Henning Mankell: An Event in Autumn: A Kurt Wallander Mystery

“Do you have to work?”

“No.”

“What did he want, then?”

“He wanted to show me a house.”

“But he lives in a terraced house. You want to live out in the countryside, don’t you?”

“You’re not listening to what I say. He wants to show me a house. Not his house.”

“What kind of a house?”

“I’ve no idea. Do you want to come with me?”

She shook her head. “No, I have other plans.”

He didn’t ask her what those plans were. He knew that she was the same as he was. She explained no more than was necessary. A question that wasn’t asked was a question that didn’t need an answer.

Shortly after noon Wallander left for the police station. When he came out into the street he paused for a moment, wondering if he should take the car. But his conscience immediately began to nag him: he didn’t get enough exercise. Besides, Linda was no doubt standing at the window, watching him. If he took the car, he’d never hear the last of it.

He started walking.

We’re like an old married couple, he thought. Or a middle-aged policeman with much too young a wife. At first I was married to her mother. Now it’s as if the two of us are living in some sort of strange marriage, my daughter and I. All very respectable. But a cause of mutual and constantly increasing irritation.

Martinson was sitting in his office when Wallander arrived at the deserted police station. While his colleague concluded a telephone call about a missing tractor, Wallander glanced through a new edict from the National Police Board that was lying on the desk. It was about the use of pepper spray. An experimental operation had taken place in southern Sweden recently, and an assessment had concluded that the weapon had proved to be an excellent device for calming down violent individuals.

Wallander suddenly felt old. He was a terrible shot and was always frightened of getting into a situation when he would be forced to fire his service pistol. It had happened, and a few years ago he had shot and killed a man in self-defense. But the very thought of expanding his limited arsenal with a collection of little cans of spray was not something he found attractive.

I’m growing too old, he thought. Too old for my own good, and too old for my job.

Martinson slammed down the receiver and jumped up from his chair. The action reminded Wallander of the young man who had joined the Ystad police some fifteen years earlier. Even then Martinson had been unsure whether or not he was cut out to be a police officer. On several occasions over the years he had been on the point of resigning — but he had always stayed on. Now he was no longer young. But unlike Wallander, he had not put on weight: on the contrary, he had grown thinner. The biggest change was that his thick brown hair had vanished — Martinson had become bald.

Martinson gave him a bunch of keys. Wallander could see that most of them looked rather ancient.

“It belongs to a cousin of my wife’s,” said Martinson. “He’s very old, the house is empty, but for ages he’s been digging in his heels and refusing to sell it. Now he’s in a care home, and he accepts that he won’t be leaving there alive. A while ago he asked me to look after the selling of his house. The time has now come. I thought of you straightaway.”

Martinson gestured toward a worn-out and rickety visitor chair. Wallander sat down.

“I thought of you for several reasons,” he continued. “Partly because I knew you were looking for a house out in the country. But also because of where it’s actually situated.”

Wallander waited for what was coming next. He knew that Martinson had a tendency to make a long story of things — to complicate matters that ought to be simple.

“The house is in Vretsvägen, out in Löderup,” said Martinson.

Wallander knew where he meant.

“Which house is it?”

“My wife’s cousin is called Karl Eriksson.”

Wallander thought for a moment.

“Wasn’t he the one who had a smithy next to the gas station some years ago?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

Wallander stood up.

“I’ve driven past that house lots of times. It might be too close to where my father used to live for it to be suitable for me.”

“Why not go and take a look?”

“How much does he want for it?”

“He’s left that up to me. But as it’s my wife who’s in line for the money, I have to ask for a fair market price.”

Wallander paused in the doorway. He had suddenly become doubtful.

“Could you perhaps give some indication of the asking price? There’s not much point in my driving out there and looking at the house if it’s going to be so expensive that I can’t even contemplate buying it.”

“Go and have a look,” said Martinson. “You can afford it. If you want it.”

Wallander walked back to Mariagatan. He felt exhilarated, but also doubtful. Just as he got into the car it started pouring down. He drove out of Ystad, joined the Österleden motorway, and it occurred to him that it had been many years since he had last taken this route.

How long had his father been dead now? It took him some time to recall the year of his death. It was a long time ago. Many years had passed since they made that final journey together to Rome.

He recalled following his father, who had sneaked off to wander around Rome on his own. Wallander still felt a bit ashamed of having spied on him. The fact that his father was old and not fully in control of his senses was not a sufficient excuse. Why hadn’t he left his father in peace to look around Rome and soak up his memories? Why had Wallander insisted on following him?

It wasn’t good enough to say that he’d been concerned about his father, worried that something might have happened. Wallander could still recall his emotions from that time. He hadn’t been especially worried. He had simply been curious.

Now, it was as if time had shrunk. Surely it could have been only yesterday that he drove out here to visit his father, to play cards with him, maybe have a drink and then start quarreling about something of no significance.

I miss the old man, Wallander thought. He was the only father I’ll ever have. He was often a pain in the neck and could drive me up the wall. But I miss him. There’s no getting away from that.

Wallander turned off into a familiar road and glimpsed the roof of his father’s old house. But he continued past the side road and turned in the other direction instead.

He stopped after two hundred meters and got out of the car. It was only drizzling now.

Karl Eriksson’s house was in a neglected and overgrown garden. It was an old Scanian farmhouse, and would originally have had two wings. One had disappeared — maybe it had burned down, maybe it had been demolished. The house and garden were well away from the road, apparently in the middle of a field. The soil had been tilled, and was waiting for its winter covering of snow and ice. In the distance Wallander could hear the noise of a tractor.

Wallander opened the squeaking gate and entered the yard. The sandy path had certainly not been raked for many years. A small flock of crows was cawing away in a tall chestnut tree directly in front of the house. Perhaps it was originally the family’s magic tree — planted in the old days to stand guard over the house and be a home to the trolls and fairies and spirits who looked after the welfare of the inhabitants. Wallander stood still underneath it and listened — he needed to like the noise surrounding a house before he could start thinking about the possibility of living in it. If the sound of the wind or even the silence wasn’t right, he might just as well get back in his car and drive away. But he was duly impressed by what he heard. It was the stillness of autumn, the Scanian autumn, waiting for the onset of winter.