“What do you want on this piece of paper?”
“A positive reference,” Ström said. “On police letterhead. Signed by Björk.”
“That’s won’t work,” Wallander said. “It would obviously be a fake. You’ve never worked in Ystad. A check with National Headquarters and anyone could discover that you were kicked out of the force.”
“You can perfectly well fix a reference, if you want to,” Ström said. “I can deal with whatever they have in the National Police Archives myself, one way or another.”
“How?”
“That’s my problem. I don’t want you to help in any way.”
“How do you think I’m going to get Björk to sign a fake reference?”
“That’s your problem. It could never be traced to you anyway. The world is full of forged documents.”
“In that case you can fix it with no input from me. Björk’s signature could be forged.”
“Of course it could,” Ström said. “But the certificate would have to be a part of the system. In the computer database. That’s where you come in.”
Wallander knew Ström was right. He had once forged a passport himself. But still he found the idea objectionable.
“Let’s say that I’ll think about it,” Wallander said. “Let me ask you a few more questions. We can regard your answers as sample goods. When I’ve heard what they are I can tell you whether I’ll go along with you or not.”
“I’m the one who’ll decide whether enough questions have been asked,” Ström said. “And we’re going to figure this out here and now. Before you leave.”
“I’ll go along with that.”
Ström lit another cigarette, then faced up to Wallander.
“Why is Harderberg running away?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s he going?”
“I don’t know that either. Probably overseas.”
“What makes you think that?”
“There have been quite a few visits recently from estate agents from abroad.”
“What do you mean, foreign?”
“South America. Ukraine. Burma.”
“Is the castle up for sale?”
“Harderberg generally hangs on to his properties. He won’t be selling. Just because he’s not living at Farnholm Castle doesn’t mean that anybody else will be. He’ll mothball it.”
“When’s he going to move?”
“He could leave tomorrow. Nobody knows. But I think it will be pretty soon. Probably before Christmas.”
Wallander had so many questions to ask, far too many. He couldn’t make up his mind which ones were most important.
“The men in the shadows,” he said eventually. “Who are they?”
Ström nodded in acknowledgment. “That’s a pretty good way of describing them,” he said.
“I saw two men in the entrance hall,” Wallander said. “The night I visited Harderberg. But I also saw them the first time I went to the castle, and talked to Anita Karlén. Who are they?”
Ström contemplated the smoke rising from his cigarette. “I’ll tell you,” he said. “But it’ll be the last sample you’ll get.”
“If your answer’s right,” Wallander said. “Who are they?”
“One of them is Richard Tolpin,” Ström said. “He was born in South Africa. A soldier, mercenary. I don’t think there’s been a conflict or a war in Africa these last two decades where he hasn’t been involved.”
“On which side?”
“The side that paid better. But at first it looked like it would turn out badly for him. When Angola kicked the Portuguese out in 1975 they captured about twenty mercenaries who were sent for trial. Fifteen of them were condemned to death. Including Tolpin. Fourteen of them were shot. I have no idea why they spared Tolpin. Presumably because he could be useful to the new regime.”
“How old is he?”
“Young forties. Very fit. Karate expert. An excellent marksman.”
“And the other one?”
“From Belgium. Maurice Obadia. Also a soldier. Younger than Tolpin. Could be thirty-four, maybe thirty-five. That’s all I know about him.”
“What are they doing at Farnholm Castle?”
“They’re called ‘special advisers.’ But they’re just Harderberg’s bodyguards. You couldn’t find people who were more skillful, or more dangerous. Harderberg seems to enjoy their company.”
“How do you know that?”
“Sometimes they have shooting practice on the grounds at night. Their targets are quite special.”
“Tell me more.”
“Dummies, big dolls that look like people. They aim at their heads. And they usually score.”
“Does Harderberg join in?”
“Yes. They sometimes keep going all night.”
“Do you know whether either of them, Tolpin or Obadia, has a Bernadelli pistol?”
“I keep as far away from their guns as possible,” Ström said. “There are some people you’d rather keep at arm’s length.”
“But they must have gun licenses,” Wallander said.
Ström smiled. “Only if they’re residents of Sweden,” he said.
“What does that mean? Farnholm Castle is in Sweden, surely?”
“There’s something special about ‘special advisers,’” Ström said. “They’ve never set foot in Sweden. So you can’t say that they are in this country.”
Carefully he stubbed out his cigarette before he said: “There’s a helicopter pad at the castle. It’s always at night, the landing lights are switched on, a helicopter lands, sometimes two. They take off again before dawn. They fly low so they aren’t tracked by radar. Whenever Harderberg is going to leave in his Gulfstream, Tolpin and Obadia disappear the night before by helicopter. Then they meet somewhere or another. Could be Berlin. That’s where the helicopters are registered. When they come back, it’s the same procedure. In other words, you could say they don’t go through customs like ordinary people.”
