Henning Mankell - Wallander's First Case

The next morning he tried to have a boiled egg. But this only resulted in him having to rush to the toilet again. He spent the rest of the day in bed and felt that his stomach was slowly starting to get back to normal.

Shortly before five, the phone rang. It was Hemberg.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said.

‘I’m sick in bed,’ Wallander said.

‘The stomach flu?’

‘More precisely, mussels.’

‘Surely no sensible person eats mussels?’

‘I did, unfortunately. And was duly punished.’

Hemberg changed the subject.

‘I’m calling to tell you that Jorne is finished,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t what we thought. Halen killed himself before Alexandra Batista was strangled. This means, in other words, that we have to turn this investigation in another direction. There is an unknown perpetrator.’

‘Maybe it’s a coincidence,’ Wallander said.

‘That Batista dies and Halen shoots himself? With precious stones in his stomach? You can try to convince someone else of that. What is missing is the link in this chain of events. For the sake of simplicity we can say that a drama of two people has suddenly been changed into a triangle.’

Wallander wanted to tell Hemberg about Halen’s change of name but felt another urge to vomit coming on. He excused himself.

‘If you feel better tomorrow, then come up and see me,’ Hemberg said. ‘Remember to drink a lot. Liquids are the only thing that help.’

After very hastily concluding the conversation and making yet another trip to the bathroom, Wallander returned to his bed. He spent that evening and night somewhere in the no-man’s-land between sleep, wakefulness and half-sleep. His stomach had calmed itself now, but he was still very tired. He dreamed about Mona and thought about what Hemberg had said. But he did not have the energy to get worked up, could not bring himself to think in earnest.

He felt better in the morning. He toasted some bread and brewed a weak cup of coffee. His stomach did not react. He let fresh air into the apartment, which had started to smell bad. The rain clouds had gone away and it was warm. At lunchtime Wallander called the hair salon. Again it was Karin who answered.

‘Could you tell Mona I’ll call her tonight?’ he said. ‘I’ve been sick.’

‘I’ll let her know.’

Wallander could not determine if there was a tinge of sarcasm in her voice. He didn’t think Mona talked much about her personal life. At least he hoped she didn’t.

Around one o’clock Wallander got ready to go down to the police station. But to make sure, he called and asked if Hemberg was in. After several fruitless attempts to get hold of him or at least information about where he might be, Wallander gave up. He decided to go grocery shopping and then spend the rest of the afternoon preparing for the conversation with Mona, which was not going to be an easy matter.

He made soup for dinner and then lay down on the couch and watched TV. A little after seven the door rang. Mona, he thought. She has realised that something is wrong and she’s come over.

But when he opened the door, Jespersen was standing there.

‘You and your damn mussels,’ Wallander said angrily. ‘I’ve been ill for two days.’

Jespersen looked enquiringly at him.

‘I didn’t notice anything,’ he said. ‘I’m sure there was nothing wrong with the mussels.’

Wallander decided it was meaningless to keep talking about the dinner. He let Jespersen in. They sat down in the kitchen.

‘Something smells funny in here.’

‘It usually does when someone has spent almost forty hours on the toilet.’

Jespersen shook his head.

‘It must have been something else,’ he said. ‘Not Anne-Birte’s mussels.’

‘You’re here,’ Wallander said. ‘That means you have something to tell me.’

‘A little coffee would be nice,’ Jespersen said.

‘I’m all out, sorry. And anyway, I didn’t know you were coming.’

Jespersen nodded. He didn’t take offence.

‘Mussels can certainly give you a stomach ache,’ he said, ‘but if I’m not completely mistaken, it’s something else that’s worrying you.’

Wallander was amazed. Jespersen saw right into him, right into the centre of pain that was Mona.

‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘But that’s not something I want to talk about.’

Jespersen held up his hands.

‘You’re here. That means you have something to tell me,’ Wallander repeated.

‘Have I ever told you what respect I have for your president, Mr Palme?’

‘He’s not a president, he’s not even prime minister yet. But you hardly came all the way here to tell me that.’

‘Nonetheless, it should be said,’ Jespersen insisted. ‘But you are right that other reasons have brought me here. If you live in Copenhagen, only an errand will bring you to Malmo. If you know what I mean.’

Wallander nodded impatiently. Jespersen could be very long-winded. Except when he was telling his tales from his life at sea. Then he was a master.

‘I talked a little with some friends in Copenhagen,’ Jespersen said. ‘That gave me nothing. Then I went over to Malmo and things went better. I spoke with an old electrician who sailed the seven seas for a thousand years. Ljungstrom is his name. Lives in a retirement home nowadays. Except I’ve forgotten the name of the place. He could hardly stand on his two legs. But his memory is clear.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing. But he suggested that I chat a little with a man out in Frihamnen. And when I found him and asked him about Hansson and Halen he said, “Those two are in constant demand.”’

‘What did he mean by that?’

‘What do you think? You’re a policeman and should be able to understand what regular folks don’t.’

‘What did he say again, exactly?’

‘That “those two are in constant demand”.’

Wallander understood.

‘There must have been someone else who had been asking about them, or him, to be precise.’

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘He didn’t know the name. But he claimed it was a man who seemed a little unstable. How can I put this? Unshaven and badly dressed. And drunk.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘About a month ago.’

About the same time that Halen had the extra lock put in, Wallander thought.

‘He didn’t know the man’s name? Can I speak with this fellow in Frihamnen myself? He must have had a name?’

‘He didn’t want to talk to a cop.’

‘Why not?’

Jespersen shrugged.

‘You know how things can be at the docks. Crates of alcohol that break open, some bags of coffee that go missing.’

Wallander had heard about such things.

‘But I kept asking around,’ Jespersen said. ‘And if I’m not mistaken I think there are some slightly scruffy individuals who have a habit of meeting up to share a bottle or two in that park in the middle of town that I’ve forgotten the name of. Something that starts with P?’

‘Pildamms Park?’

‘That’s the one. And the man who asked about Halen, or maybe it was Hansson, had a sagging eyelid.’

‘Which eye?’

‘I don’t think it’ll be hard to see if you find him.’

‘And he asked about Halen or Hansson about a month ago? And he hangs out in Pildamms Park?’

‘I thought maybe we could look him up before I head back,’ Jespersen said. ‘And maybe we’ll find a cafe on the way?’

Wallander checked his watch. It was half past seven.

‘I can’t do it tonight. I’m busy.’

‘Then I’m going back to Copenhagen. I’m going to have a word with Anne-Birte about her mussels.’

‘It could have been something else,’ Wallander said.