Torstensson stopped in his tracks.
“That’s how it is,” Wallander said. “But tell me why you’re here.”
“My father’s dead.”
Wallander had known him. He, too, was a lawyer, although he only occasionally appeared in court. As far as Wallander could remember, the older Torstensson spent most of his time advising on financial matters. He tried to work out how old he must have been. Nearing seventy, he supposed, an age by which quite a lot of people are dead already.
“He died in a road accident some weeks ago,” Torstensson said. “Just south of Brösarp Hills.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Wallander said. “What happened?”
“That’s a good question. That’s why I’m here.”
Wallander looked at him blankly.
“It’s cold,” Torstensson said. “They serve coffee at the art museum. I have the car with me.”
Wallander nodded. His bicycle stuck out of the trunk as they drove through the dunes. There were not many customers in the museum café at that time of the morning. The girl behind the counter was humming a tune Wallander was surprised to recognize from one of his new cassettes.
“It was late in the evening,” Torstensson began. “October 11, to be precise. Dad had been to see one of our most important clients. According to the police he’d been driving too fast, lost control, the car had overturned and he was killed.”
“It can happen in a flash,” Wallander said. “Lose concentration for just a second, and the result can be catastrophic.”
“It was foggy that evening,” Torstensson said. “Dad never drove fast. Why would he have done so when it was foggy? He was obsessed by the fear of running over a hare.”
Wallander studied him. “What’s on your mind?”
“Martinsson was in charge of the case.”
“He’s good,” Wallander said. “If Martinsson says that’s what happened, there’s no reason to think otherwise.”
Torstensson looked gravely at him. “I have no doubt Martinsson is a good police officer,” he said. “Nor do I doubt they found my father dead in his car, which was upside down and badly damaged in a field beside the road. But there’s too much that doesn’t add up. Something more must have happened.”
“What?”
“Something else.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know.”
Wallander went to the counter to refill his cup.
Why don’t I tell him the truth? he wondered. That Martinsson is both imaginative and energetic, but can on occasions be careless.
“I’ve read the police report,” Torstensson said, when Wallander had sat down again. “I’ve taken it with me and read it at the spot where my father died. I’ve read the postmortem notes, I’ve spoken to Martinsson, I’ve done some thinking, and I’ve asked again. Now I’m here.”
“What can I do?” Wallander said. “You’re a lawyer, you know that in every case there are a few loose ends that we can never manage to tie up. I take it your father was alone in the car when it happened. If I understand you rightly, there were no witnesses. Which means the only person who could tell us exactly what happened was your father.”
“Something happened,” Torstensson said. “Something’s not right and I want to know what it is.”
“I can’t help you, although I’d like to.”
Torstensson seemed not to hear him. “The keys,” he said. “Just to give you one example. They weren’t in the ignition. They were on the floor.”
“They could have been knocked out,” Wallander said. “When a car crashes, anything can happen.”
“The ignition was undamaged,” Torstensson said. “The ignition key was not even bent.”
“There could be an explanation even so.”
“I could give you other examples,” Torstensson insisted. “I know that something happened. My dad died in a car accident that was really something else.”
Wallander thought before replying. “Might he have committed suicide?”
“That possibility did occur to me, but I’m sure it can be discounted. I knew my father well.”
“The majority of suicides are unexpected,” Wallander said. “But, of course, you know best what you want to believe.”
“There’s another reason why I cannot accept the accident theory,” Torstensson said.
Wallander looked at him sharply.
“My father was a cheerful, outgoing man,” Torstensson said. “If I hadn’t known him so well, I might not have noticed the change. Little things, barely noticeable, but very definitely a change in his mood during the last six months.”
“Can you be more precise?”
Torstensson shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “It was just a feeling I had. Something was worrying him. Something he was very anxious to make sure I wouldn’t notice.”
“Did you ever speak to him about it?”
“Never.”
Wallander put his empty cup down. “I’d like to help you, but I can’t,” he said. “As your friend, I can listen to what you have to say. But I no longer exist as a police officer. I don’t even feel flattered by the fact that you’ve come all the way here to talk to me. I just feel numb and tired and depressed.”
Torstensson opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it.
They stood up and left the café.
“I respect what you say, of course,” Torstensson said as they stood outside the museum.
Wallander went with him to the car and recovered his bicycle.
“We never know how to handle death,” Wallander said in a clumsy attempt to convey his sympathy.
“I’m not asking you to,” Torstensson said. “I just want to know what happened. That was no ordinary car accident.”
“Have another talk with Martinsson,” Wallander said. “But it might be best if you don’t mention that I suggested that.”
They said good-bye, and Wallander watched the car drive off through the dunes.
He was struck by the feeling that matters were getting urgent. He couldn’t keep dragging things out any longer. That afternoon he telephoned his doctor and Björk and informed them that he had decided to resign from the police force.
