“It was probably a stroke,” Prytz said, with compassion in his voice. “That’s what it looks like.”
That was also what the doctor told Wallander later. It had happened very quickly. His father would have had no idea he was dying. A blood vessel had burst in his brain. For Gertrud the sorrow and the shock were mixed with relief that it had happened so quickly; that he was spared a slow decline into a no-man’s-land of confusion.
Wallander was thinking completely different thoughts. His father had been alone when he died. No-one should be alone in their final moments. He felt guilty that he hadn’t responded to his father’s complaint. It was something that might indicate an impending heart attack or stroke. But even worse was that it had happened now. Even though his father had been 80, it was too soon. It should have happened later. Not now. Not like this. Wallander had tried to shake life back into his father. But there was nothing he could do. The grouse would never be finished.
In the midst of the chaos that death always creates, Wallander retained his ability to act calmly and rationally. Gertrud went in the ambulance. Wallander stood there in the studio, engulfed in the silence and the smell of turpentine, and wept to think how his father would have hated to leave the grouse unfinished. As a gesture towards the invisible border between life and death, Wallander took the paintbrush and filled in the two white points that were still missing in the grouse’s plumage. It was the first time in his life that he had touched any of his father’s paintings with a brush. Then he cleaned the brush and put it with the others in an old jam jar.
He went back to the house and called Ebba. She was upset and sad, and Wallander found that he could hardly speak. With difficulty, he asked her to tell the others what had happened. They should go on without him. All they had to do was keep him informed if anything important happened in the investigation. He wouldn’t be coming back to work that day. He didn’t know what he was going to do tomorrow.
Next he called his sister Kristina and told her the news. They talked for a long time. It seemed as though she had prepared already herself for the possibility that their father might die suddenly. She said she would help him get hold of Linda, since he didn’t have the number of the restaurant where she worked.
Finally he called Mona at the beauty shop in Malmo where she worked. She was surprised to hear from him, at first thinking that something had happened to Linda. When Wallander told her that it was his father who had died, he could hear that she was slightly relieved. That made him angry, but he didn’t say anything. He knew that Mona and his father had got along well. It was only natural that she would be worried about Linda. He remembered the morning that the Estonia had sunk.
“I know what you’re going through,” she said. “You’ve been afraid of this moment your whole life.”
“We had so much to talk about,” he replied. “We were finally seeing eye to eye. And now it’s too late.”
“It’s always too late,” she said.
She promised to come to the funeral and help out if he needed her. After they hung up he felt a lingering emptiness. He dialled Baiba’s number in Riga, but she didn’t answer. He called back again and again, but she wasn’t home.
He went back out to the studio, and sat down on the old rickety toboggan where his father had sat, a coffee cup always in his hand. It was raining again. Wallander felt that he was holding his own fear of death in his hands. The studio had become a crypt. He got up quickly and went back to the kitchen. The phone rang. It was Linda, and she was crying. Wallander started crying too. She wanted to come as soon as possible. Wallander asked if he should call her employer and talk to him, but Linda had already arranged to take time off. She would take a bus to Arlanda and try to get on a plane that afternoon. He offered to pick her up from the airport, but she told him to stay with Gertrud. She would get to Ystad and out to Loderup on her own.
That evening they gathered in the house in Loderup. Gertrud was very calm. They began to discuss the funeral arrangements. Wallander doubted that his father would have wanted a religious ceremony, but he let Gertrud decide. She was his widow, after all.
“He never talked about death,” she said. “I can’t tell you if he was afraid of it or not. He didn’t talk about where he wanted to be buried. But I want to have a vicar.”
They agreed that it would be at the churchyard in Ystad. A simple funeral. His father hadn’t had a lot of friends. Linda said she would read a poem, Wallander agreed that he wouldn’t give a eulogy, and they chose “Wondrous Is the Earth” as the hymn they would sing.
Kristina arrived the next day. She stayed with Gertrud, and Linda stayed with Wallander. It was a time in which death brought them together. Kristina said that now that their father had passed on, the two of them were next in line. Wallander noticed the whole time that his fear of death was growing, but he didn’t talk about it. Not to anyone. Not to Linda, not even to his sister. Maybe he could with Baiba sometime. She had reacted with deep feeling when he finally managed to get hold of her and tell her what had happened. They talked for almost an hour. She told him about her feelings when her own father had passed away ten years before, and she also talked about how she had felt when her husband Karlis was murdered. Afterwards Wallander felt comforted. She was there and she wasn’t going away.
The day the obituary was printed in Ystad’s Allehanda, Sten Widen called from his farm outside Skurup. It had been a few years since Wallander last talked to him. Once they had been close friends. They had shared an interest in opera and had high hopes for the future together. Widen had a beautiful voice, and Wallander would be his impresario. But everything changed when Widen’s father died suddenly and he was forced to take over the farm, where they trained race-horses. Wallander became a policeman, and gradually they had drifted apart. After their conversation, Wallander wondered whether Widen had ever even met his father. But he was grateful that he had called. Someone outside the immediate family hadn’t forgotten him.
In the midst of all this, Wallander had to force himself to continue to be a policeman. The day after his father died, Tuesday, 4 October, he had returned to the police station, after spending a sleepless night in the flat. Linda slept in her old room. Mona had also come to visit the night before with supper, trying to take their minds off the old man’s death for a while. For the first time since their devastating divorce, Wallander felt that his marriage was finally over. Somehow his father’s death had shown him that the life he had led with Mona was over for good.
Despite sleeping badly the whole week before the funeral, he gave his colleagues the impression that he was in command of the situation. They had expressed their condolences and he had thanked them. When Chief Holgersson took him aside in the hall and suggested that he take some time off, he turned down her offer: his grief eased while he was working.
The investigation moved slowly during that week before the funeral. The other case they were concentrating on, always overshadowed by the murder of Eriksson, was Runfeldt’s disappearance. He had vanished without trace. None of the detectives believed that there was a normal explanation. On the other hand, they hadn’t been able to find any connection between Eriksson and Runfeldt. The only thing that seemed perfectly clear about Runfeldt was that his great passion in life was orchids.
“We ought to take a look at his wife’s death,” Wallander said at one of the investigative team’s meetings. Hoglund said she would take care of it.
“How about the mail-order company in Boras?” Wallander asked later. “What’s happening with that? What do our colleagues there say?”
“They got onto it right away,” Svedberg said. “It obviously wasn’t the first time the company was involved in illegal importing of bugging devices. According to the Boras police, the company would pop up and then vanish, only to reappear with a new name and address. Sometimes even with different owners. They’ve already made some progress there. We’re waiting for a written report.”