“I want to know whether that car left Liljegren’s house on Thursdays,” said Wallander. “And came back on Fridays.”
“How can we find that out?”
“There are neighbours. Who drove the car? There seems to be such a vacuum around Liljegren. He had personal employees. He had an assistant. Where are all these people?”
“We’re working on that,” said Sjosten.
“Let’s set our priorities,” said Wallander. “The motorcycle is important. Liljegren’s assistant is too. And the car on Thursdays. Start there. Assign all your available people to look into these areas.”
Sjosten went to set this in train. He told Wallander when he came back that the surveillance of Elisabeth Carlen had begun.
“What’s she doing?”
“She’s in her flat,” Sjosten said. “Alone.”
Wallander called Ystad and talked to Akeson.
“I must talk with Louise Fredman now,” he said.
“You’ll have to come up with a strong case for doing so,” Akeson said, “or I can’t help you.”
“It might be crucial.”
“It has to be something concrete, Kurt.”
“There’s always a way round this bureaucratic crap.”
“What do you think she can tell you?”
“Whether she ever had the soles of her feet cut with a knife, for instance.”
“Good Lord. Why would that have happened to her?”
Wallander didn’t feel like telling him.
“Can’t her mother give me permission?” he said. “Fredman’s widow?”
“That’s what I was wondering,” said Akeson. “That’s the way we’ll have to proceed.”
“I’ll drive to Malmo tomorrow,” Wallander said. “Do I need any kind of papers from you?”
“Not if she gives you her permission,” said Akeson. “But you mustn’t put pressure on her.”
“Do I do that?” Wallander asked, surprised. “I didn’t realise.”
“I’m just telling you the rules. That’s all.”
Sjosten had suggested they take a ferry across to Denmark and have dinner, so they could talk, and Wallander had agreed. It was still too early to call Baiba. Maybe not too early for her, but certainly too early for him. It occurred to him that Sjosten, with all his marriages behind him, might be able to give him some advice on how to present his dilemma to Baiba. They took the ferry across the Sound, with Wallander wishing the journey was longer. They had dinner, which Sjosten insisted on paying for. Then they strolled back through Helsingor towards the terminal. Sjosten stopped at a doorway.
“In here lives a man who appreciates Swedes,” he said, smiling.
Wallander read on a brass plate that a doctor had his practice here.
“He writes prescriptions for diet drugs that are banned in Sweden,” said Sjosten. “Every day there’s a long line of overweight Swedes outside.”
They were on their way up the stairs to the terminal when Sjosten’s mobile phone rang. He kept walking as he listened.
“That was Larsson, one of my colleagues. He’s found what may be a real gold mine,” Sjosten said, putting away his phone. “A neighbour of Liljegren’s who saw a number of things.”
“What did he see?”
“Black cars, motorcycles. We’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“We’ll talk to him tonight,” Wallander said. “It’ll only be 10 p.m. by the time we get back to Helsingborg.”
Sjosten nodded without replying. Then he called the station and asked Larsson to meet them at the terminal. The young police officer waiting for them reminded Wallander of Martinsson. They got into his car and drove to Tagaborg. Wallander noticed a banner from the local football team hanging from his rear-view mirror. Larsson filled them in.
“His name is Lennart Heineman, and he’s a retired diplomat,” he said, in a Skane accent so broad that Wallander had to strain to understand him. “He’s almost 80, but quite sharp. His wife seems to be away. Heineman’s garden is just across from the main entrance to Liljegren’s grounds. He’s observed a number of things.”
“Does he know we’re coming?” asked Sjosten.
“I called,” said Larsson. “He said it was fine. He says he rarely goes to bed before 3 a.m. He told me he was writing a critical study of the Swedish foreign office’s administration.”
Wallander remembered with distaste an officious woman from the foreign office who had visited them in Ystad some years earlier, in connection with the investigation that led him to Latvia to meet Baiba. He tried to think of her name. Something to do with roses. He pushed the thought aside as they pulled up outside Heineman’s house. A police car was parked outside Liljegren’s villa across the street. A tall man with short white hair came walking towards them. He had a firm handshake, and Wallander trusted him instantly. The handsome villa he ushered them into was from the same period as Liljegren’s, but this house had an air of vitality about it, a reflection of the energetic old man who lived there. He asked them to have a seat and offered them a drink. They all declined. Wallander sensed that he was used to receiving people he hadn’t met before.
“Terrible things going on,” said Heineman.
Sjosten gave Wallander an almost imperceptible nod to lead the interview.
“That’s why we couldn’t postpone this conversation until tomorrow,” Wallander replied.
“Why postpone it?” said Heineman. “I’ve never understood why Swedes go to bed so early. The continental habit of taking a siesta is much healthier. If I’d gone to bed early I’d have been dead long ago.”
Wallander pondered Heineman’s strong criticism of Swedish bed-time hours for a moment.
“We’re interested in any observations you may have made of the traffic in and out of Liljegren’s villa,” he said. “But there are some things that are of particular interest to us. Let’s begin by asking about Liljegren’s black Mercedes.”
“He must have had at least two,” said Heineman.
Wallander was surprised at the answer. He hadn’t imagined more than one car, even though Liljegren’s big garage could have held two or three.
“What makes you think he had more than one?”
“I don’t just think so,” said Heineman, “I know. Sometimes two cars left the house at the same time. Or returned at the same time. When Liljegren was away the cars remained here. From my upper floor I can see part of his grounds. There were two cars over there.”
One is missing, Wallander thought. Where is it now?
Sjosten took out a notebook.
“Can you recall whether one or perhaps both cars regularly left Liljegren’s villa late in the afternoon or evening on Thursdays?” Wallander said. “And returned during the night or in the next morning?”
“I’m not much for remembering dates,” said Heineman. “But it’s true that one of the cars used to leave the villa in the evening. And return the next morning.”
“It’s crucial that we ascertain that it was on Thursdays,” Wallander said.
“My wife and I have never observed the idiotic Swedish tradition of eating pea soup on Thursdays,” Heineman said. Wallander waited while Heineman tried to remember. Larsson sat looking at the ceiling, and Sjosten tapped his notebook lightly on one knee.
“It’s possible,” said Heineman all of a sudden. “Perhaps I can piece together an answer. I recall definitely that my wife’s sister was here on one occasion last year when the car left on one of its regular trips. Why I’m so certain of this I don’t know. But I’m positive. She lives in Bonn and doesn’t visit very often.”
“Why do you think it was a Thursday?” asked Wallander. “Did you write it down on the calendar?”
“I’ve never had much use for calendars,” Heineman said with distaste. “In all my years at the foreign office I never wrote down a single meeting. But during 40 years of service I never missed one either, unlike people who did nothing but write notes on their calendars.”
“Why Thursday?” Wallander repeated.
“I don’t know whether it was a Thursday,” said Heineman. “But it was my wife’s sister’s name day. I know that for sure. Her name is Frida.”