Хеннинг Манкелль - Firewall

It was as he was putting the phone down that he remembered what the book was. It was a present for Linda. A French book on restoring antique furniture. Wallander had read about it in some magazine he had picked up at the doctor’s office. He was still convinced that Linda would return to her original idea of restoring furniture for a living, despite her subsequent experimentation with other careers. He had ordered the book and promptly forgotten about it. He pushed his coffee cup aside and decided he would call her later that evening. It had been several weeks since they had talked.

Martinsson walked into the room. He was always in a hurry and seldom knocked. Over the years Wallander had become more and more impressed by Martinsson’s abilities as a police officer. His real weakness was that he would probably rather be doing something else. There had been several times in the past few years that he had seriously considered quitting. The most serious phase was spurred by an attack on his daughter at school. The offenders claimed it was for no reason other than that she was the daughter of a cop. That had been enough to push him over the edge. But Wallander had eventually been able to talk him out of leaving the job. Martinsson’s greatest strengths were that he was both stubborn and sharp. But his stubborness was sometimes replaced by a certain impatience, and then his sharp wits were not enough. From time to time he turned out sloppy background reports.

Martinsson leaned against the door frame.

“I tried to call you,” he said. “But your phone isn’t turned on.”

“I was in church,” Wallander said. “I forgot to turn it on again.”

“At Stefan’s funeral?”

Wallander repeated the phrase he had told Höglund, that it was just as depressing as he could imagine.

Martinsson gestured to the folder on his table.

“I’ve read it,” Wallander said. “And I still don’t understand what drove these girls to pick up a hammer and a knife and attack someone like that.”

“It says it right there,” Martinsson said. “They needed the money.”

“But why such violent methods? How is he, anyway?”

“Lundberg?”

“Who else?”

“He’s still unconscious and in critical condition. They promised to call if there was any change. The prognosis doesn’t look so good, though.”

“Do you understand any of this?”

Martinsson sat down.

“No,” he said, “I certainly don’t. And I’m not so sure I want to.”

“But we have to. If we’re going to do our jobs, that is.” Martinsson looked at Wallander.

“You know how I feel on that subject. Last time you managed to talk me out of quitting. Next time I’m not so sure you will. It won’t be as easy, that’s for sure.”

Martinsson might be right. It was a thought that worried Wallander. He didn’t want to lose Martinsson as a colleague, just as he didn’t want to see Höglund turn up in his office with her pink slip.

“Maybe we should go talk to this girl, Sonja Hökberg,” Wallander said.

“One more thing.”

Wallander sat back down in his chair. Martinsson had a few papers in his hand.

“I want you to look this over. The events occurred last night. I was on duty and saw no reason to get you out of bed.”

“What happened?”

Martinsson scratched his forehead.

“A night patrolman called in around one o’clock saying that there was a dead man lying in front of one of the cash machines next to that big department store downtown.”

“Which department store?”

“The one right next to the tax authority.”

Wallander nodded in recognition.

“We drove out to take a look and confirm the report. According to the doctor the man hadn’t been dead very long, a few hours at most. We’ll get the autopsy report in a few days, of course.”

“What happened?”

“That’s the question. He had an ugly wound on his head, but whether somebody hit him or whether he injured himself by falling to the ground, I don’t know. We couldn’t tell.”

“Was he robbed?”

“His wallet was still there, with money in it.”

Wallander thought for a moment.

“Any witnesses?”

“No.”

“Who was he?”

Martinsson looked in his papers.

“His name was Tynnes Falk. He was forty-seven years old and lived nearby. He was renting the top floor apartment in a building at number ten Apelbergsgatan.”

Wallander raised his hand to stop Martinsson.

“Number ten Apelbergsgatan?”

“That’s right.”

Wallander nodded slowly. A couple of years ago, right after his divorce from Mona, he had met a woman during a night of dancing at the Hotel Saltsjöbaden. Wallander had been very drunk. He had gone home with her and woken up the next morning in a strange bed next to a woman he could hardly recognize. He had no idea what her name was. He had quickly thrown his clothes on and left and never met her again. But for some reason he was sure she had lived at 10 Apelbergsgatan.

“Do you recognize the address?” Martinsson asked.

“I just didn’t hear you.”

Martinsson looked at him with surprise.

“Was I mumbling?”

“Please continue.”

“He was single — divorced, actually. His ex-wife still lives in town, but their children are scattered all over the place. One boy is nineteen and is studying in Stockholm. The girl is seventeen and is working as a nanny at an embassy in Paris. The wife has been notified of his death.”

“Who did he work with?”

“He appears to have worked for himself. Some kind of computer consultant.”

“And he wasn’t robbed?”

“No, but he had just requested his account balance from the cash machine before he died. He was still holding the slip in his hand when we found him.”

“So he hadn’t made a withdrawal?”

“Not according to the printed receipt.”

“Strange. The most reasonable thing to assume would be that someone was waiting for him to withdraw money and then strike when he had the cash.”

“That occurred to me as well, of course, but the last time he made a withdrawal was on Saturday, and that wasn’t a large sum.”

Martinsson handed Wallander a small plastic bag containing the blood-spattered bank receipt. It had recorded the time as being two minutes past midnight. He handed it back to Martinsson.

“What does Nyberg say?”

“That nothing apart from the head wound points to a crime. He probably suffered a heart attack.”

“Perhaps he had been expecting to see a higher amount than the one on the printout,” Wallander said thoughtfully.

He stood up.

“Let’s wait for the autopsy report. Until then we’ll assume no crime was committed, so put it aside for now.”

Martinsson gathered up his papers.

“I’ll contact the lawyer who was assigned to Hökberg. I’ll let you know when he can be expected down here so you can talk to her.”

“Not that I want to,” Wallander said. “But I guess I should.” Martinsson left the room and Wallander walked to the bathroom. He thought gratefully that at least his days of running to the bathroom due to elevated blood sugar were over.

For an hour he kept working on the smuggled cigarettes while the thought of the favor he had agreed to do for Höglund nagged at the back of his mind.

Two minutes past four Martinsson called to say that Sonja Hökberg and her lawyer were ready.

“Who is he?” Wallander asked.

“Herman Lötberg.”

Wallander knew him. He was an older man who was easy to work with.

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” Wallander said and hung up.

He walked back over to the window. The blackbirds were gone and the wind had picked up. He thought about Anette Fredman and the little boy who had played so quietly on the floor. He thought about the boy’s frightened eyes. Then he shook his head and tried to work out the questions he was going to ask Sonja Hökberg. From Martinsson’s notes he learned she was the one who had sat in the back seat and hit Lundberg in the head with a hammer. There had been many blows, not just one. As if she had been in a blind rage.