Хеннинг Манкелль - Firewall

After parking the car, he walked up to the ATM and waited while a woman with a baby in a stroller withdrew some money. The concrete pavement was rough and uneven. Wallander looked around. There seemed to be no residential buildings nearby. In the middle of the night the plaza would be quite deserted. Even in the powerful streetlights, a man could scream and collapse onto the ground without anyone hearing or seeing him.

Wallander went into the nearest department store and found the food market. As usual, he found himself plagued by boredom and indecision as he inspected the shelves. He quickly filled up his basket with an assortment of items, paid, and left. When he started the car again, the mystery engine-noise seemed to increase. He took off his dark suit as soon as he was back in his apartment. He showered and noted that he was almost out of soap. He made some vegetable soup for dinner that tasted surprisingly good. He brewed some coffee, and took a cup out with him into the living room. He was tired. He flipped the channels without finding anything interesting, then reached for the phone and called Linda in Stockholm. She was sharing an apartment in Kungsholmen with two women he only knew by name. To make ends meet, she sometimes worked as a waitress in a nearby restaurant. Wallander had eaten dinner there the last time he was in town and had enjoyed the food. But he was surprised she could stand the music, which was oppressively loud.

Linda was twenty-six years old now. They had a good relationship, but he missed being able to see her regularly.

An answering machine came on. Neither Linda nor any of her roommates was home. The message was repeated in English. Wallander said who he was and that it wasn’t anything important.

He put the phone down and stared down at his coffee. It was cold. I can’t keep living like this , he thought irritatedly. I’m only fifty years old, but I feel ancient and weak.

He knew he should go for an evening walk and tried desperately to think of an excuse not to. Finally he put his sneakers on and headed out.

It was half past eight when he returned. The walk had cleared his mind and he no longer felt as dispirited as before.

The phone rang, and Wallander thought it must be Linda. But it was Martinsson.

“Lundberg has died. They just called from the hospital.”

Wallander was silent.

“That means Hökberg and Persson have committed murder,” Martinsson said.

“I know,” Wallander said, “and we have a hell of a mess on our hands.”

They decided to meet at eight o’clock the next morning.

There was nothing more to say.

Wallander stayed in front of the television and absentmindedly watched a news program. The dollar had gained more ground against the krona. The only story that managed to grab his attention was the piece on an insurance company, Trustor. It seemed bafflingly easy these days to drain the resources of an entire corporation without anyone catching on until it was too late.

Linda didn’t call back. Wallander went to bed around eleven o’clock.

It took him a long time to fall asleep.

Wallander woke up with a sore throat shortly after six o’clock on Tuesday, the seventh of October. He was sweating lightly and he knew it meant he was starting to come down with the flu. He stayed in bed for a while and debated whether or not he should stay home, but the thought of Johan Lundberg’s death forced him up. He showered, drank some coffee, and swallowed some pills to reduce his fever. He tucked the bottle of pills into his pocket. Then, before heading out, he forced himself to eat a bowl of yogurt. The street lamp outside the kitchen window was swaying in the gusty wind. It was overcast and only a couple of degrees above freezing. Wallander rummaged around in his closet for a thick sweater. Then he put his hand on the phone and debated whether he should call Linda. It was too early. When he reached street level and was about to get in his car, he remembered that he had left a to-do list on the kitchen table. There was something on the list that he had been planning to buy today but he couldn’t recall what it was. He decided he didn’t have the energy to go get it.

Wallander took his usual route to the office, driving along the Osterled. Each time he drove this way he felt guilty. He knew he should be out there walking to work, in order to keep his blood sugar at a healthy level. And even today he wasn’t so weak from the flu that he couldn’t have walked.

He parked outside the station and was in his office as the clock struck seven. Sitting at his desk, he suddenly remembered the item he had forgotten to buy. Soap. He immediately wrote it down on a piece of paper. Then he turned his thoughts to the case.

Some of the unpleasant feelings from the day before returned. He recalled Sonja Hökberg’s complete lack of emotion. He tried to convince himself that she did in fact exhibit some signs of compassion that he simply had not been able to pick up, but to no avail. His experience in these matters told him he had not been mistaken. He got up and went to get a cup of coffee from the lunchroom. Since Martinsson was also an early riser, Wallander stopped by his office. As usual, the door was open. Wallander had often wondered how Martinsson got any work done. Wallander couldn’t concentrate unless his door was bolted shut.

Martinsson nodded when Wallander stopped in the doorway.

“I thought you’d be here,” he said.

“I don’t feel so well today,” Wallander said.

“A cold?”

“I always get a sore throat in October.”

Martinsson, who always worried about getting sick, pulled his chair back a couple of inches.

“You could have stayed home today,” he said. “This depressing Lundberg case is already solved.”

“Only partially,” Wallander objected. “We still don’t have a motive. I don’t believe that line that they needed extra money for nothing in particular. Have you found the knife yet?”

“Nyberg’s in charge of that. I haven’t talked to him yet.”

“Call him.”

Martinsson made a face.

“He’s not easy to talk to in the morning.”

“Then I’ll call him myself.”

Wallander reached for Martinsson’s phone and tried Nyberg’s home number. After a few moments he was automatically transferred to a cell phone. Nyberg answered, but it was a poor connection.

“It’s Kurt. I just wanted to know if you’ve found the knife yet.”

“How the hell are we supposed to find anything in the dark?” Nyberg answered angrily.

“I thought Eva Persson said where she had left it.”

“We still have an area of several hundred cubic meters to comb. She just said she threw it somewhere in the Old Cemetery.”

“Why don’t you have someone bring her down?”

“If it’s here, we’ll find it,” Nyberg said.

They ended the conversation.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Martinsson said. “My daughter Terese knows Eva Persson. They’re almost the same age. And Eva Persson has parents too. What are they going through right now? From what I understand, Eva is their only child.”

They both thought about what he had said. Then Wallander started a series of sneezes. Martinsson left quickly. The conversation was left hanging.

They gathered in one of the conference rooms at eight o’clock. Wallander sat in his usual spot at the end of the table. Hansson and Höglund were already there. Martinsson was standing by the window talking to someone on the phone, most likely his wife. Wallander had always wondered how they could have so much to say to each other after having had breakfast together only an hour before. The main feeling in the room was despondence. Lisa Holgersson walked in and Martinsson finished his conversation. Hansson got up and shut the door.