Wallander nodded thoughtfully. “Just one more question,” he said. “How do you know all this? You’re confined to your bunker by the main gate. You can’t possibly be allowed to roam around wherever you want.”
“That’s a question you’ll never get the answer to,” Ström said. “Let’s just say it’s a trade secret I don’t want to pass on to anybody else.”
“I’ll fix that certificate for you,” Wallander said.
“What do you know?” Ström said, with a smile. “I knew we’d strike a deal.”
“You didn’t know that at all,” Wallander said. “When are you next on duty?”
“I work three nights in a row. I start tonight at seven.”
“I’ll be here at three this afternoon,” Wallander said. “I’ll have something to show you. Then I’ll ask my question.”
Ström stood up and checked through the curtains.
“Is there somebody following you?” Wallander asked.
“You can’t be too careful,” Ström said. “I thought you’d caught on to that.”
Wallander went back to his car and drove to the police station. He paused in reception and asked Ebba to summon a meeting of the investigation team immediately.
“You look pretty stressed,” Ebba said. “Has something happened?”
“Yes,” Wallander said. “At long last something has happened. Don’t forget Nyberg. I need him to be there.”
Twenty minutes later they were ready to start, although Ebba hadn’t been able to reach Hanson, who had left the building early that morning without saying where he was going. Åkeson and Björk came into the conference room just as Wallander had decided he could not wait for them any longer. Without mentioning the fact that he had agreed to a deal with Ström, he described their exchanges at the house in Svartavägen. The listlessness that had characterized recent sessions with the team was noticeably reduced, even though Wallander could read the doubt in his colleagues’ faces. He felt a bit like a soccer manager trying to convinc
e his players that they were about to enter a boom period even though they had lost every match for the last six months.
“I believe in this,” he said in conclusion. “Ström can be very useful to us.”
Åkeson shook his head. “I don’t like it,” he said. “The success of this investigation now seems to depend on a security guard who’s been kicked out of the police force but is nevertheless cast as our savior.”
“What choice do we have?” Wallander said. “Besides, I can’t see that we’re doing anything illegal. He was the one who came to us, not the other way around.”
Björk was more scathing. “It’s out of the question. We can’t use a disgraced police officer for a snitch. There would be a major scandal if this went wrong and the media got on to it. The national police commissioner would string me up if I gave you the go-ahead.”
“Let him come after me instead,” Wallander said. “Ström is serious. He wants to help. As long as we do nothing illegal, we’re hardly risking scandal.”
“I can see the headlines,” Björk said. “They’re not nice.”
“I see different headlines,” Wallander said. “Something about two more murders the police haven’t been able to solve.”
Martinsson could see that the discussion was getting out of hand, and intervened. “It seems a little odd that he didn’t want anything in return for giving us a little help,” he said. “Can we really believe that being upset about losing his job is sufficient reason for him to start helping the police, whom he hates?”
“He hates the police, no doubt about that,” Wallander said. “But I still think we can trust him.”
You could have heard a pin drop. Åkeson poked at his upper lip, wondering what he ought to think. “Martinsson’s question—you didn’t answer it,” he said.
“He didn’t ask for anything in return,” Wallander said, lying through his teeth.
“What exactly do you want us to do?”
Wallander nodded in the direction of Nyberg, who was sitting next to Höglund. “Sten Torstensson was killed by bullets that were probably from a Bernadelli pistol. Nyberg says that’s a rare weapon. I want Ström to find out whether one of those bodyguards has a Bernadelli. Then we can go to the castle and make an arrest.”
“We can do that anyway,” Åkeson said. “People carrying guns, no matter what make they are, illegally residing in this country—that’s good enough for me.”
“But what then?” Wallander said. “We arrest them. We deport them. We’ve put all our eggs in one basket and then dropped it. Before we can point to those men as possible murderers we have to know whether either of them has a gun that could be the murder weapon.”
“Fingerprints,” Nyberg said. “That would be good. Then we can run a check with Interpol and Europol.”
Wallander agreed. He had forgotten about fingerprints.
Åkeson was still poking at his upper lip. “Is there anything else you have in mind?” he asked.
“No,” Wallander said. “Not at the moment.”
He knew he was walking a tightrope and could fall at any moment. If he went too far, Åkeson would put a stop to any further contact with Ström or at the very least hold things up. So Wallander did not mention everything he intended to do.
While Åkeson continued to think the matter over, Wallander looked across at Nyberg and Höglund. She smiled. Nyberg nodded almost imperceptibly. They understand, Wallander thought. They know what I’m thinking. And they’re with me.
At last Åkeson stopped arguing with himself. “Just this once,” he said. “But this once only. No more future contact with Kurt Ström without first informing me. I’ll want to know what you intend to ask him before I approve of any more contributions from that gentleman. You can also expect me to say no.”
“Of course,” Wallander said. “I’m not even sure there will be any more times.”
When the meeting was over Wallander took Nyberg and Höglund into his office.
