The Man Who Smiled

by Henning Mankell

  He went in by the back door and left the stair lights off when he returned to his apartment. If he stood on tiptoe on the toilet seat and looked through the little bathroom window, he could see the street below. The car was still there. Wallander went to the kitchen. If they wanted to blow me up, they would have done that already, he thought. They must be waiting for me to go to bed, and for the lights to go out.

  He waited until nearly midnight, then went back to the bathroom and checked to be sure the car was still there. Then he turned off the kitchen light and turned on the light in the bathroom. After ten minutes he turned off the bathroom light and switched on the light in the bedroom. He waited for ten more minutes, and turned off that light as well. Then he went rapidly down the stairs and left the building through the back door, crouched behind the drainpipe at the corner of the parking lot, and waited. He wished he had put on a warmer sweater. A cold wind was starting up. He cautiously moved his feet around in an attempt to keep warm. By 1 A.M. the only incident of note was that Wallander needed to urinate against the wall. Apart from the occasional car driving past, all was peaceful.

  At about 1:40 he heard a noise from the street. He peered out from behind the drainpipe. The driver’s door had opened, although the interior light had not come on. After a few seconds’ pause the driver emerged and closed the door quietly behind him. He was staring up at Wallander’s windows all the time. He was wearing dark clothes, and Wallander was too far away to make out his features. Even so, he was sure he had seen the man before. He tried to remember where. The man hurried across the street and vanished through the front entrance.

  Then it came to Wallander where he had seen him. He was one of the men lurking in the shadows at the foot of the stairs at Farnholm Castle on both occasions Wallander had been there. He was one of Harderberg’s shadows. And now he was on his way up the stairs to Wallander’s apartment, perhaps with the objective of killing him. Wallander felt almost as if he were lying in bed, in spite of being where he was, outside in the street, in the cold.

  I am witnessing my own death, he thought.

  He pressed himself tightly against the drainpipe and waited. At 2:03 the door opened without a sound and the man emerged again in the street. He looked around, and Wallander drew back behind the corner. Then he heard the car take off in a racing start.

  He’s going to report to Harderberg, Wallander thought. But he’s not going to tell him the truth because he would not be able to explain how I could be in the apartment one minute, turn off the light and go to bed, and have disappeared the next.

  Wallander could not exclude the possibility that the man had left some device in the apartment, so he got into his car and drove to the police station. The officers on duty greeted him in surprise when he appeared in reception. He picked up a mattress he knew was stored in the basement, then lay on the floor of his office. It was past 3:00, and he was worn out. He had to get some sleep if he was going to be able to think clearly, but the man in the dark clothes followed him into his dreams.

  Wallander woke up covered in sweat after a series of chaotic nightmares. It was shortly after 5 A.M. He spent a while thinking about what Norin had told him, then he got up and went to fetch some coffee. It tasted bitter after sitting in the pot all night. He did not want to go back to his apartment yet. He took a shower in the changing room downstairs. By 7:00 he was back at his desk. It was Wednesday, November 24.

  He recalled what Höglund had said a few days earlier: “We seem to have all the data, but we can’t see how it hangs together.” That’s what we must start doing now, Wallander thought. Make everything fit together. He phoned Nyberg at home. “We have to meet,” Wallander said.

  “I tried to find you yesterday,” Nyberg said. “Nobody knew where you were. We have some news.”

  “We? Who’s we?”

  “Ann-Britt Höglund and I.”

  “About Avanca?”

  “I got her to help me. I’m a technician, not a detective.”

  “I’ll see you in my office as soon as you can get here. I’ll phone Höglund.”

  Half an hour later Nyberg and Höglund were sitting in Wallander’s office. Svedberg put his head in the door. “Do you need me?” he said.

  “FHC 803. I haven’t gotten around to looking it up. Could you do that for me, please?”

  Svedberg nodded and closed the door.

  “Avanca,” Wallander said.

  “Don’t expect too much,” Höglund said. “We’ve only had a day in which to look into the company and who owns it, but we’ve already established that it’s no longer a family business run by the Romans. The family let the company use their name—and their reputation—and they still have some shares, possibly quite big holdings. But for several years now Avanca has been part of a consortium comprising several different firms associated in some way or another with pharmaceuticals, health care, and hospital equipment. It’s incredibly complicated, and the firms all seem to be intertwined. The umbrella for the consortium is a holding company in Liechtenstein called Medicom. It in turn is divided up among several owning groups. They include a Brazilian company concerned mainly with producing and exporting coffee. But what’s much more interesting is that Medicom has direct financial links with Bayerische Hypotheken-und-Wechsel-Bank.”

  “Why is that interesting?” Wallander said. He had already lost track of Avanca.

  “Because Harderberg owns a plastics factory in Genoa,” she said. “They make speedboats.”

  “I’m lost,” Wallander said.

  “Here comes the punchline,” Höglund said. “The factory in Genoa is called CFP, whatever that stands for, and helps its customers to arrange funding by way of a sort of leasing contract.”

  “Avanca, please,” Wallander said. “I couldn’t care less about Italian plastic boats just now.”

