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

Wallander walked around the building. Behind it were a few apple trees, currant bushes and some dilapidated stone tables, chairs and benches. He strolled around among the fallen autumn leaves, stumbling over something lying on the ground — possibly the remains of an old rake — and returned to the front of the house. He guessed which of the keys would open the front door, inserted it in the keyhole and turned it.

The house was musty and stuffy inside and there was a distinct smell of old man. He explored the rooms one by one. The furniture was old-fashioned and worn; crocheted proverbs hung on the walls. An ancient television set stood in what must have been the old man’s bedroom. Wallander went into the kitchen. There was a refrigerator that had been switched off. In the sink were the remains of a dead mouse. He went upstairs, but the upper floor was simply an unfurnished loft. The house would need a lot of work, that was obvious. And it wouldn’t be cheap, even if he were able to do much of it himself.

He returned downstairs, sat down cautiously on an old sofa, and dialed the number of the Ystad police station. It was several minutes before Martinson answered.

“Where are you?” Martinson asked.

“In the old days people used to ask how you were,” said Wallander. “Now they ask where you are. The way we greet each other really has undergone a revolution.”

“Did you ring me in order to tell me that?”

“I’m sitting inside the house.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. It feels unfamiliar.”

“But it’s the first time you’ve been there, isn’t it? Of course it feels unfamiliar.”

“I’d like to know what kind of price you’re asking for it. I don’t want to start thinking seriously about it until I know that. I take it you know there’s a lot of work that needs doing.”

“I’ve been there. I know that.”

Wallander waited. He could hear Martinson breathing.

“It’s not easy to do business with good friends,” said Martinson eventually. “I can see that now.”

“Regard me as an enemy,” said Wallander cheerfully. “But preferably a poverty-stricken enemy.”

Martinson laughed.

“We’ve been thinking in terms of a bargain price. Five hundred thousand. No haggling.”

Wallander had already decided that he could pay a maximum of 550,000.

“That’s too expensive,” he said.

“The hell it is! For a house in much sought-after Österlen?”

“The place is a ramshackle hovel.”

“If you spend a hundred thousand on it, it will be worth well over a million.”

“I can stretch to four hundred and seventy-five thousand.”

“No.”

“That’s that, then.”

Wallander hung up. Then he stood with the cell phone in his hand, waiting. Counting the seconds. He got as far as twenty-four before Martinson rang.

“Let’s say four hundred and ninety thousand.”

“Let’s shake on that over the phone,” said Wallander. “Or rather, I’ll pay a deposit twenty-four hours from now. I need to talk to Linda first.”

“Do that, then. And say yea or nay by this evening.”

“Why the rush? I need twenty-four hours.”

“OK, you can have them. But no more.”

They ended the call. Wallander felt a surge of elation. Was he now, at long last, about to acquire the house in the country he had dreamed about for so long? And in the vicinity of his father’s house, where he had spent so much time?

He worked his way through the house once more. In his mind’s eye he was already knocking down partition walls, installing new electricity sockets, papering the walls, buying furniture. He was tempted to phone Linda, but managed to control himself.

It was too early to tell her. He still wasn’t totally convinced.

He walked around the ground floor once again, pausing here and there to listen before continuing into the next room. Hanging on the walls were faded photographs of the people who used to live there. Between two windows in the biggest room was also a colored aerial photograph of the house and grounds.

He thought about the possibility of people who had once lived there still being present and breathing in the walls. But there are no ghosts here, he thought. There aren’t any because I don’t believe in ghosts.

Wallander went out into the garden. It had stopped raining, and the clouds were dispersing. He pushed and pulled the handle of a pump in the middle of the courtyard. There were squeaking and grinding noises, and the water that eventually appeared was first brown, but then turned crystal clear. He tasted it, and found himself already imagining a dog drinking water from a bowl by his side.

He walked around the outside of the house one more time, then returned to the car.

Just after opening the car door he paused: a thought had struck him. At first he couldn’t understand what it was that was preventing him from sitting down behind the steering wheel. He frowned. Something was nagging away inside him. Something he had seen. Something that didn’t fit in.

He turned to face the house. Something or other had etched itself into his brain.

Then it dawned on him. He had stumbled over something lying on the ground at the back of the house. The remains of a small rake, or perhaps the root of a tree. That was what was preventing him from leaving the place.

It was something he had seen. Without seeing it properly.

Wallander returned to the back of the house. At first he couldn’t be sure exactly where he had stumbled, nor could he understand why he seemed to think it was so important to find out what it was that had nearly tripped him up.

He looked around, and before long found what he was looking for. He stared long and hard at the object that was sticking up out of the ground. At first he just stood there motionless, but then he walked slowly around it. When he returned to his starting point Wallander squatted down. His knees felt stiff.

There was no question about what was lying there, half buried in the soil. It was not the remains of an old rake. Nor was it a tree root.

It was a hand. The bones were brown, but there was no doubt in his mind. It was the remains of a human hand, sticking up out of the brown clay soil.

Wallander straightened up. The alarm bell that had started ringing when he had stood there with his hand on the handle of the car door had delivered him a serious warning.

There was no sign of other bones. Just that hand sticking up out of the ground. He bent down again and poked cautiously into the earth. Was there a whole skeleton under there, or was it just the hand? He was unable to decide for sure.

The clouds had disappeared. The October sun was giving a suggestion of warmth. The crows were still cawing away in the tall chestnut tree. The whole situation seemed to Wallander to be unreal. He’d driven out on a Sunday to take a look at a house he might decide to move into. And, purely by chance, he had happened upon human remains in the garden.

Wallander shook his head in disbelief. Then he phoned the police station. Martinson was in no hurry to answer.

“I’m not going to reduce the price any further. My wife thinks I’ve gone too far already.”

“It’s got nothing to do with the price.”

“What’s it about, then?”

“Come here and see.”

“Has something happened?”

“Come here. Just do that. Come here.”

Martinson realized that something important must have happened. He asked no more questions. Wallander continued walking around the garden, scrutinizing the ground while he waited for the police car to turn up. It took nineteen minutes. Martinson had driven fast. Wallander met him in front of the house. Martinson seemed worried.