Хеннинг Манкелль: The Man Who Smiled

Wallander shook his head.

“I wonder where we’re heading?” said Björk, glumly. “If the new uniform design goes through, it’s my belief that in future police officers will look like something between a carpenter and a ticket agent.”

He looked at Wallander, inviting a comment, but Wallander said nothing.

“The police were nationalized in the 1960s,” Björk said. “Now they’re going to do it all over again. Parliament wants to abolish local constabularies and create something entirely new and call it the National Police Force. But the police has always been a national force. What else could it be? The sovereign legal systems of independent provinces were lost in the Middle Ages. How do they think anybody can get on with a day’s work when they’re buried under an avalanche of pointless memoranda? To cap it off, I have to prepare a lecture for a totally unnecessary conference on what they call ‘refusal-of-entry techniques.’ What they mean is what to do when aliens who can’t get a visa have to be loaded onto buses and ferries and deported without too much fuss and protest.”

“I realize you’re very busy,” Wallander said, thinking that Björk hadn’t changed an atom. He’d never gotten his role as chief of police under control. The job controlled him.

“I’ve got all the papers here,” Björk went on. “All we need is your signature, and you’re an ex-policeman. I have to accept your decision, even if I don’t like it. By the way, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve called a press conference for 9 a.m. You’ve become a famous police officer in the last few years, Kurt. Even if you’ve acted a little strangely every now and then, there’s no denying you’ve done a lot for our good name and reputation. They do say that there are police cadets who claim to have been inspired by you.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Wallander said. “And you can cancel the press conference.”

He could see that this annoyed Björk.

“Out of the question,” he said. “It’s the least you can do for your colleagues. Besides, Swedish Police magazine is going to run a feature on you.”

Wallander walked up to Björk’s desk.

“I’m not quitting,” he said. “I’ve come here today to start work again.”

Björk stared at him in astonishment.

“There won’t be a press conference,” Wallander said. “I’m starting work again as of now. I’m going to get the doctor to sign a certificate to say I’m healthy. I feel good. I want to work.”

“I hope you’re not pulling my leg,” said Björk, uneasily.

“No,” Wallander said. “Something’s happened that’s changed my mind.”

“This is very sudden.”

“For me as well. To be precise it’s been just over an hour since I changed my mind. But I have one condition. Or rather, a request.”

Björk waited.

“I want to be in charge of the Sten Torstensson case,” Wallander said. “Who’s in charge at the moment?”

“Everybody’s involved,” Björk said. “Svedberg and Martinsson are on the main team, together with me. Åkeson is the prosecutor in charge.”

“Young Torstensson was a friend of mine,” Wallander said.

Björk nodded and rose to his feet. “Is this really true?” he said. “Have you really changed your mind?”

“You heard what I said.”

Björk walked around his desk and stood face-to-face with Wallander. “That’s the best piece of news I’ve heard for a very long time,” he said. “Let’s tear these documents up. Your colleagues are in for a surprise.”

“Who’s got my old office?” Wallander said.

“Hanson.”

“I’d like it back, if possible.”

“Of course. Hanson’s taking a course in Halmstad this week anyway. You can move in right away.”

They walked down the corridor together until they came to Wallander’s old office. His nameplate had been removed. That threw him for a moment.

“I need an hour to myself,” Wallander said.

“We have a meeting at 8:30 about the Torstensson murder,” Björk said. “In the little conference room. You’re sure you’re serious about this?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

Björk hesitated before continuing. “You have been known to be a bit whimsical, even injudicious,” he said. “There’s no getting around that.”

“Don’t forget to cancel the press conference,” Wallander said.

Björk stretched out his hand. “Welcome back,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Wallander closed the door behind Björk and immediately took the phone off the hook. He looked around the room. The desk was new. Hanson had brought his own. But the chair was Wallander’s old one.

He hung up his jacket and sat down.

Same old smell, he thought. Same furniture polish, same dry air, same faint aroma of the endless cups of coffee that get drunk in this station.

He sat for a long time without moving.

He had agonized for a year and more, searched for the truth about himself and his future. A decision had gradually formed and broken through the indecision. Then he had read a newspaper and everything had changed.

For the first time in ages he felt a glow of satisfaction.

He had reached a decision. Whether it was the right one he could not say. But that didn’t matter any more.

He reached for a notepad and wrote: Sten Torstensson . He was back on duty.

At 8:30, when Björk closed the door of the conference room, Wallander felt as if he had never been away. The year and a half that had passed since his last investigation meeting had been erased. It was like waking up from a long slumber during which time had ceased to exist.

They were sitting around the oval table, as so often before. Since Björk had still not said anything, Wallander assumed his colleagues were expecting a short speech to thank them for their friendship and cooperation over the years. Then he would take his leave and the rest would concentrate on their notes and get on with the search for the killer of Sten Torstensson.

Wallander realized that he had instinctively taken his usual place, on Björk’s left. The chair on the other side was empty. It was as if his colleagues did not want to intrude too closely on somebody who did not really belong anymore. Martinsson sat opposite him, sniffing loudly. Wallander wondered when he had ever seen Martinsson without a cold. Next to him sat Svedberg, rocking backward and forward on his chair and scratching his bald head with a pencil, as usual.

Everything would have been just as before, it seemed to Wallander, had it not been for the woman in jeans and a blue blouse sitting by herself at the opposite end of the table. He had never met her, but he knew who she was, and even knew her name. It was almost two years since they had started talking about strengthening the Ystad force, and that was when the name Ann-Britt Höglund had cropped up for the first time. She was young, had graduated from the police academy barely three years before, but had already made a name for herself. She had received one of two prizes awarded on the basis of final examinations and general achievements in the assessment of her fellow cadets. She came from Svarte originally, but had grown up in the Stockholm area. Police forces all over the country had tried to recruit her, but she made it clear she would like to return to Skåne, the province of her birth, and took a job with the Ystad force.

Wallander caught her eye, and she smiled fleetingly at him.

So, it is not the same as it was before, he thought. With a woman among us, nothing can stay as it used to be.

That was as much as he had time to think. Björk had risen to his feet, and Wallander sensed that he was nervous. Perhaps it had been too late. Perhaps his contract had already been terminated without his knowing?