  “Perhaps you should,” Höglund said. “CFP’s leasing contracts are drawn up in cooperation with Bayerische Hypotheken-und-Wechsel-Bank. In other words, there is a link with the Harderberg empire. The first one we’ve found since the investigation began.”

  “I can’t make heads or tails of it,” Wallander said.

  “There could be even closer links,” she said. “We’ll have to ask the fraud squad to help us with this. I hardly know what I’m doing myself.”

  “This is impressive.” Nyberg had not said a word until now. “Maybe we should find out if that plastics factory in Genoa makes other things besides speedboats.”

  “Such as coolers for transplant organs?” Wallander said.

  “For instance.”

  “If this turns out to be true,” Wallander said, “it means that Harderberg is in some degree involved in the manufacturing and importing of these plastic containers. He might even have control, even if at first glance it looks to be a maze of different but interconnected companies. Can it really be possible that a Brazilian coffee producer has links with a tiny firm in Södertälje?”

  “That would be no more odd than the fact that American car manufacturers also make wheelchairs,” Höglund said. “Cars cause car accidents, which in turn creates a demand for wheelchairs.”

  Wallander clapped his hands and stood up. “OK, let’s turn up the pressure on this investigation,” he said. “Ann-Britt, can you get the financial experts to draw up some kind of large-scale wall map showing what Harderberg’s holdings really look like? I want everything on it—speedboats in Genoa, cobs at Farnholm Castle, everything we’ve found out so far. And Nyberg, can you devote yourself to this plastic container? Where it comes from, how it got into Gustaf Torstensson’s car.”

  “That would mean that we blow the plan we’ve been working with so far,” Höglund objected. “Harderberg’s bound to find out that we’re digging into his companies.”

  “Not at all,” Wallander said. “It’s all a matter of routine questions. Nothing dramatic. Besides, I’ll talk to Björk and Åkeson and suggest it’s high time we had a press conference. It will be the first time in my life I’
ve ever taken that initiative, but I think it would be a good thing if we could give the autumn a helping hand in spreading around a little more mist and fog.”

  “I heard that Åkeson is still in bed with the flu,” Höglund said.

  “I’ll call him,” Wallander said. “We’re turning up the pressure, so he’ll have to come whether he’s got a cold or not. Tell Martinsson and Svedberg we’re meeting at two today.”

  Wallander had decided to wait until everybody was there before he said anything about what had happened the previous night.

  “OK, let’s get going,” he said.

  Nyberg went out, but Wallander asked Höglund to stay behind. He told her that he and Widén had managed to place a stable girl at Farnholm Castle.

  “Your idea was an excellent one,” he said. “We’ll see if it produces the goods.”

  “Let’s hope she comes to no harm.”

  “She’ll just be looking after some horses,” Wallander said. “And keeping her eyes open. Let’s not get hysterical. Harderberg can’t suspect everybody on his staff to be police officers in disguise.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said.

  “How’s it going with the flight log?”

  “I’m working on it,” she said, “but Avanca took all my time yesterday.”

  “You’ve done well,” Wallander said.

  She was pleased to be told that, he noticed. We’re far too reluctant to praise our colleagues, Wallander thought. Especially when there’s no end to the amount of criticism and backbiting we toss around.

  “That’s all,” he said.

  She left, and Wallander went to stand at the window and ask himself what Rydberg would have done in this situation. But for once he felt that he had no time to wait for his old friend’s answer. He just had to believe that the way he was running the investigation was right.

  He used up a huge amount of energy during the rest of the morning. He convinced Björk of the importance of holding a press conference the next day, and he promised him that he would take care of the journalists himself once he had agreed with Åkeson what they were going to say.

  “It’s not like you to call in the mass media on your own initiative,” Björk said.

  “Maybe I’m becoming a better person,” Wallander said. “They say it’s never too late.”

  After meeting with Björk he called Åkeson at home. It was his wife who answered, and she was reluctant to let Wallander talk to her husband, who was in bed.

  “Has he got a temperature?” Wallander asked.

  “When you’re sick, you’re sick. Full stop,” Mrs. Åkeson said.

  “I’m sorry,” Wallander insisted, “but I’ve got to speak to him.”

  After a considerable pause Åkeson came to the phone. He sounded worn out. “I’m sick,” he said. “Influenza. I’ve been on the toilet all night.”

  “I wouldn’t disturb you if it weren’t important,” Wallander said. “I’m afraid I need you for a few minutes this afternoon. We can send a car to collect you.”

  “I’ll be there,” Åkeson said. “But I can take a taxi.”

  “Do you want me to explain why it’s important?”

  “Do you know who killed them?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to approve a warrant for the arrest of Alfred Harderberg?”

  “No.”

  “Then you can explain when I get in this afternoon.”

  Wallander called Farnholm Castle next. He did not recognize the voice of the woman who answered. Wallander introduced himself and asked if he could speak to Kurt Ström.

  “He doesn’t come on duty until this evening,” the woman said. “No doubt you’ll get him at home.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re prepared to give me his phone number,” Wallander said.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I thought it might be against your rules, security and so on.”

  “No, not at all,” she said, and gave him the number.

