Henning Mankell - The Troubled Man

“We need to meet,” said Wallander. “I want to talk to you.”

“Did something happen?”

“Something’s always happening. But I want to talk to you about a thought that’s occurred to me.”

“So nothing’s happened?”

“Nothing. But I don’t want to discuss this on the phone. What are you doing for the next few days?”

“It must be important if you’re thinking of coming here.”

“There’s something else I need to take care of in Stockholm,” said Wallander, as calmly as he could.

“When were you thinking of coming?”

“Tomorrow. I know it’s short notice.”

Nordlander thought for a moment. Wallander could hear his heavy breathing.

“I’m on my way home,” he said. “We could meet in town.”

“If you tell me how to get to wherever you’ll be, I can make my way there.”

“I think that would be best. Shall we meet in the lobby of the Mariners’ Hotel? What time?”

“Four o’clock,” said Wallander. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

Nordlander laughed.

“Do you give me any choice?”

“Do I sound that strict?”

“Like an old schoolmaster. You’re sure that nothing’s happened?”

“Not as far as I know,” said Wallander evasively. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Wallander sat down at his computer and with some effort eventually managed to buy a train ticket and book a room at the Mariners’ Hotel. Since the train was due to leave early the following day, he drove home and took Jussi to his neighbors’. The husband was in the farmyard, tinkering with his tractor. He raised his eyebrows at Wallander when he saw him approaching with the dog.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sell him?”

“Completely sure. But I have to go away again. To Stockholm.”

“I seem to recall that only the other day you were sitting in my kitchen and telling me how much you hated big towns.”

“I do. But I have to go for work reasons.”

“Don’t you have enough crooks to deal with down here?”

“I certainly do. But I’m afraid I do have to go to Stockholm.”

Wallander stroked Jussi and handed over the leash. Jussi was used to this by now, and didn’t react.

But before leaving, Wallander had a question for his neighbor. It was only polite to ask at this time of year, as fall was approaching.

“How’s the harvest looking?”

“Not too bad.”

Very good, in other words, Wallander thought as he made his way back home. He’s usually pretty gloomy when it comes to forecasting crop yields.

Wallander called Linda when he got in. He didn’t tell her the real reason for his journey; he simply said he’d been called to an important meeting in Stockholm. She didn’t question that, merely asked how long he was going to be away.

“A couple of days. Maybe three.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“At the Mariners’ Hotel. For the first night, at least. I might stay with Sten Nordlander after that.”

It was seven-thirty by the time he had packed a few clothes into a bag, locked up the house, and settled in his car to drive to Malmö. After much hesitation he had also packed his — or rather, his father’s — old shotgun and a few cartridges, as well as his service revolver. He was going to travel by train and wouldn’t need to pass through security checks. He didn’t like the idea of taking weapons, but on the other hand, he didn’t dare travel without them.

He checked into a cheap hotel on the outskirts of Malmö, had dinner at a restaurant not far from Jägersro, and then went for a long walk to tire himself out. He was up and dressed by five the next morning. When he paid his bill, he made arrangements for his car to stay in the hotel parking lot until he returned, then ordered a taxi to take him to the train station. He could feel it was going to be a hot day.

Wallander usually felt at his most alert in the mornings. That had been the case for as long as he could remember. As he stood outside the hotel, waiting for his taxi, he had no doubts. He was doing the right thing. At long last he felt he was approaching a solution to everything that had happened.

He spent the train journey to Stockholm sleeping, leafing through various newspapers, half-solving a few crossword puzzles, and simply sitting back and letting his mind wander. His thoughts returned over and over again to that evening in Djursholm. He recalled all the photos he had at home of that occasion. How Håkan von Enke seemed worried. And just one picture of Louise when she wasn’t smiling. The only picture in which she was serious.

He ate a couple of sandwiches and drank coffee in the restaurant car, surprised by the prices, then sat with his head in his hands, gazing absentmindedly out the window at the countryside hurrying past.

Shortly after Nässjö, what he always dreaded nowadays happened. He suddenly had no idea where he was going. He had to check his ticket in order to remember. His shirt was soaked in sweat after this attack of forgetfulness. Yet again he had been shaken.

He checked into the Mariners’ Hotel at about noon. Sten Nordlander arrived shortly after four. He was tanned, and his hair had been cut short. He also seemed to have lost weight. His face lit up when he saw Wallander.

“You look tired,” Nordlander said. “Haven’t you made the most of your vacation?”

“Apparently not,” Wallander replied.

“It’s lovely weather — shall we go out, or would you prefer to stay here?”

“Let’s go out. How about Mosebacke? It’s warm enough to sit out in the sun.”

As they walked up the hill to the square, Wallander said nothing about why he had come to Stockholm. And Sten Nordlander didn’t ask any questions. The walk winded Wallander, but Nordlander seemed to be in good shape. They sat out on the terrace, where nearly all the tables were occupied. It would soon be fall, with its chilly evenings. Stockholmers were taking advantage of the opportunity to sit outside for as long as possible.

Wallander ordered tea — he had a stomachache from drinking too much coffee. Nordlander decided on a beer and a sandwich.

Wallander braced himself.

“I wasn’t really telling you the truth when I said that nothing had happened. But I didn’t want to talk about it on the phone.”

He was observing Nordlander carefully as he spoke. The expression of surprise on his face seemed to be completely genuine.

“Håkan?” he asked.

“Yes. I know where he is.”

Nordlander’s eyes never left Wallander’s face. He doesn’t know, Wallander thought, and felt relieved. He hasn’t the slightest idea. Right now I need somebody I can rely on.

Nordlander said nothing, waited. There was a buzz of conversation on all sides.

“Tell me what happened!”

“I will. But first, let me ask you a few questions. I want to make sure my interpretation of how all these events are connected is correct. Let’s discuss politics. What did Håkan stand for, during his time as an active officer? What were his political views? Regarding Olof Palme, for example? It’s well known that a lot of military men hated him and didn’t hesitate to spread absurd rumors about him being mentally ill and being treated in a hospital, or that he was a spy for the Soviet Union. How does Håkan fit in with that?”

“Not at all. As I’ve told you. Håkan was never one of the main antagonists of Olof Palme and the Social Democratic government. As you no doubt recall, he actually met Palme on one occasion. I think he thought that the criticism of Palme was unfair, and that there was an overestimation of the Soviet Union’s capacity for waging war and their desire to attack Sweden.

“Have you ever had reason to believe that he wasn’t being honest?”