Хеннинг Манкелль - Firewall

Then they had started seeing each other. For a long time he had thought it was going to work out, that she would move to Sweden. They had even started looking at houses. But then she had started to pull away. Wallander had thought jealously that she had met someone else. He even flew to Riga once without telling her in advance so he could surprise her. But there had been no one else, just Baiba’s doubts about marrying another police officer and leaving her homeland, where she had an underpaid but rewarding job as a translator.

So it had ended.

Wallander walked along the beach and realized that a year had gone by since he had last talked to her. She still sometimes appeared in his dreams, but he never managed to grab hold of her. When he approached her or put out his hand to touch her, she was gone. He asked himself if he really missed her. His jealousy was gone now; he no longer flinched at the thought of her with another man.

I miss the companionship, he thought. With Baiba I managed to escape the loneliness I hadn’t even been aware of.

He returned to the car. I should avoid deserted beaches in the fall, he thought. They make me depressed.

Once he had taken refuge from his normal life in a remote part of northern Jylland. He had been on sick leave due to a deep depression and had thought he would never return to his work as a police officer in Ystad again. It was many years ago, but he could still recall in terrifying detail how he had felt. It was something he never wanted to experience again. That bleak and blustery landscape had seemed to awaken his worst fears.

He got in the car and continued on to Malmö. He wondered what the coming winter was going to be like, if there would be a lot of snow or if it would simply rain. He also wondered what he was going to do during the week of vacation he was due to take in November. He had talked to Linda about taking a charter flight to a warmer climate. It would be his treat. But she was still up in Stockholm, studying something — he didn’t know what — and said she really couldn’t get away. He had tried to think of other travel companions but had not managed to come up with anyone. He had almost no friends. There was Sten Widen, who raised horses on a ranch outside of Ystad, but Wallander wasn’t sure he would be such a good travel companion. Widen drank constantly, while Wallander was struggling to keep his own once-considerable alcohol consumption to a minimum. He could ask Gertrud, his father’s widow. But what would they talk about for a whole week?

There was no one else.

He would stay home and use the money to buy a new car. The Peugeot was getting old. It had started to make a funny sound.

He entered the suburb of Rosengård shortly after ten o’clock. The funeral was scheduled for eleven. The church was a modern building. Nearby some boys were kicking a soccer ball against a concrete wall. There were seven in all, three of them black. Three others also looked like they might have immigrant parents. The last one had freckles and unruly blond hair. The boys were kicking the ball around with enthusiasm and a great deal of laughter. For a split second Wallander felt an overwhelming urge to join them. But he stayed where he was. A man walked out of the church and lit a cigarette. Wallander got out of the car and approached him.

“Is this where Stefan Fredman’s funeral is going to be held?” he asked.

The man nodded. “Are you a relative?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think there would be very many people here,” the man said. “I take it you know what he did.”

“Yes, I know,” Wallander said.

The man looked down at his cigarette.

“Someone like him is better off dead.”

Wallander felt himself getting angry.

“Stefan wasn’t even eighteen years old. Someone that young is never better off dead.”

Wallander realized he was yelling. The man with the cigarette looked at him with curiosity. Wallander shook his head angrily and turned around. At that moment the hearse drove up. The brown coffin was unloaded. There was only a single wreath of flowers on it. I should have brought a bouquet , Wallander thought.

He walked over to the boys, who were still playing soccer.

“Any of you know of a flower shop around here?” he asked.

One of the boys pointed into the distance.

Wallander took out his wallet and held up a hundred-crown note.

“Run over and buy me some flowers,” he said. “Roses. And hurry back. I’ll give you ten crowns for your troubles.”

The boy looked at him with big eyes, but took the money.

“I’m a police officer,” Wallander said. “A dangerous police officer. If you make off with the money, I’ll find you.”

The boy shook his head.

“Then why aren’t you wearing a uniform?” he asked in broken Swedish. “You don’t look like a policeman. Not a dangerous one, anyway.”

Wallander got out his police badge and showed it to him. The boy studied it for a while, then nodded and set off. The rest of them resumed their game.

There’s a good chance he won’t be back, Wallander thought gloomily. It’s been a long time since civilians had any sense of respect for the police.

But the boy returned with the roses, as promised. Wallander gave him twenty crowns, the ten he owed him and ten more for actually coming back, realizing that he was being overly generous. Shortly thereafter, a taxi pulled up and Stefan’s mother got out. She had aged and was so thin she looked sick. A young boy of about seven stood by her side. He looked a lot like his brother. His eyes were wide and frightened. He still lived in fear from that time. Wallander walked over and greeted them.

“It’s just going to be us and the minister,” she said.

They walked into the church. The minister was a young man who was sitting on a chair next to the coffin, leafing through a newspaper. Wallander felt Anette Fredman suddenly grab hold of his arm.

He understood.

The minister got up and put his newspaper away. They sat down to the right of the coffin. She was still hanging onto Wallander’s arm.

First she lost her husband , Wallander thought. Björn Fredman had been an unpleasant and brutal man who used to hit her and who frightened his children. But he had still been her husband and the father of her children. He was later murdered by his own son. Then her oldest child, Louise, had died. And now here she is, about to bury her son. What’s left for her? Half a life? As much as that?

Someone entered the church behind them. Anette Fredman did not seem to hear anything, or else she was trying so hard to stay in control of herself that she couldn’t focus on anything else. A woman was walking up the aisle. She was about Wallander’s age. Anette Fredman finally looked up and nodded to her. The woman sat down a few rows behind them.

“She’s a doctor,” Anette Fredman said. “Her name is Agneta Malmström. She helped Jens a while back when he wasn’t doing so well.”

Wallander recognized the name, but it took him a moment to remember that it was Agneta Malmström and her husband who had provided him with the most important clues in the Stefan Fredman case. He had spoken to her late one night with the help of Stockholm Radio. She had been on a sailboat far out at sea, out past Landsort.

Wallander heard organ music, although he had not seen an organist. The minister had turned on a tape recorder.

Wallander wondered why he had not heard any church bells. Didn’t funerals always start with the ringing of church bells? This thought was pushed aside when Anette Fredman’s grip on his arm tightened. He cast a glance at the boy by her side. Should a child his age be attending a funeral? Wallander didn’t think so. But the boy looked fairly collected.