  “Please pass on my greetings to Dr. Harderberg, and thank him for his hospitality the other evening,” Wallander said.

  “He’s in New York.”

  “Well, please tell him when he comes back. Will he be away for long?”

  “We expect him back the day after tomorrow.”

  Something had changed. He wondered if Harderberg had issued instructions to respond positively to queries from the Ystad police.

  Wallander dialed Ström’s home number. He let it ring for a considerable amount of time, but got no reply. He called reception and asked Ebba to find out where Ström lived. While he was waiting he went to get a cup of coffee. He remembered that he still had not been in touch with Linda, as he had promised himself he would be. But he decided to wait until evening.

  Wallander left the station at around 9:30 and set off toward Österlen. Ström apparently lived in a little farmhouse not far from Glimmingehus. Ebba knew the area better than most, so she had drawn him a rough map. Ström had not answered the phone, but Wallander had a hunch he would find him there. As he drove through Sandskogen he tried to remember what Svedberg had told him about the circumstances in which Ström had been kicked out of the police force. He tried to anticipate what his reception would be. Wallander had occasionally come across police officers who had been involved in a crime, and he recalled such occasions with distaste. But he could not avoid the conversation in store for him.

  He had no difficulty following Ebba’s map, and he drove straight to a small white-painted house typical of the area, to the east of Glimmingehus. It was set in a garden that was no doubt very pretty in the spring and summer. When he got out of the car two Alsatians in a steel cage started barking. There was a car in the garage, and Wallander assumed he had guessed right: Ström was at home. He did not need to wait long. Ström appeared from behind the house, wearing overalls and holding a trowel in his hand. He stopped dead upon seeing who his visitor was.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Wallander said. “I did call, but I got no answer.”

  “I’m busy filling in some cracks in the foundations,” Ström said. “What do you want?”

  Wallander could see Ström was on his guard.

  “I’ve got something to ask you about,” he said. “Maybe you can shut the dogs up.”

  Ström shouted at the dogs and at once they fell silent.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said.

  “No need,” Wallander said. “We can stay here. It’ll only take a minute.” He looked around the little garden. “A nice place you’ve got here. A bit different from an apartment in the middle of Malmö.”

  “It was OK there as well, but this is closer to work.”

  “It looks as though you live by yourself here. I thought you were married?”

  Ström glared at him with eyes of steel. “What does my private life have to do with you?”

  Wallander opened wide his arms in apology. “Nothing,” he said. “But you know how it is with former colleagues. You ask after the family.”

  “I’m not your colleague,” Ström said.

  “But you used to be, didn’t you?”

  Wallander had changed his tone. He was looking for a confrontation. He knew that toughness was the only thing Ström had any respect for.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve come here to discuss my family.”

  Wallander smiled at him. “That’s right,” he said. “I haven’t. I only reminded you that we used to be colleagues out of politeness.”

  Ström had turned ashen. For a brief moment Wallander thought he had gone too far, and that Ström would take a swing at him.

  “Forget it,” Wallander said. “Let’s talk about something else. October 11. A Monday evening. Six weeks ago. You know the evening I mean?”

  Ström nodded, but said nothing.

  “I really only have one question,” Wallander said. “But let’s get an important thing out of the way first. I’m not going to let you get away with not answering on the grounds tha
t you’d be breaking the security rules of Farnholm Castle. If you try that, I’ll make life so hellish for you, you’ll wonder what hit you.”

  “You can’t do anything to me,” Ström said.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Wallander said. “I could arrest you and take you to Ystad with me, or I could phone the castle ten times a day and ask to speak to Kurt Ström. They would soon get the feeling that the police were far too interested in their head of security. I wonder if they know about your past? That could be embarrassing for them. I doubt if Dr. Harderberg would be pleased if the peace and quiet of Farnholm Castle were to be disturbed.”

  “Go to hell!” Ström said. “Get on the other side of that gate before I throw you out.”

  “I only want the answer to one question, about the night of October 11,” Wallander said, unconcerned. “And I can assure you it won’t go any further. Is it really worth risking the new life you lead? As I recall, when we met at the castle gates you said you were very happy with it.”

  Wallander could see that Ström was wavering. His eyes were still full of hatred, but Wallander knew he would get an answer.

  “One question,” he said. “One answer. But a truthful one. Then I’ll be gone. You can finish with your repairs and forget I was ever here. And you can continue guarding the gates of Farnholm Castle till the day you die. Just one question and one answer.”

  An airplane flew past high above their heads. Wallander wondered if it was Alfred Harderberg’s Gulfstream on its way back from New York already.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “That evening of October 11,” Wallander said. “Gustaf Torstensson left the castle at 8:14 P.M. according to the printout of the gate checks I’ve seen. That could be forged, of course, but let’s assume it’s correct. We do know he did leave Farnholm Castle, after all. My question to you, Kurt Ström, is very simple. Did a car leave Farnholm Castle after Mr. Torstensson arrived but before he left?”

  Ström said nothing, but then he nodded slowly.

  “That was the first part of the question,” Wallander said. “Now comes the second part of the same question. Who was it who left the castle?”