Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man Who Smiled

“You didn’t know that at all,” Wallander said. “When are you next on duty?”

“I work three nights in a row. I start tonight at seven.”

“I’ll be here at three this afternoon,” Wallander said. “I’ll have something to show you. Then I’ll ask my question.”

Ström stood up and checked through the curtains.

“Is there somebody following you?” Wallander asked.

“You can’t be too careful,” Ström said. “I thought you’d caught on to that.”

Wallander went back to his car and drove to the police station. He paused in reception and asked Ebba to summon a meeting of the investigation team immediately.

“You look pretty stressed,” Ebba said. “Has something happened?”

“Yes,” Wallander said. “At long last something has happened. Don’t forget Nyberg. I need him to be there.”

Twenty minutes later they were ready to start, although Ebba hadn’t been able to reach Hanson, who had left the building early that morning without saying where he was going. Åkeson and Björk came into the conference room just as Wallander had decided he could not wait for them any longer. Without mentioning the fact that he had agreed to a deal with Ström, he described their exchanges at the house in Svartavägen. The listlessness that had characterized recent sessions with the team was noticeably reduced, even though Wallander could read the doubt in his colleagues’ faces. He felt a bit like a soccer manager trying to convince his players that they were about to enter a boom period even though they had lost every match for the last six months.

“I believe in this,” he said in conclusion. “Ström can be very useful to us.”

Åkeson shook his head. “I don’t like it,” he said. “The success of this investigation now seems to depend on a security guard who’s been kicked out of the police force but is nevertheless cast as our savior.”

“What choice do we have?” Wallander said. “Besides, I can’t see that we’re doing anything illegal. He was the one who came to us, not the other way around.”

Björk was more scathing. “It’s out of the question. We can’t use a disgraced police officer for a snitch. There would be a major scandal if this went wrong and the media got on to it. The national police commissioner would string me up if I gave you the go-ahead.”

“Let him come after me instead,” Wallander said. “Ström is serious. He wants to help. As long as we do nothing illegal, we’re hardly risking scandal.”

“I can see the headlines,” Björk said. “They’re not nice.”

“I see different headlines,” Wallander said. “Something about two more murders the police haven’t been able to solve.”

Martinsson could see that the discussion was getting out of hand, and intervened. “It seems a little odd that he didn’t want anything in return for giving us a little help,” he said. “Can we really believe that being upset about losing his job is sufficient reason for him to start helping the police, whom he hates?”

“He hates the police, no doubt about that,” Wallander said. “But I still think we can trust him.”

You could have heard a pin drop. Åkeson poked at his upper lip, wondering what he ought to think. “Martinsson’s question—you didn’t answer it,” he said.

“He didn’t ask for anything in return,” Wallander said, lying through his teeth.

“What exactly do you want us to do?”

Wallander nodded in the direction of Nyberg, who was sitting next to Höglund. “Sten Torstensson was killed by bullets that were probably from a Bernadelli pistol. Nyberg says that’s a rare weapon. I want Ström to find out whether one of those bodyguards has a Bernadelli. Then we can go to the castle and make an arrest.”

“We can do that anyway,” Åkeson said. “People carrying guns, no matter what make they are, illegally residing in this country—that’s good enough for me.”

“But what then?” Wallander said. “We arrest them. We deport them. We’ve put all our eggs in one basket and then dropped it. Before we can point to those men as possible murderers we have to know whether either of them has a gun that could be the murder weapon.”

“Fingerprints,” Nyberg said. “That would be good. Then we can run a check with Interpol and Europol.”

Wallander agreed. He had forgotten about fingerprints.

Åkeson was still poking at his upper lip. “Is there anything else you have in mind?” he asked.

“No,” Wallander said. “Not at the moment.”

He knew he was walking a tightrope and could fall at any moment. If he went too far, Åkeson would put a stop to any further contact with Ström or at the very least hold things up. So Wallander did not mention everything he intended to do.

While Åkeson continued to think the matter over, Wallander looked across at Nyberg and Höglund. She smiled. Nyberg nodded almost imperceptibly. They understand, Wallander thought. They know what I’m thinking. And they’re with me.

At last Åkeson stopped arguing with himself. “Just this once,” he said. “But this once only. No more future contact with Kurt Ström without first informing me. I’ll want to know what you intend to ask him before I approve of any more contributions from that gentleman. You can also expect me to say no.”

“Of course,” Wallander said. “I’m not even sure there will be any more times.”

When the meeting was over Wallander took Nyberg and Höglund into his office.

“I could tell that you had read my thoughts,” he said when he had shut the door. “You didn’t say anything, so I take it you agree with me that we should go a bit further than I led Åkeson to believe.”

“The plastic container,” Nyberg said. “If Ström could find a similar one at the castle, I’d be more than grateful.”

“Exactly,” Wallander said. “That plastic container is the most important thing we’ve got. Or the only thing, depending on how you look at it.”

“But how is he going to be able to get away with it if he does find one?” Höglund said.

Wallander and Nyberg exchanged looks.

“If what we think is true, the container we found in Gustaf Torstensson’s car was a substitute,” Wallander said. “I thought we could give it back and replace it with the right one.”

“I should have thought of that,” she said. “Not thinking fast enough.”

“I sometimes believe it’s Wallander who thinks too fast,” Nyberg said quietly.

“I need it in a couple of hours,” Wallander said. “I shall be seeing Ström again at three.”

Nyberg left, but Höglund stayed behind. “What did he want?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Wallander said. “He said he wanted a certificate to say that he wasn’t a bad police officer, but I think there’s more to it than that.”

“What?”

“I don’t know yet, but I have my suspicions.”

“And you don’t want to say what your suspicions are?”

“I’d rather not just yet. Not until I know.”

Nyberg came to Wallander’s office with the plastic container just after 2:00. He had put it inside two black trash bags.

“Don’t forget the fingerprints,” Nyberg said. “Anything at all . . . glasses, cups, newspapers.”

Half an hour later Wallander put the container on the backseat of his car and set off for Sandskogen. The rain was coming in off the sea in squalls. When he got out of his car Ström was in the doorway, already in uniform. Wallander carried the black trash bags into the red house.

“What uniform is that?” he said.

“Farnholm’s own uniform. I have no idea who designed it.”

Wallander took the container out of the plastic bags. “Have you seen this before?” he said.