He stayed at Skagen for five more days. The feeling that his soul was a devastated bomb site was as strong as ever. But he felt relieved nevertheless, having had the strength to make up his mind despite everything.
He came back to Ystad on Sunday, October 31, in order to sign the various forms that would draw the line under his police career.
On the Monday morning, November 1, he lay in bed with his eyes wide open after the alarm went off at 6:00. Apart from brief periods of restless dozing, he had been awake all night. Several times he had gotten out of bed and stood at the window overlooking Mariagatan, thinking that he had made yet another wrong decision. Perhaps there was no obvious path for him to follow for the rest of his life. Without finding any satisfactory answer to that, he had sat on the sofa in the living room listening to the radio. Eventually, just before the alarm rang, he had accepted that he had no choice. He was running away, no doubt about that; but everybody runs away sooner or later, he told himself. Invisible forces get the better of all of us in the end. Nobody escapes.
He got up, dressed, went out for the morning paper, came home, put on the water for coffee, and took a shower. It felt odd, going back to the old routine just for a day. As he dried himself down, he tried to recall his last working day almost eighteen months ago. It was summer when he cleared his desk and then went to the harbor café to write a gloomy letter to Baiba. He found it hard to decide whether it felt like an age ago, or just yesterday.
He sat at the kitchen table and stirred his coffee.
Then it had been his last day at work for who knew how long. Now it was his last day at work, ever.
He had been in the police force for more than twenty-five years. No matter what happened in the years to come, those years would be the backbone of his li
fe, nothing could change that. Nobody can ask to have their life declared invalid, and demand that the dice be thrown afresh. There is no going back. The question was whether there was any way forward.
He tried to identify his emotions this cold morning, but all he felt was emptiness. It was as if the autumn mists had penetrated his consciousness.
He released a sigh, and turned to his newspaper. He leafed through it and had the distinct impression that he had seen all the photographs and read all the articles any number of times before.
He was about to put it down when an obituary caught his eye. Sten Torstensson, lawyer, born March 3, 1947, died October 26, 1993.
He stared hard at the notice. Surely it was the father, Gustaf Torstensson, who was dead? He had talked to Sten not a week ago, on the sands at Skagen.
He tried to work out what it meant. It must be somebody else. Or the names had got mixed up. He read it again. There was no mistake. Sten Torstensson, the man who had come to see him in Denmark five days ago, was dead.
He sat there, motionless.
Then he stood up, checked in the phone book, and dialed a number. The person he was calling was an early riser.
“Martinsson.”
Wallander resisted an urge to put the receiver down. “It’s me, Kurt,” he said. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
There was a long silence before Martinsson responded. “Is it really you?” he said. “Now there’s a surprise!”
“I can imagine,” Wallander said. “But there is something I need to ask you.”
“It can’t be true that you’re quitting.”
“That’s the way it goes,” Wallander said. “But that’s not why I’m calling. I want to know what happened to Sten Torstensson, the lawyer.”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“I only got back to Ystad yesterday. I haven’t heard anything.”
There was a pause. “He was murdered,” Martinsson said at last.
Wallander was not surprised. The moment he had seen the 0 in the paper, he had known it was not death by natural causes.
“He was shot in his office last Tuesday night,” Martinsson said. “It’s beyond belief. And tragic. It’s only a few weeks since his father was killed in a car accident. But maybe you didn’t know that either?”
“No,” Wallander lied.
“You’ve got to come back to work,” Martinsson said. “We need you to figure this out. And much more besides.”
“No. My mind’s made up. I’ll explain when we meet. Ystad’s a little town. You bump into everybody sooner or later.”
Then Wallander said good-bye and hung up.
As he did so, he realized that what he had just said to Martinsson was no longer true. In just a few seconds, everything had changed.
He stood by the phone for more than five minutes. Then he drank his coffee, dressed, and went down to his car. At 7:30 he walked through the police station door for the first time in eighteen months. He nodded to the security guard in the lobby, made a beeline for Björk’s office, and knocked on the door. Björk stood up as he came in, and Wallander noticed that he was thinner. He could see, too, that Björk was uncertain as to how to deal with the situation.
I’m going to make it easy for him, Wallander thought. He won’t understand a thing at first, but then, neither do I.
“Naturally we’re pleased to hear you seem to be better,” Björk began, hesitantly. “But, of course, we’d prefer for you to be coming back to work rather than leaving us. We need you.” He gestured toward his desk, piled high with papers. “Today I have to respond to important matters such as a proposed new design for police uniforms and yet another incomprehensible draft for a change in the system involving relations between the county constabulary and the county police chiefs. Have you kept up with this?”
Wallander shook his head.
“I wonder where we’re heading?” said Björk, glumly. “If the new uniform design goes through, it’s my belief that in future police officers will look like something between a carpenter and a ticket agent.”
He looked at Wallander, inviting a comment, but Wallander said nothing.
