Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man Who Smiled

He made up his mind to resign responsibility for the case if that did happen. Martinsson could take over. That was not only reasonable, it was also necessary. Wallander was the one who had pushed through the strategy of concentrating on Harderberg. He would sink to the bottom with the rest of the wreckage, and when he came up to the surface again it would be Martinsson who would be in charge.

When at last he went back to bed he slept badly. His dreams kept collapsing and blending into one another, and he could see the smiling face of Alfred Harderberg at the same time as Baiba’s unfailingly serious expression.

He woke at 7 a.m. He made a pot of coffee and thought about the letter from Baiba, then sat down at the kitchen table and read the auto ads in the morning paper. He still had not heard anything from the insurance company, but Björk had assured him that he could use a police car for as long as he needed to. He left the apartment just after 9:00. The temperature was above freezing and there was not a cloud in the sky. He spent a few hours driving from one car showroom to another, and spent a long time examining a Nissan he wished he could afford. On the way back he parked the car on Stortorget and walked to the record shop on Stora Östergatan. There was not much in the way of opera, and rather reluctantly he had to settle for a recording of selected arias. Then he bought some food and drove home. There were still several hours to go before he was due to meet Kurt Ström in Svartavägen.

It was 2:55 when Wallander parked outside the red dollhouse in Sandskogen. When he knocked on the door there was no reply. He wandered around the garden, and after half an hour he started to get worried. Instinct told him something had happened. He waited until 4:15, then scribbled a note to Ström on the back of an envelope he had found in the car, giving him his phone numbers at home and at the station, and pushed it under the door. He drove back to town, wondering what he should do. Ström was acting on his own and knew he had to take care of himself. He was perfectly capable of getting himself out of awkward situations, Wallander had no doubt, but even so, he felt increasingly worried. After establishing that nobody in the investigative team was still in the building, he went to his office and called Martinsson at home. His wife answered and told Wallander that Martinsson had taken his daughter to the swimming pool. He was about to call Svedberg, but changed his mind and called Höglund instead. Her husband answered. When she came to the phone, Wallander told her that Ström had failed to turn up at their rendezvous.

“What does that mean?” she said.

“I don’t know,” Wallander said. “Probably nothing, but I’m worried.”

“Where are you?”

“In my office.”

“Do you want me to come in?”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll call you back if anything happens.”

He hung up and continued waiting. At 5:30 p.m. he drove back to Svartavägen and shone his flashlight on the door. The corner of the envelope was still sticking out underneath, so Ström had not been home. Wallander had his cell phone with him, and dialed Ström’s number at Glimmingehus. He let it ring for about a minute, but there was no answer. He was now convinced that something had happened, and decided to go back to the station and get in touch with Åkeson.

He had just stopped at a red light on Österleden when his cell phone rang.

“There’s a Sten Widén trying to get in touch with you,” said the operator at the police switchboard. “Do you have his number?”

“Yes, I do,” Wallander said. “I’ll call him now.”

The lights had changed and the driver of a car behind him sounded his horn impatiently. Wallander pulled onto the side of the road, then dialed Widén’s number. One of the stable girls answered.

“Is that Roger Lundin?” she asked.

“Yes,” Wallander said, surprised. “That’s me.”

“I’m supposed to tell you that Sten is on his way to your apartment in Ystad.”

“When did he leave?”

“A quarter of an hour ago.”

Wallander made a racing start to beat the yellow light and drove back to town. Now he was certain something had happened. Ström had not returned home, and Sofia must have contacted Widén and had something so important to tell him that Widén had felt it was necessary to drive to his apartment. When he turned onto Mariagatan there was no sign of Widén’s old Volvo Duett. He waited in the street, wondering desperately what could have happened to Ström.

When Widén’s Volvo appeared Wallander opened the door before Widén even had time to switch off the engine.

“What happened?” he said, as Widén tried to extricate himself from the tattered seat belt.

“Sofia phoned,” he said. “She sounded hysterical.”

“What about?”

“Do we really have to be out here in the street?” Widén said.

“It’s just that I’m worried,” Wallander said.

“On Sofia’s account?”

“No, Kurt Ström’s.”

“Who the hell is he?”

“We’d better go inside,” Wallander said. “You’re right, we can’t stand out here in the cold.”

As they went up the stairs Wallander noticed that Widén smelled of strong drink. He had better have a serious talk with him about that—one of these days after they had resolved who killed the two lawyers.

They sat at the kitchen table, with Baiba’s letter still lying there between them.

“Who’s this Ström?” Widén asked again.

“Later,” Wallander said. “You first. Sofia?”

“She phoned about an hour ago,” Widén said, making a face. “I couldn’t understand what she was saying at first. She was off her rocker.”

“Where was she calling from?”

“From her apartment at the stables.”

“Oh, shit!”

“I don’t think she had much choice,” Widén said, scratching his stubble. “If I understood her correctly, she had been out riding. Suddenly she comes across a dummy lying on the path ahead of her. Have you heard about the dummies? Life-size?”

“She told me,” Wallander said. “Go on.”

“The horse stopped and refused to go past. Sofia dismounted to pull the dummy out of the way. Only it wasn’t a dummy.”

“Oh, hell!” said Wallander slowly.

“You sound as if you already know about it,” Widén said.

“I’ll explain later. Go on.”

“It was a man lying there. Covered in blood.”

“Was he dead?”

“It didn’t occur to me to ask. I assumed so.”

“What next?”

“She rode away and phoned me.”

“What did you tell her to do?”

“I don’t know if it was the best advice, but I told her to do nothing, to sit tight.”

“Good,” Wallander said. “You did exactly the right thing.”

Widén excused himself and went to the bathroom. Wallander could hear the faint clinking of a bottle. When he came back Wallander told him about Ström.

“So you think he was the one there on the path?” Widén said.

“I’m afraid so.”

Widén suddenly boiled over, and smashed his fist down on the table. Baiba Liepa’s letter fluttered down to the floor.

“The police had goddamn better get out there right away! What the hell’s going on at that castle? I’m not letting Sofia stay there a moment longer.”

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Wallander said, getting to his feet.

“I’m going home,” Widén said. “Call me as soon as you’ve got Sofia out of there.”

“No,” Wallander said. “You’re staying here. You’ve been drinking the hard stuff. I’m not going to let you drive. You can sleep here.”

Widén stared at Wallander as if he did not know what he was talking about. “Are you suggesting that I’m drunk?” he said.