Rome was his father’s Mecca.
They took a long walk on the beach. Wallander wondered whether to bring up the old days. But there was no hurry, they had time. Suddenly his father stopped short.
“What is it?” Wallander asked.
“I’ve been feeling bad for a few days,” he said. “But it’ll pass.”
“Do you want to go home?”
“I said it’ll pass.”
They were on the beach more than two hours before his father thought they had walked enough. Wallander, who had forgotten the time, knew that he’d have to hurry so he wouldn’t be late for the meeting at the police station.
After he dropped off his father in Loderup he returned to Ystad with a feeling of relief. Maybe now they could regain the contact they had lost when Wallander had decided to become a policeman. His father had never accepted his choice of profession, but he’d never explained what he had against it. Wallander wondered whether he might finally get an answer to the question he had spent far too much of his life worrying about.
At 2.30 p.m. they closed the door to the conference room. Even Chief Holgersson showed up. Seeing her there reminded Wallander that he still hadn’t called Per Akeson. He wrote a note to himself in his notebook.
He reported on finding the shrunken head and Harald Berggren’s diary. There was general agreement that this really did look like a lead. After they divided up the various tasks, Wallander shifted the discussion to Gosta Runfeldt.
“We have to assume that something has happened to Runfeldt,” he said. “We can’t rule out either an accident or foul play. Naturally there’s always the possibility that it’s a voluntary disappearance. On the other hand, I think we can discount the likelihood of any sort of connection between Eriksson and Runfeldt. There’s nothing to suggest that this is the case.”
Wallander wanted the meeting to be as short as possible. After all, it was Sunday. He knew that his colleagues were putting a lot of effort into completing their assignments, but he also knew that sometimes the best way to work meant taking a break. The hours he had spent with his father that morning had given him renewed energy. When he left the police station just after 4 p.m., he felt more rested than he had in days. His anxiety seemed to have abated a little.
If they did find Harald Berggren, there was a good chance they would find the solution. The murder was too well planned not to have been carried out by someone extremely unusual. Berggren might be just that killer.
On his way home Wallander stopped and bought groceries. He couldn’t resist the impulse to take out a video. It was a classic, Waterloo Bridge. He had seen it in Malmo with Mona in the early years of their marriage, but he had only a vague recollection of what it was about.
He was in the middle of the movie when Linda called. When he heard it was her he said he’d call her right back. He turned off the video and sat down in the kitchen. They talked for almost half an hour. She didn’t apologise for not having called in such a long time. He didn’t mention it either. He knew they were a lot alike. They could both be absentminded, but they knew how to concentrate if there was a task to be done. She told him that everything was fine, both the job in the restaurant and her drama classes. He didn’t press her on that subject. He had a strong impression that she still doubted her talent.
Just before they finished their conversation, he told her about his morning on the beach.
“It sounds like you had a wonderful day together,” she said.
“We did. It feels as if something has changed.”
When they hung up, Wallander went out on the balcony. There was almost no wind, a rare thing in Skane. For a moment all his worries were gone. Now he had to get some sleep. Tomorrow he’d get down to work again. When he turned out the light in the kitchen, the diary was in his mind again. He wondered where Harald Berggren was at that very moment.
CHAPTER 11
When Wallander woke up on the morning of Monday, 3 October, the first thing he thought was that he needed to speak to Sven Tyren again. Whether he had dreamed this he couldn’t tell, but he was sure that he needed to. As he waited for his coffee to brew, he called information and got Tyren’s home number. Tyren’s wife answered the phone, and told him that her husband had already left. Wallander called him on his mobile. In the background Wallander could hear the muffled sound of his truck’s engine.
Tyren told him he was on the road outside Hogestad. He had two deliveries to make before he went back to the terminal in Malmo. Wallander asked him to come to the station as soon as he could. When Tyren asked whether they had caught the person who killed Eriksson, Wallander explained that was just a routine conversation. They were still in the early stages of the investigation. They were bound to catch the murderer. It might happen soon, but it could also take time. Tyren promised to be at the station by 9 a.m.
“Please don’t park in front of the driveway,” Wallander added.
Tyren muttered something inaudible in reply.
At 7.15 a.m. Wallander arrived at the station. Walking towards the glass doors, he changed his mind and turned left, to the prosecutor’s office, which had its own entrance.
Per Akeson was sitting behind his desk, which was piled high with work as always. The entire office was a chaotic jumble of papers and files, but appearances were deceptive. Akeson was an extraordinarily efficient and methodical prosecutor, and Wallander enjoyed working with him. They had known each other for a long time, and over the years they had developed a relationship that went beyond the purely professional. Sometimes they would share confidences and seek each other’s advice or help. Still, there was a boundary that they never overstepped. They would never really be close friends; they were not enough alike for that.
Akeson nodded amiably when Wallander stepped into the room. He got up and moved a box of documents, making room on a chair. Wallander sat down, and Akeson told the switchboard to hold his calls.
“I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” he said. “Thanks for the card, by the way.”
Wallander had forgotten about the postcard he had sent Akeson from Rome, a view of the Forum Romanum.
“It was a great holiday for both of us.”
“I’ve never been to Rome. How does that proverb go? See Rome and then die? Or is it Naples?”
Wallander didn’t know. “I’d been hoping for a peaceful autumn. So I come home and find an old man impaled in a ditch.”
Akeson grimaced. “I’ve seen some of the photographs. And Chief Holgersson told me about it. Have you got anything to go on?”
“Maybe,” Wallander said, and gave him a brief summary of what they had found in Eriksson’s safe. Wallander knew that Akeson respected his ability to lead an investigation. He seldom disagreed with his conclusions or the way he handled a case.
“Of course it sounds like pure insanity to set out sharpened bamboo stakes in a ditch,” Akeson said. “On the other hand, these days it’s getting harder and harder to distinguish between what’s insane and what’s normal.”
“How’s it going with Uganda?” Wallander asked.
“You mean the Sudan,” said Akeson.
Akeson had applied for a position with the UN High Commission on Refugees. He wanted to get away from Ystad for a while, to see something else before it was too late. Akeson was several years older than Wallander. He was over 50.
“Of course, the Sudan,” Wallander said. “Have you talked about it with your wife yet?”
Akeson nodded.
“I got up the courage last week. She was considerably more understanding than I could have hoped. I got the distinct feeling she wouldn’t mind getting me out of the house for a while. I’m still waiting for official notification, but I’d be surprised if I didn’t get the post. As you know, I have my connections.”