Henning Mankell - Wallander's First Case

The day after, Wallander called to enquire about train departures for their holiday. Mona had booked a room in a bed and breakfast that sounded cosy. Wallander spent the rest of the day patrolling down-town Malmo. The whole time he thought he saw the girl who had accosted him in the cafe. He longed for the day he could take off his uniform. Everywhere gazes were directed at him, expressing distaste or disdain, especially from people his own age. He was patrolling with an overweight and slow policeman by the name of Svanlund, who spent the whole time talking about the fact that he was going to retire in one year and move to his ancestral farm outside Hudiksvall. Wallander listened absently and mumbled something inconsequential from time to time. Apart from escorting some drunks away from a playground, nothing else happened other than Wallander’s feet starting to hurt. It was the first time, even though he had patrolled so often during his working life thus far. He wondered if it was due to his increased desire to become a criminal investigator. When he came home he took out a washbowl and filled it with warm water. A feeling of well-being spread throughout his entire body when he put his feet into the water.

He closed his eyes and started to think about the tempting holiday. He and Mona would have undisturbed time to plan their future. And soon he hoped to be able to hang up his uniform at long last and move up to the floor where Hemberg was.

He nodded off in the chair. The window was open a crack. Someone appeared to be burning rubbish. He picked up a faint smell of smoke. Or perhaps dry twigs. There was a weak crackling sound.

He jerked and opened his eyes. Was there really someone burning rubbish in their garden? There were no free-standing houses with gardens in the neighbourhood.

Then he saw the smoke.

It was filtering in from the hallway. When he ran to the front door he knocked over the bowl of water. The stairwell was full of smoke, but he had no trouble determining the source of the fire.

Halen’s apartment was engulfed in flames.

Afterwards Wallander thought that for once he had really managed to act according to the rule book. He had run back into his apartment and called the fire brigade. Then he had returned to the stairwell, run up a floor, and banged on Linnea Almquist’s door and made sure that she got out onto the street. She had at first protested but Wallander had insisted, grabbing her by the arm. When they made it out the front door Wallander discovered that he had a large cut on one knee. He had tripped over the bowl when he had gone back into the apartment and had hit his knee on a corner of the table. He only discovered now that it was bleeding.

Extinguishing the blaze had gone quickly since the fire had not really had a chance to establish itself before Wallander had smelled the smoke and alerted the fire brigade. When he approached the fire chief to find out if they had already determined the cause of the blaze, he had been turned away. Furious, he had gone to his apartment and retrieved his police badge. The fire chief’s name was Faraker and he was in his sixties, with a ruddy face and a sonorous voice.

‘You could have told me you were police,’ he said.

‘I live in this building. I was the one who called in the alarm.’

Wallander told him what had happened with Halen.

‘Too many people are dying,’ Faraker said firmly. Wallander was not completely sure how to take this unexpected comment.

‘So this means that the apartment was empty,’ Wallander said.

‘It appears to have been started in the entrance hall,’ Faraker said. ‘I’ll be damned if it wasn’t arson.’

Wallander looked quizzically at him.

‘How can you know that already?’

‘You learn a thing or two as the years go by,’ Faraker said at the same time that he handed out some instructions.

‘You will do this too one day,’ he continued and started stuffing an old pipe with tobacco.

‘If this is arson, the crime division will have to be called in, won’t it?’ Wallander said.

‘They’re already on their way.’

Wallander joined some colleagues and helped them keep curious onlookers at bay.

‘The second one today,’ one of the officers said. His name was Wennstrom. ‘This morning we had a pile of burning timber out near Limhamn.’

Wallander wondered briefly if his father had decided to burn the house since he was moving anyway. But he did not pursue this line of thought.

A car pulled up to the kerb. Wallander saw to his surprise that it was Hemberg. He waved Wallander over.

‘I heard the dispatch,’ he said. ‘Lundin was supposed to take it, but I thought I would take over since I recognised the address.’

‘The fire chief thinks it’s arson.’

Hemberg made a face.

‘People believe a hell of a lot of things,’ he said. ‘I’ve known Faraker for almost fifteen years. It doesn’t matter if it’s a burning chimney or car engine. For him everything is a suspected case of arson. Come with me and you may learn something.’

Wallander followed him.

‘What do you say about this?’ Hemberg asked.

‘Arson.’

Faraker sounded extremely sure. Wallander sensed that there was a deep-seated, mutual antipathy between the two men.

‘The man who lives here is dead. Who would have started a fire in there?’

‘That’s your job to find out. I’m just saying it was arson.’

‘Can we go in?’

Faraker shouted out to one of the firemen, who gave an all-clear signal. The fire was out and the worst of the smoke gone. They went in. The part of the entrance hall by the front door was scorched. But the flames had never reached further than the curtain that divided the hall from the main room. Faraker pointed to the letter box in the door.

‘It might have been started here,’ he said. ‘Smouldered first, and then caught fire. There aren’t any electrical wires or anything else that could catch fire on their own.’

Hemberg crouched down next to the door. Then he sniffed.

‘It’s possible that you’re right for once,’ he said and stood back up. ‘It has a smell. Kerosene, maybe.’

‘If it had been petrol, the fire would have been different.’

‘So someone put it through the letter box?’

‘That’s the most likely scenario.’

Faraker poked the remains of the hall mat with his foot.

‘Hardly paper,’ he said. ‘More likely a piece of cloth. Or cotton batting.’

Hemberg shook his head gloomily.

‘Damn people who start fires in the homes of people who are already dead.’

‘Your problem,’ Faraker said. ‘Not mine.’

‘We’ll have to ask forensics to take a look at this.’

For a moment Hemberg appeared concerned. Then he looked at Wallander.

‘Any possibility of getting a cup of coffee?’

They walked into Wallander’s apartment. Hemberg looked at the overturned bowl and the pool of water on the floor.

‘Were you trying to put the fire out yourself?’

‘I was taking a footbath.’

Hemberg regarded him with interest.

‘Footbath?’

‘Sometimes my feet hurt.’

‘Then you must have the wrong kind of shoes,’ Hemberg said. ‘I patrolled for more than ten years but my feet never gave me any trouble.’

Hemberg sat down at the kitchen table while Wallander prepared the coffee.

‘Did you hear anything?’ Hemberg asked. ‘Anyone on the stairs?’

‘No.’

Wallander thought it was embarrassing to admit he was sleeping this time as well.

‘If anyone had been moving around out there, would you have heard them?’

‘You can hear the front door slam,’ Wallander said with deliberate vagueness. ‘I probably would have heard someone come in. If the person didn’t stop the door from slamming.’