Henning Mankell - Wallander's First Case

A man at one of the tables had fallen asleep. The bartender was still hunched over his crossword. Time was passing slowly. Now and again the door opened and let in a glimpse of daylight. Someone came in and a few others left. Wallander checked his watch. Ten to five. Still no Jespersen. He became hungry and was given some slices of sausage on a plate. And another Tuborg. Wallander had the feeling that the bartender was puzzling over the same word as he had been when Wallander had arrived at the bar an hour ago.

It was five o’clock. Still no Jespersen. He’s not coming, Wallander thought. Today of all days he’s slipped and started drinking again.

Two women walked in through the door. One of them ordered a schnapps and sat down at a table. The other one went behind the counter. The bartender left his newspaper and started to go through the bottles lined up on the shelves. Apparently the woman worked there. It was now twenty minutes past five. The door opened and Jespersen entered, dressed in a denim jacket and a cap. He walked straight to the counter and said hello. The bartender immediately poured him a cup of coffee and pointed to Wallander’s table. Jespersen took his cup and smiled when he saw Wallander.

‘This is unexpected,’ he said in broken Swedish. ‘A Swedish police servant in Copenhagen.’

‘Not a servant,’ Wallander said. ‘Constable. Or criminal investigator.’

‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

Jespersen chuckled and dropped four lumps of sugar into his coffee.

‘In any case, it’s nice to get a visitor,’ he said. ‘I know everyone who comes here. I know what they’re going to drink and what they’re going to say. And they know the same about me. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t go someplace else. But I don’t think I dare.’

‘Why not?’

‘Maybe someone will say something I don’t want to hear.’

Wallander wasn’t sure he understood everything that Jespersen was saying. For one thing, his Swedo-Danish was unclear, for another his pronouncements were somewhat vague.

‘I came here to see you,’ Wallander said. ‘I thought you might be able to help me.’

‘With any other police servant I would have told you to go to hell,’ Jespersen answered jovially. ‘But with you it’s different. What is it you want to know?’

Wallander filled him in on what had happened.

‘A sailor, called both Anders Hansson and Artur Halen,’ he finished. ‘Who also worked as an engineer.’

‘Which line?’

‘Sahlen.’

Jespersen slowly shook his head.

‘I would have heard about someone who changed his name,’ he said. ‘That isn’t an everyday occurrence.’

Wallander tried to describe Halen’s appearance. At the same time he was thinking of the photographs he had seen in the sailor’s books. A man who changed. Maybe Halen also deliberately altered his appearance when he changed his name?

‘Can you add anything else?’ Jespersen said. ‘He was a sailor and an engineer. Which in itself is an unusual combination. Which ports did he sail to? Which type of vessel?’

‘I think he went to Brazil a number of times,’ Wallander said hesitantly. ‘Rio de Janeiro, of course. But also a place called Sao Luis.’

‘Northern Brazil,’ Jespersen said. ‘I’ve been there once. Had shore leave there and stayed in an elegant hotel called Casa Grande.’

‘I don’t think I have anything more to tell,’ Wallander said.

Jespersen studied him while he dropped a few more sugar cubes into his coffee.

‘Someone who knew him? Is that what you want to know? Someone who knew Anders Hansson? Or Artur Halen?’

Wallander nodded.

‘Then we won’t get any further right now,’ Jespersen said. ‘I’ll check around. Both here and in Malmo. Now I think we should go have a bite to eat.’

Wallander looked at his watch. Half past five. There was no need to hurry. If he took the hydrofoil back to Malmo at half past eight he would still get home in time to call Mona. And he was hungry anyway. The sausage slices had not been enough.

‘Mussels,’ Jespersen said and stood up. ‘We’re going to Anne-Birte’s to have a bite.’

Wallander paid for his drinks. Since Jespersen had already gone out to the street, Wallander had to pay for him as well.

Anne-Birte’s establishment was located in the lower part of Nyhavn. Since it was early, they had no problems getting a table. Mussels were not really what Wallander most wanted to have, but that was Jespersen’s choice and so mussels it was. Wallander kept drinking beer while Jespersen had switched to an intensely yellow lemon drink, Citronvand.

‘I’m not touching the drink right now,’ he said. ‘But I will in a few weeks.’

Wallander ate and listened to Jespersen’s many well-told stories from his years at sea. Shortly before half past eight they were ready to leave.

For a while, Wallander worried that he wouldn’t have enough money to pay the bill since Jespersen appeared to take for granted that Wallander would pay. But in the end Wallander had enough to cover it.

They parted outside the restaurant.

‘I’ll look into this,’ Jespersen said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

Wallander walked down to the ferries and stood in line. They cast off at exactly nine o’clock. Wallander closed his eyes and dozed off almost immediately.

He was awakened by the fact that everything had grown very quiet around him. The roar of the ship’s engines had stopped. He looked around in bewilderment. They were about halfway between Denmark and Sweden. Then an announcement from the captain came over the ship’s PA system. The ship had sustained engine damage and would have to be towed back to Copenhagen. Wallander leaped up out of his seat and asked one of the stewardesses if there was a telephone aboard. He received an answer in the negative.

‘When will we get to Copenhagen?’ he asked.

‘That will unfortunately take several hours. But we will be offering a range of sandwiches and beverages in the meantime.’

‘I don’t want a sandwich,’ Wallander said. ‘I want a telephone.’

But no one could help him. He turned to a ship’s mate who answered curtly that the radio phones could not be used for personal calls when the vessel was in a state of emergency.

Wallander sat back down in his seat.

She won’t believe me, he thought. A hydrofoil that breaks down. That will be the last straw for her. Then our relationship will break down as well, for good.

Wallander reached Malmo at half past two in the morning. They had not arrived in Copenhagen until shortly after midnight. At that point he had already abandoned all thoughts of calling her. When he landed in Malmo there was a downpour. Since he did not have enough money to take a taxi he had to walk all the way back to Rosengard. He had only just stepped inside the door when he suddenly became violently ill. After vomiting, he developed a fever.

The mussels, he thought. Don’t tell me I’m really getting the stomach flu now.

Wallander spent the rest of the night in a constant series of trips between the bedroom and the bathroom. He had the energy to remind himself that he had actually never called in to say he was over his illness. Therefore he was still on sick leave. At dawn he finally managed to catch a few hours of sleep. But at nine he started running to the toilet again. The thought of calling Mona while shitting and vomiting was beyond him. In the best-case scenario she would realise that something had happened to him, that he was sick. But the telephone didn’t ring. No one tried to reach him all day.

Late that evening he started to feel somewhat better. But he was so weak that he didn’t manage to make himself anything except a cup of tea. Before he fell asleep again he wondered how Jespersen was feeling. He hoped he was as sick since he was the one who had suggested the mussels.