Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man Who Smiled

But he did not make the call. He waited for fourteen minutes and then reached for the radio. She answered at once. “What’s happening?” she said.

“Nothing yet,” he said. “I’ll call again in an hour.”

“Have you found Ström?”

He switched off. Once again he was alone in the darkness. He had committed himself to do something, but did not know what. He had given himself an hour to fill without knowing how. Slowly he rose to his feet. He was freezing. He clambered up out of the lake bed and walked toward the light glimmering through the trees. He stopped where the trees came to an end and he found himself at the edge of the big lawn sloping up to the castle.

It was an impenetrable fortress, but somehow Wallander would have to force his way in. Ström was dead, but he could not be blamed for that. Nor could he be held responsible for the murder of Sten Torstensson. Wallander’s guilt was different in kind, a feeling that he was going to let his side down once again, and when he could very well be on the brink of solving the case.

There had to be a limit to what they were capable of doing, in spite of everything. They could not simply shoot him, a Ystad detective who was only doing his job. Then again, perhaps these people did not recognize any limits at all. He tried to unravel that conundrum, but he could not. Instead, he started making his way around to the back of the castle, a side of the building he had never seen. It took him ten whole minutes, despite walking briskly—not only because he was afraid, but also because he was so cold. He could not stop shivering. At the back of the castle was a half-moon-shaped terrace jutting out into the grounds. The left side of the terrace was in shadow: some of the hidden spotlights must have stopped working. There were stone steps from the terrace down onto the lawn. He ran as fast as he could until he was in the shadows again. He crept up the steps, his flashlight in one hand and his radio in the other. The pistol was in his pants pocket.

Suddenly he stopped dead and listened. What had he heard? It was one of his internal alarms going off. Something’s wrong, he thought. But what? He pricked up his ears, but he could hear nothing apart from the wind coming and going. Something to do with the light, he thought. I’m being drawn toward the shadows, and they are lying in wait for me.

When the penny dropped and he realized he had been tricked, it was too late. He turned to go back down the steps, but was blinded by a dazzling white light shining straight into his face. He had been lured into the shadowy trap, and now it had sprung. He held the hand holding the radio over his eyes to keep out the light, but at the same time he felt himself being grabbed from behind. He tried to fight his way free, but it was too late. His head exploded and everything went black.

A part of his mind was conscious of what was happening all the time. Arms lifted him up and carried him, he could hear a voice speaking, somebody laughed. A door opened and the sound of footsteps on the stone terrace ceased. He was indoors, perhaps being carried up a staircase, and then he was set down on something soft. Whether it was the pain in the back of his head or the feeling of being in a room with the lights out, or at least dimmed, he did not know; but he came around, opened his eyes, and found himself lying on a sofa in a very large room. The floor was tiled, possibly with marble. Several computers with flickering screens stood on an oblong table. He could hear the sound of air-conditioning fans and somewhere, out of his field of vision, a telex machine was clicking away. He tried not to move his head, the pain behind his right ear was too great. Then somebody started speaking to him, a voice he recognized, close by his side.

“A moment of madness,” Harderberg said. “When a man does something that can only end with him being injured, or killed.”

Wallander turned gingerly and looked at him. He was smiling. Further back, where the light barely penetrated, he could just make out the outlines of two men, motionless.

Harderberg walked around the sofa and handed him the radio. His suit was immaculate, his shoes highly polished.

“It’s three minutes past midnight,” Harderberg said. “A few minutes ago somebody tried to contact you. I have no idea who it was, of course, and I don’t care. But I assume somebody is waiting for you to get in touch. You’d better do that. I don’t need to tell you, I am sure, that you shouldn’t attempt to raise the alarm. We’ve had enough madness for one day.”

Wallander called her up and she answered immediately.

“Everything’s OK,” he said. “I’ll report again an hour from now.”

“Have you found Ström?” she said.

He hesitated, unsure of what to say. Then he noticed that Harderberg was nodding at him encouragingly.

“Yes, I’ve found him,” Wallander said. “I’ll call again at one.”

Wallander put the radio on the sofa beside him.

“The woman police officer,” Harderberg said. “I take it that she’s in the vicinity. We could find her if we wanted to, of course. But we don’t.”

Wallander gritted his teeth and stood up.

“I have come in order to inform you,” he said, “that you are suspected of being an accessory to a number of serious crimes.”

Harderberg observed him thoughtfully. “I waive my right to have a lawyer present. Please go on, Inspector Wallander.”

“You are suspected of being an accessory to the deaths of Gustaf Torstensson and his son Sten Torstensson. Furthermore, you are now also suspected of being implicated in the death of your own chief of security, Kurt Ström. In addition, there is the attempted murder of the solicitors’ secretary, Mrs. Dunér, and of myself and Officer Höglund. There are a number of other possible charges, including ones connected to the fate of the accountant Borman. The public prosecutor will have to work out the details.”

Harderberg sat down slowly in an armchair. “Are you saying that I am under arrest, Inspector Wallander?” he said.

Wallander felt on the point of fainting, and sat again on the sofa. “I don’t have the necessary papers,” he said. “But that doesn’t affect the basic circumstances.”

Harderberg leaned forward in his armchair, chin resting on one hand. Then he leaned back again and nodded. “I’ll make things easy for you,” he said. “I confess.”

Wallander stared at him, unable to believe his ears.

“You’re absolutely right,” Harderberg said. “I admit to being guilty on all counts.”

“Including Borman?”

“Including Borman, of course.”

Wallander could feel his fear creeping up on him again, but this time colder, more threatening than before. The whole situation was off-kilter. He was going to have to get out of the castle.

Harderberg watched him attentively, as if trying to read Wallander’s thoughts. To give himself time to work out how he could get an SOS to Höglund without Harderberg realizing, Wallander started asking questions, as if they were in an interrogation room. But he still could not tell what Harderberg was up to. Had he known Wallander was on the grounds from the moment he passed through the gate? What had Ström given away before he was killed?

“The truth,” Harderberg said, interrupting Wallander’s train of thought. “Does it exist for a Swedish police officer?”

“Establishing the line between a lie and a fact, the real truth, is the basis of all police work,” Wallander said.

“A correct answer,” Harderberg said approvingly. “But it’s wrong all the same. Because there’s no such thing as an absolute truth or an absolute lie. There are just agreements. Agreements that can be entered into, kept or broken.”