“The police were nationalized in the 1960s,” Björk said. “Now they’re going to do it all over again. Parliament wants to abolish local constabularies and create something entirely new and call it the National Police Force. But the police has always been a national force. What else could it be? The sovereign legal systems of independent provinces were lost in the Middle Ages. How do they think anybody can get on with a day’s work when they’re buried under an avalanche of pointless memoranda? To cap it off, I have to prepare a lecture for a totally unnecessary conference on what they call ‘refusal-of-entry techniques.’ What they mean is what to do when aliens who can’t get a visa have to be loaded onto buses and ferries and deported without too much fuss and protest.”
“I realize you’re very busy,” Wallander said, thinking that Björk hadn’t changed an atom. He’d never gotten his role as chief of police under control. The job controlled him.
“I’ve got all the papers here,” Björk went on. “All we need is your signature, and you’re an ex-policeman. I have to accept your decision, even if I don’t like it. By the way, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve called a press conference for 9 A.M. You’ve become a famous police officer in the last few years, Kurt. Even if you’ve acted a little strangely every now and then, there’s no denying you’ve done a lot for our good name and reputation. They do say that there are police cadets who claim to have been inspired by you.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Wallander said. “And you can cancel the press conference.”
He could see that this annoyed Björk.
“Out of the question,” he said. “It’s the least you can do for your colleagues. Besides, Swedish Police magazine is going to run a feature on you.”
Wallander walked up to Björk’s desk.
“I’m not quitting,” he said. “I’ve come here today to start work again.”
Björk stared at him in astonishment.
“There won’t be a press conference,” Wallander said. “I’m starting work again as of now. I’m going to get the doctor to sign a certificate to say I’m healthy. I feel good. I want to work.”
“I hope you’re not pulling my leg,” said Björk, uneasily.
“No,” Wallander said. “Something’s happened that’s changed my mind.”
“This is very sudden.”
“For me as well. To be precise it’s been just over an hour since I changed my mind. But I have one condition. Or rather, a request.”
Björk waited.
“I want to be in charge of the Sten Torstensson case,” Wallander said. “Who’s in charge at the moment?”
“Everybody’s involved,” Björk said. “Svedberg and Martinsson are on the main team, together with me. Åkeson is the prosecutor in charge.”
“Young Torstensson was a friend of mine,” Wallander said.
Björk nodded and rose to his feet. “Is this really true?” he said. “Have you really changed your mind?”
“You heard what I said.”
Björk walked around his desk and stood face-to-face with Wallander. “That’s the best piece of news I’ve heard for a very long time,” he said. “Let’s tear these documents up. Your colleagues are in for a surprise.”
“Who’s got my old office?” Wallander said.
“Hanson.”
“I’d like it back, if possible.”
“Of course. Hanson’s taking a course in Halmstad this week anyway. You can move in right away.”
They walked down the corridor together until they came to Wallander’s old office. His nameplate had been removed. That threw him for a moment.
“I need an hour to myself,” Wallander said.
“We have a meeting at 8:30 about the Torstensson murder,” Björk said. “In the little conference room. You’re sure you’re serious about this?”
“Why shouldn
’t I be?”
Björk hesitated before continuing. “You have been known to be a bit whimsical, even injudicious,” he said. “There’s no getting around that.”
“Don’t forget to cancel the press conference,” Wallander said.
Björk stretched out his hand. “Welcome back,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Wallander closed the door behind Björk and immediately took the phone off the hook. He looked around the room. The desk was new. Hanson had brought his own. But the chair was Wallander’s old one.
He hung up his jacket and sat down.
Same old smell, he thought. Same furniture polish, same dry air, same faint aroma of the endless cups of coffee that get drunk in this station.
He sat for a long time without moving.
He had agonized for a year and more, searched for the truth about himself and his future. A decision had gradually formed and broken through the indecision. Then he had read a newspaper and everything had changed.
For the first time in ages he felt a glow of satisfaction.
He had reached a decision. Whether it was the right one he could not say. But that didn’t matter any more.
He reached for a notepad and wrote: Sten Torstensson. He was back on duty.
3
At 8:30, when Björk closed the door of the conference room, Wallander felt as if he had never been away. The year and a half that had passed since his last investigation meeting had been erased. It was like waking up from a long slumber during which time had ceased to exist.
They were sitting around the oval table, as so often before. Since Björk had still not said anything, Wallander assumed his colleagues were expecting a short speech to thank them for their friendship and cooperation over the years. Then he would take his leave and the rest would concentrate on their notes and get on with the search for the killer of Sten Torstensson.
Wallander realized that he had instinctively taken his usual place, on Björk’s left. The chair on the other side was empty. It was as if his colleagues did not want to intrude too closely on somebody who did not really belong anymore. Martinsson sat opposite him, sniffing loudly. Wallander wondered when he had ever seen Martinsson without a cold. Next to him sat Svedberg, rocking backward and forward on his chair and scratching his bald head with a pencil, as usual.
The Man Who Smiled Page 3
