A tall, slim man in an immaculate suit and a bow tie, smiling merrily: Stig Wennerstrom. He was holding a glass in his hand and talking to none other than Hakan von Enke.

‘When was this taken?’

‘It says on the back. Solve was meticulous when it came to recording dates and locations.’

Wallander read what was typed on a slip of paper taped to the back of the photograph.
October 1959, Swedish naval delegation visiting Washington DC, reception hosted by Military Attache Wennerstrom
. Wallander tried to work out what it implied. If it had been Louise standing there it would have been easier to guess a connection, but she wasn’t present. All he could see in the background was a group of men and a waitress dressed in white.

‘Did the wives usually accompany their husbands on such trips?’ he asked.

‘Only when the top brass were out and about. Wennerstrom often took his wife with him on trips and to receptions, but at that time von Enke was well short of top brass. He presumably travelled alone. If Louise had been with him, he would have needed to pay for her himself. And in any case, she certainly wouldn’t have been present at a reception given by the Swedish military attache.’

‘I’d be interested in knowing if she did make that trip.’

Hagberg suffered another coughing fit. Wallander moved to a window and opened it slightly. The smell of perfume was bothering him.

‘It will take a while,’ she said when the fit was over. ‘I need to do some searching. But obviously, Solve recorded the details of this and all other journeys made by Swedish military delegations.’

Wallander returned to the sofa from the
Kungsholm
. He could hear Hagberg humming to herself in a side room as she hunted for the list of those present on various trips to America at the end of the 1950s. It took her almost forty minutes, with Wallander growing increasingly impatient, before she returned with a look of triumph in her eyes, brandishing a sheet of paper.

‘Mrs von Enke was there,’ she said. ‘She is specifically classified as “accompanying”, with some abbreviations that probably indicate that the armed forces were not paying her fare. If it’s important, I can look up the precise meaning of the abbreviations.’

Wallander took the sheet of paper. The delegation, led by Commander Karlen, comprised eight people. Among those ‘accompanying’ were Louise von Enke and Marta Auren, the wife of Lieutenant Commander Karl-Axel Auren.

‘Can one copy this?’ Wallander asked.

‘I don’t know what “one” can do, but I have a photocopier in the basement. How many copies do you need?’

‘One.’

‘I usually charge two kronor per copy.’

She headed for the basement. So the von Enkes had been in Washington for eight days. That meant that Louise could have been contacted by somebody. But was that really credible? he asked himself. So soon? Mind you, the Cold War was becoming more intense at the end of the fifties. It was a time when Americans saw Russian spies on every street corner. Did something significant happen during this journey?

Asta Hagberg returned with a copy of the document. Wallander placed two one-krona coins on the table.

‘I suppose I haven’t been as much help as you’d hoped,’ said Hagberg.

‘Looking for missing persons is usually a tedious and very slow process. You progress one step at a time.’

She accompanied him to the gate. He was relieved to breathe in unper-fumed air.

‘Feel free to get in touch again,’ she said. ‘I’m always here, if I can be of any help to you.’

Wallander nodded, and walked to his car. He was just about to leave Limhamn when he decided to make one more visit. He had often thought about investigating whether a mark he had made nearly fifty years ago was still there. He parked outside the churchyard, made his way to the western corner of the surrounding wall and bent down. Had he been ten or eleven at the time? He couldn’t remember, but he’d been old enough to have discovered one of life’s great secrets: that he was who he was, a person with an identity all his own. That discovery had sparked a temptation inside him. He would make his mark in a place where it would never disappear. The low churchyard wall topped by iron railings was the sacred place he had chosen. He had sneaked out one autumn evening, with a strong nail and a hammer hidden under his jacket. Limhamn was deserted. He had selected the spot earlier: the stones in the section of wall close to the western corner were unusually smooth. Cold rain had started to fall as he carved his initials,
KW
, into the churchyard wall.