Henning Mankell - Wallander's First Case

By one o’clock he was back out on the pavement. New storms were moving in from the south-west. He decided to go home. But when he saw a bus that was going to his father’s suburb he took that instead. If nothing else he could spend a few hours helping his father pack.

There was indescribable chaos in the house. His father was reading an old newspaper, a torn straw hat on his head. He looked up at Wallander in surprise.

‘Have you finished?’ he asked.

‘Finished with what?’

‘Have you come to your senses and finished being a cop?’

‘I’m off today,’ Wallander said. ‘And there’s no use bringing up the subject again. We’re never going to see eye to eye.’

‘I’ve found a paper from 1949,’ he said. ‘There’s a great deal of interest in it.’

‘Do you really have time to read newspapers that are more than twenty years old?’

‘I never had time to read it at the time,’ his father said. ‘Among other things, because I had a two-year-old son who did nothing but scream all day. That’s why I’m reading it now.’

‘I was planning to help you pack.’

His father pointed to a table stacked with china.

‘That stuff needs to be packed in boxes,’ he said. ‘But it has to be done correctly. Nothing can break. If I find a broken plate you’ll have to replace it.’

His father returned to his paper. Wallander hung up his coat and started to pack the china. Plates that he remembered from his childhood. He found a cup with a chip in it that he could remember particularly clearly. His father turned a page in the background.

‘How does it feel?’ Wallander asked.

‘How does what feel?’

‘To be moving.’

‘Good. Change is nice.’

‘And you still haven’t seen the house?’

‘No, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

My father is either crazy or else he’s becoming senile, Wallander thought. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

‘I thought Kristina was coming,’ he said.

‘She’s out shopping.’

‘I’d like to see her. How is she doing?’

‘Fine. And she’s met an excellent fellow.’

‘Did she bring him?’

‘No. But he sounds good in all respects. He’ll probably see to it that I get grandchildren soon.’

‘What’s his name? What does he do? Do I have to drag all this out of you?’

‘His name is Jens and he’s a dialysis researcher.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Kidneys. If you’ve heard of them. He’s a researcher. And in addition he likes to hunt small game. Sounds like an excellent man.’

At that precise moment Wallander dropped a plate. It cracked in two. His father did not look up from the paper.

‘That’ll cost you,’ he said.

Wallander had had enough. He took his coat and left without a word. I will never go out to Osterlen, he thought. I will never set foot in his home again. I don’t understand how I have put up with that man all these years. But now I’ve had enough.

Without realising it he had started to speak aloud. A cyclist, who was huddled up against the wind, stared at him.

Wallander went home. The door to Halen’s apartment was open. He walked in. A lone technician was gathering up the remains of some ashes.

‘I thought you were done?’ Wallander said, surprised.

‘Sjunnesson is thorough,’ the technician answered.

There was no continuation of the conversation. Wallander went back out onto the stairwell and unlocked his own door. At the same time Linnea Almquist walked into the building.

‘How terrible,’ she said. ‘The poor man. And so alone.’

‘Apparently he had a lady friend,’ Wallander said.

‘I find that hard to believe,’ Linnea Almquist said. ‘I would have noticed that.’

‘I’m sure you would have,’ Wallander said. ‘But he may not have been in the habit of seeing her here.’

‘One should not speak ill of the dead,’ she said and started up the stairs.

Wallander wondered how it could be considered speaking ill of the dead to suggest that there may have been a woman in an otherwise lonely existence.

Once he was in his apartment, Wallander could no longer push aside thoughts of Mona. He should call her. Or would she call him of her own accord in the evening? In order to shake off his anxiety, Wallander started to gather up and throw out old newspapers. Then he started in on the bathroom. He did not have to do much before he realised that there was much more old, ingrained dirt than he could have imagined. He kept going at it for over three hours before he felt satisfied with the result. It was five o’clock. He put some potatoes on to boil and chopped some onions.

The phone rang. He thought at once it had to be Mona, and his heart started to beat faster.

But it was another woman’s voice. She said her name, Maria, but it took a few seconds before he realised it was the girl from the newsagent.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ she said. ‘I lost the piece of paper you gave me. And you’re not in the phone book. I could have called directory assistance, I suppose. But I called the police instead.’

Wallander flinched.

‘What did you say?’

‘That I was looking for an officer by the name of Kurt Wallander. And that I had important information. At first they didn’t want to give me your home phone number. But I didn’t give in.’

‘So you asked for Detective Inspector Wallander?’

‘I asked for Kurt Wallander. What does it matter?’

‘It doesn’t,’ Wallander said and felt relieved. Gossip moved quickly at the station. It could have brought about complications and spawned an unnecessary funny story about Wallander walking around claiming to be a detective inspector. That was not how he envisioned starting his career as a criminal investigator.

‘I asked if I was disturbing you,’ she repeated.

‘Not at all.’

‘I was thinking,’ she said. ‘About Halen and his betting forms. He never won, by the way.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I would entertain myself by checking to see how he had bet. Not just him. And he was very ill-informed when it came to English football.’

Exactly what Hemberg said, Wallander thought. There can be no more doubt in that regard.

‘But then I was thinking about the phone calls,’ she went on. ‘And then I thought of the fact that a couple of times he also called someone other than that woman.’

Wallander increased his concentration.

‘Who?’

‘He called the cab company.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I heard him place an order for a car. He gave his address as the building right next to the shop.’

Wallander thought about it.

‘How often did he order a cab?’

‘Three or four times. Always after first calling the other number.’

‘You didn’t happen to hear where he was going?’

‘He didn’t mention it.’

‘Your memory isn’t half bad,’ Wallander said admiringly. ‘But you don’t remember when he made those calls?’

‘It must have been on a Wednesday.’

‘When did it happen last?’

The answer came quickly and confidently.

‘Last week.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Of course I’m sure. He called a cab last Wednesday, the twenty-eighth of May, for your information.’

‘Good,’ Wallander said. ‘Very good.’

‘Is that of any help?’

‘I’m certain it is.’

‘And you’re still not planning to tell me what it is that has happened?’

‘I couldn’t,’ Wallander said. ‘Even if I wanted to.’

‘Will you tell me later?’

Wallander promised. Then he hung up and thought about what she had told him. What did it mean? Halen had a woman somewhere. After calling her, he ordered a taxi.