Henning Mankell - The Troubled Man

And then, as he stood in the doorway, Wallander said:

“I got a five-kronor tip for getting the flowers to Elander in time.”

“ Erlander . Learn people’s names.”

And at that precise moment, as if the memory had opened a door for him, Wallander saw that he was totally on the wrong track. He’d been deceived, and he’d allowed himself to be deceived. He’d been following the path dictated by his assumptions instead of reality. He sat motionless at his desk, his hands clenched, and allowed his thoughts to lead him to a new and unexpected explanation of what had happened. It was so mind-boggling that at first he couldn’t believe he could be right. The only thing that kept him focused was that his instincts had warned him. He really had overlooked something. He had mixed up the truth and the lies and assumed that the cause was the effect and vice versa.

He went to the bathroom and took off his shirt, which was soaked in sweat. When he had given himself a good wash, he went down to his locker in the basement and put on a clean shirt. He recalled in passing having received it from Linda for his birthday a few years earlier.

When he returned to his office he searched through his papers until he found the photograph he had been given by Asta Hagberg, the one of Colonel Stig Wennerström in Washington talking to a young Håkan von Enke. He studied the faces of the two men. Wennerström was smiling coolly, martini glass in hand, facing Håkan von Enke, who looked serious listening to what Wennerström had to say.

He lined up his Lego pieces in his mind’s eye once more. They were all there: Louise and Håkan von Enke, Hans, Signe in her bed, Sten Nordlander, Hermann Eber, Steven Atkins in America, George Talboth in Berlin. He added Fanny Klarström, and then another piece — but he didn’t yet know whom it represented. Then he slowly removed piece after piece until there were only two left. Louise and Håkan. It was Louise who fell over. That’s how her life came to an end; she was knocked over somewhere on Värmdö. But Håkan, her husband, was still standing.

Wallander recorded his thoughts. Then he put the photograph from Washington in his jacket pocket and left the police station. This time he left through the main entrance, greeted the girl in reception, spoke to a few traffic officers who had just come in, then walked down the hill into town. Anybody watching him might have wondered why he was walking so erratically — now fast, now slow. Occasionally he held out one hand, as if he were talking to somebody and needed to emphasize what he was saying with various gestures.

He stopped at the hot dog stand opposite the hospital and stood there for ages wondering what to order; but then he kept on walking without having eaten anything at all.

The whole time, the same thoughts were running through his mind. Could what he now envisaged really be true? Could he have misinterpreted what had happened so fundamentally?

He wandered around town and eventually went to the marina, walked to the end of the pier, and sat down on his usual bench. He took the photo out of his pocket and examined it yet again, then put it back.

The penny had dropped. Baiba had been right, his beloved Baiba whom he was now longing for more than ever.

Behind every person there’s always somebody else . The mistake he had made was to confuse those in the foreground with those lurking in the background.

Everything added up at last. He could see the pattern that had eluded him thus far. And he could see it very clearly.

A fishing boat was on its way out of the harbor. The man at the helm raised a hand and waved to Wallander. He waved back. Thunderclouds were building up on the horizon. At this moment he missed his father. That didn’t happen often. For a short while after his father’s death, Wallander had been aware of a frightening vacuum, but at the same time it was a relief that he had passed away. But at this moment neither the vacuum nor the relief was still there; he simply missed his father and longed to relive the good times they’d had together, despite everything.

Perhaps I never saw him as he really was, didn’t know who he really was, nor what he meant for me and for others. Just as little as I understood until now about Håkan von Enke’s disappearance and Louise’s death. At last I feel I’m getting closer to a solution, rather than drifting farther and farther away from it.

He realized that he would have to make another journey this summer, which had already involved so much traveling. But he had no choice. He knew now what he needed to do.

Once again he took the photo out of his jacket pocket. He held it in front of him, then tore it in two, right down the middle. Once there had been a world that brought Stig Wennerström and Håkan von Enke together, but now he had torn them apart.

“Was that the case even in those days?” he said out loud to himself. “Or was it something that came about much later?”

He didn’t know. But he intended to find out.

Nobody heard him as he sat there, at the very end of the pier, speaking aloud to himself.

Looking back, he had only vague and disjointed memories of that day. He eventually left the pier and went back into town, stopped outside a newly opened café in Hamngatan, peered in through the door, then left immediately. He made another tour of the streets before stopping at the Chinese restaurant near Stora Torget that he usually frequented. He sat down at an empty table — there were not many customers at this time in the afternoon — and somewhat absentmindedly chose a dish from the menu.

If anybody had asked him afterward what he had eaten, he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell them. His thoughts were elsewhere. He was formulating a plan to confirm his suspicions. He now held different cards in his hand; everything he had believed earlier had been proved wrong.

He sat there for ages, poking at his food with his chopsticks, then suddenly devoured everything, far too quickly, paid the bill, and left the restaurant. He returned to the police station. On the way to his office he was stopped by Kristina Magnusson, who invited him to join her family for dinner that weekend. He could pick the day, Saturday or Sunday. Since he couldn’t think of an excuse to turn her down, he told her he’d be delighted to join her on Sunday. He hung his homemade “Do Not Disturb” sign on the handle of his office door, switched off his cell phone, and closed his eyes. After a while he straightened his back, scribbled a few notes in his notepad, and knew that he had now made up his mind. For better or worse, he needed to determine whether things really were as he now thought. To make sure he wasn’t mistaken, hadn’t allowed himself to be fooled again. In a sudden outburst of anger he hurled his pen at the wall and cursed loudly. Just once, no more. Then he called Sten Nordlander. The connection was poor. When Wallander insisted that it was absolutely vital that they talk, Nordlander promised to call him back. Wallander hung up, and wondered why it was so difficult to call certain parts of the archipelago. Or was Nordlander actually somewhere else?

He waited. He spent the time going over all the thoughts filling his head. His brain was like a tank full to the brim. He was worried that it might start to overflow.

Sten Nordlander called forty minutes later. Wallander had placed his watch on the desk in front of him and noted that the hands pointed to ten minutes past six. The connection was now perfect.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m moored at Utö now.”

“Not far from Muskö, then,” said Wallander. “Or am I wrong?”

“Not at all. You could say without fear of contradiction that I’m in classic waters. Submarine waters, that is.”