“I could tell that you had read my thoughts,” he said when he had shut the door. “You didn’t say anything, so I take it you agree with me that we should go a bit further than I led Åkeson to believe.”
“The plastic container,” Nyberg said. “If Ström could find a similar one at the castle, I’d be more than grateful.”
“Exactly,” Wallander said. “That plastic container is the most important thing we’ve got. Or the only thing, depending on how you look at it.”
“But how is he going to be able to get away with it if he does find one?” Höglund said.
Wallander and Nyberg exchanged looks.
“If what we think is true, the container we found in Gustaf Torstensson’s car was a substitute,” Wallander said. “I thought we could give it back and replace it with the right one.”
“I should have thought of that,” she said. “Not thinking fast enough.”
“I sometimes believe it’s Wallander who thinks too fast,” Nyberg said quietly.
“I need it in a couple of hours,” Wallander said. “I shall be seeing Ström again at three.”
Nyberg left, but Höglund stayed behind. “What did he want?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” Wallander said. “He said he wanted a certificate to say that he wasn’t a bad police officer, but I think there’s more to it than that.”
“What?”
“I don’t know yet, but I have my suspicions.”
“And you don’t want to say what your suspicions are?”
“I’d rather not just yet. Not until I know.”
Nyberg came to Wallander’s office with the plastic container just after 2:00. He had put it inside two black trash bags.
“Don’t forget the fingerprints,” Nyberg said. “Anything at all . . . glasses, cups, newspapers.”
Half an hour later Wallander put the container on the backseat of his car and set off for Sandskogen. The rain was coming in off the sea in squalls. When he got out of his car Ström was in the doorway, already in uniform. Wallander carried the black trash bags into the red house.
“What uniform is that?” he said.
“Farnholm’s own uniform. I have no idea who designed it.”
Wallander took the container out of the plastic bags. “Have you seen this before?” he said.
Ström shook his head.
“There’s an identical one somewhere at the castle,” Wallander said. “There could be more than one. I want you to exchange this for one of them. Can you get into the main building itself?”
“I do my rounds every night.”
“You’re sure you’ve never seen this before?”
“Never. I wouldn’t even know where to start looking.”
Wallander thought for a moment. “Is there a cold-storage room anywhere?”
“In the cellar.”
“Look there. And don’t forget the Bernadelli.”
“That’ll be more difficult. They always have their weapons with them; probably they take them to bed too.”
“We need Tolpin’s and Obadia’s fingerprints. That’s all. Then you can have your certificate. If that’s what you really want.”
“What else would I want?”
“I believe what you really want is to show that you’re not as bad a police officer as a lot of people think.”
“You’re wrong,” Ström said. “I have to think about my future.”
“It was just a thought.”
“Same time tomorrow,” Ström said. “Here.”
“One more thing,” Wallander said. “If anything goes wrong I’ll deny all knowledge of what you’re doing.”
“I know the rules,” Ström said. “If that’s all, you might as well get out of here.”
Wallander ran through the rain to his car. He stopped at Fridolf’s Café for coffee and some sandwiches. It worried him that he had not told the whole truth at the morning meeting, but he knew he would be ready to concoct a certificate for Ström if that should prove necessary. His mind went back to Sten To
rstensson, coming to ask for his help. He had turned him down. The least he could do now was to bring his murderers to light.
He sat in his car without starting the engine, watching the people hurrying through the rain. He thought of the occasion a few years back when he had driven home from Malmö while very drunk and been stopped by some of his colleagues. They had protected him, and it had never been revealed. That night he had not been an ordinary citizen: he had been a police officer, taken care of by the police force, instead of being punished, suspended, or perhaps thrown out of the force. Peters and Norén, the officers who had seen him swerving all over the road and stopped him, had earned his loyalty. What if one day one of them tried to cash in on the favor they had done him?
In his heart of hearts Ström wanted to be back in the police force, Wallander was sure of it. The antagonism and hatred he displayed was only a superficial front. No doubt he dreamed of one day being a police officer again.
Wallander drove back to the station. He went to Martinsson’s office and found him on the phone. When he finished the call he asked Wallander how it had gone.
“Ström is going to look for an Italian pistol and he’s going to collect some fingerprints,” Wallander said.
“I find it hard to believe he’s doing that for nothing,” Martinsson said.
“Me too,” Wallander said. “But I suppose even somebody like Kurt Ström has a good side.”
“He made the mistake of getting caught,” Martinsson said. “And then he made another mistake by making everything seem so big and significant. Did you know he has a severely handicapped daughter, by the way?”
Wallander shook his head.
“His wife left him when the girl was very small. He looked after her for years. She has some form of muscle illness. But then it got so bad that she couldn’t stay at home any longer, and she had to go into a special home. He still visits her whenever he can.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I called Roslund in Malmö and asked him. I said I’d happened to bump into Ström. I don’t think Roslund knew he works at Farnholm Castle, and I didn’t mention it, of course.”
The Man Who Smiled Page 33
