He hung up, lifted the receiver again and dialled the number of Farnholm Castle. It was answered on the very first ring. "Farnholm Castle," said a woman's voice. She had a slight foreign accent.
"This is Detective Chief Inspector Wallander of the Ystad police. I'd like to speak to Mr Harderberg."
"He's in Geneva," the voice said.
Wallander ought to have foreseen the possibility that an international businessman might be abroad.
"When will he be back?"
"He hasn't said."
"Do you expect him tomorrow or next week?"
"I can't give you that information over the telephone. His schedule is strictly confidential."
"Maybe so, but I am a police officer," Wallander said, his anger rising.
"How am I to know that?" the woman said. "You could be anybody."
"I'll be at Farnholm Castle in half an hour," Wallander said. "Who shall I ask for?"
"That's for the guards at the main gate to decide," the woman said. "I hope you have some acceptable form of identification with you."
"What do you mean by 'acceptable'?" Wallander shouted, but she had hung up.
Wallander slammed down the receiver. The powerfully built waitress was putting buns out on a plate, and looked up at him with displeasure. He put some coins on the counter, and left without a word.
Fifteen kilometres further north he turned to the west and was soon swallowed up by the dense forest to the south of Linderod Ridge. He braked when he came to the turning for Farnholm Castle and a granite plaque with gold lettering told him he was on course. Wallander thought the plaque looked like an expensive gravestone.
The castle road was asphalted and in good condition. Tucked discreetly into the trees was a high fence. He stopped and wound down his window to get a better view. It was a double fence with about a metre gap. He drove on. Another kilometre or so and the road swung sharply to the right. Just beyond the turn were the gates. Next to them was a grey building with a flat roof looking more like a pillbox than anything else. He drove forward and waited. Nothing happened. He sounded his horn. Still no reaction. He got out of the car, he was getting annoyed. He had a vague feeling of being humiliated by all these fences and closed gates. Just then a man emerged through one of the steel doors in the pillbox. He was wearing a dark red uniform Wallander had never seen before. He still had not familiarised himself with these new security companies that were popping up all over the country.
The man in the uniform came up to him. He was about the same age as Wallander.
Then he recognised him.
"Kurt Wallander," said the guard. "Long time no see."
"Indeed," Wallander said. "How long ago was it we last met? Fifteen years?"
"Twenty," the guard said. "Maybe more."
Wallander had dug out the man's name from his memory. Kurt Strom. They had been colleagues on the Malmo police force. Wallander was young then and inexperienced, and Strom was a year or so older. They had never had more than professional contact with each other, but Wallander had moved to Ystad and many years later he had heard that Strom had left the force. He had a vague memory that Strom had been sacked, something had been hushed up, possibly excessive force on a prisoner, or stolen goods vanishing from a police storeroom. He didn't know for sure.
"I was warned you were on your way," Strom said.
"Lucky for me," Wallander said. "I was told I'd have to produce an 'acceptable form of identification'. What do you find acceptable?"
"We have a high level of security at Farnholm Castle," Strom said. "We're pretty careful about who we let in."
"What kind of treasure do you have hidden away here?"
"No treasure, but there's a man with very big business interests."
"Harderberg?"
"That's the one. He has something a lot of people would like to get their hands on."
"What's that?"
"Knowledge, know-how. Worth more than owning your own mint."
Wallander had no patience with the servile manner Strom was displaying as he spoke of the great man.
"Once upon a time you were a police officer," Wallander said. "I still am. Perhaps you understand why I'm here?"
"I read the papers," Strom said. "I suppose it's got something to do with that lawyer."
"Two lawyers have died, not just one," Wallander said. "But if I understand it right, only the elder one worked with Harderberg."
"He came here a lot," Strom said. "A nice man. Very discreet."
"He was last here on October 11, in the evening," Wallander said. "Were you on duty then?"
Strom nodded.
"I take it you make notes on all the cars and people that come in and out?"
Strom laughed out loud. "We stopped that a long time ago," he said. "It's all done by computer nowadays."
"I'd like to see a printout for the evening of October 11," Wallander said.
"You'll have to ask them up at the castle," Strom said. "I'm not allowed to do things like that."
"But I dare say you're allowed to remember," Wallander said.
"I know he was here that evening," Strom said. "But I can't remember when he arrived and when he left."
"Was he on his own in the car?"
"I can't say."
"Because you're not allowed to say?"
Strom nodded again.
"I've sometimes thought about applying for a job with a security company," Wallander said, "but I think I'd find it hard to get used to not being allowed to answer questions."
"Everything has its price," Strom said.
Wallander thought he could say "hear, hear" to that. He watched Strom for a few moments. "Harderberg," he said eventually. "What's he like as a person?"
The reply surprised him.
"I don't know," Strom said.
"You must have some sort of an opinion, surely? Or aren't you allowed to comment on that either?"
"I've never met him," Strom said.
"And you have been working for him how long?"
"Nearly five years."
"You've never once seen him?"
"Never."
"He's never passed through these gates?"
"His car has one-way glass in the windows."
"I take it that's part of the security system?" Wallander thought for a moment. "In other words, you are never completely sure whether he's here or not. You don't know if he's in the car when it passes in or out through the gates?"
"No. It's all to do with security," Strom said.
Wallander went back to his car. Strom disappeared through the steel door, and shortly afterwards the gates opened without a sound. It's like entering a different world, Wallander thought.
After about a kilometre the forest opened up. The castle stood on a hill, surrounded by extensive and well-tended grounds. The large main building, like the freestanding outbuildings surrounding it, was in dark red brick. The castle had towers and steeples, balustrades and balconies. The only thing to break the mood of another world, another age, was a helicopter on a concrete pad. Wallander had the impression of a large insect with its wings half folded, a wild beast at rest but liable to come back to life with a jerk.
He drove slowly up to the main entrance. Peacocks strolled leisurely around on the road, in front of the car. He parked behind a black BMW and got out. It was very quiet all around. The tranquillity reminded him of the previous day when he'd walked up the gravel drive to Gustaf Torstensson's house. Perhaps tranquillity is what distinguishes the environment in which wealthy people live, he thought. It's not the orchestral fanfares, but the tranquillity.
Just then one of the double doors at the main entrance to the castle opened. A woman in her thirties, dressed in well-fitting and, Wallander guessed, expensive clothes emerged on to the steps.
"Please come in," she said with a ready smile, a smile that seemed to Wallander just as cold and unwelcoming as it was correct.