Wallander stood up and went down the stairs to the basement. Here, too, everything was pedantically neat. Right at the back, behind the boiler room, Wallander discovered a steel door that was locked. He tried the various keys until he found the right one. Wallander had to feel his way until he located the light switch.
The room was surprisingly big. The walls were lined with shelves laden with icons from Eastern Europe. Without touching them, Wallander scrutinized them from close up. He was no expert, nor had he ever been particularly interested in antiques, but he guessed that this collection was extremely valuable. That would explain the barred windows and the lock, if not the wrought-iron safety door to the bedroom. Wallander’s uneasiness grew. He felt he was intruding on the privacy of a rich old man whom happiness had abandoned, who had barricaded his house, and who was watched over by greed in the shape of all these Madonna figures.
He pricked up his ears. There were footsteps upstairs, then a dog barking. He hurried out of the room, up the steps, and into the kitchen. He was astonished to be confronted by Peters, his colleague, who had drawn his pistol and was pointing it at him. Behind him was a security guard with a growling dog tugging at a lead. Peters lowered his gun. Wallander could feel his heart racing. The sight of the gun had momentarily revived the memories he had spent so long trying to banish.
Then he was furious. “What the hell’s going on here?” he snarled.
“The alarm went off at the security company, and they called the police,” Peters said, clearly worried. “So we came rushing here in a hurry. I had no idea it was you.”
Peters’ partner Norén entered on cue, also wielding a pistol.
“There’s a police investigation going on here,” Wallander said, noting that his anger had subsided as quickly as it had broken out. “Torstensson, the lawyer who died in the car accident, lived here.”
“If the alarm goes off, we show up,” the man from the security company said, bluntly.
“Turn it off,” Wallander said. “You can turn it on again in a few hours’ time. But let’s all work our way through the house first.”
“This is Chief Inspector Wallander,” Peters explained. “I expect you recognize him.”
The security man was very young. He nodded, but Wallander could tell that he had not recognized him.
“We don’t need you anymore. And get that dog out of here,” Wallander said.
The guard withdrew, taking the reluctant Alsatian with him. Wallander shook Peters and Norén by the hand.
“I’d heard you were back,” Norén said. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Thank you.”
“Things haven’t been the same since you were on sick leave,” Peters said.
“Well, I’m back in the saddle now,” Wallander said, hoping to steer the conversation back to the investigation.
“The information we get isn’t exactly reliable,” Norén said. “We’d been told you were going to retire. After that we didn’t expect to find you in a house when the alarm went off.”
“Life is full of surprises,” Wallander said.
“Anyway, welcome back,” Peters said.
Wallander had the feeling for the first time that the friendliness was genuine. There was nothing artificial about Peters: his words were straightforward and clear.
“It’s been a difficult time,” Wallander said. “But it’s over now. I think so, at least.”
He walked down to the car with them and waved as they drove off. He wandered around the garden, trying to sort out his thoughts. His personal feelings were intertwined with thoughts about what had happened to the two lawyers. In the end he decided to go and talk to Mrs. Dunér again. Now he had a few questions to ask her that needed answering.
It was almost noon when he rang her doorbell and was let in. This time he accepted her offer of a cup of tea.
“I’m sorry to disturb you again so soon,” he began, “but I do need help in building up a picture of both of them, father and son. Who were they? You worked with the older man for thirty years.”
“And nineteen years with Sten Torstensson,” she said.
“That’s a long time,” Wallander said. “You get to know people as time goes by. Let’s start with the father. Tell me what he was like.”
“I can’t,” she said.
“And why not?”
“I didn’t know him.”
Her reply astonished him, but it sounded genuine. Wallander decided to feel his way forward, to take all the time his impatience told him he did not have.
“You will not mind my saying that your response is a bit odd,” Wallander said. “I mean, you worked with him for a very long time.”
“Not with him,” she said. “For him. There’s a big difference.”
Wallander nodded. “Even if you didn’t know the man, you must know a lot about him. Please, tell me what you can. If you don’t I’m afraid we may never be able to solve the murder of his son.”
“You’re not being honest with me, Inspector Wallander,” she said. “You haven’t told me what really happened when he died in that car crash.”
She was evidently going to keep surprising him. He made his mind up on the spot to be straight with her.
“We don’t know yet,” he said. “But we suspect it was more than just an accident. Something might have caused it, or happened afterward.”
“He’d driven along that road lots of times,” she said. “He knew it inside out. And he never drove fast.”
“If I understand it correctly, he’d been to see one of his clients,” Wallander said.
“The man at Farnholm,” was all she said.
“The man at Farnholm?”
“Alfred Harderberg. The man at Farnholm Castle.”
Wallander knew that Farnholm Castle was in a remote area to the south of the Linderöd Ridge. He had often driven past the turnoff, but had never been there.
“He was our biggest client,” Mrs. Dunér went on. “For the last few years he’d been in effect Gustaf Torstensson’s only client.”
Wallander wrote the name on a scrap of paper he found in his pocket.
“I’ve never heard of him,” he said. “Is he a farmer?”
“He’s the man who owns the castle,” Mrs Dunér said. “But he’s a businessman. Big business, international.”
“I’ll be in touch with him, obviously,” Wallander said. “He must be one of the last people to see Mr. Torstensson alive.”
A bundle of mail suddenly dropped through the mail slot. Wallander noticed that Mrs. Dunér gave a start.
Three scared people, he thought. Scared of what?
“Gustaf Torstensson,” he started again. “Let’s try again. Tell me what he was like.”
“He was the most private person I have ever met,” she said, and Wallander detected a hint of aggression. “He never allowed anybody to get close to him. He was a pedant, never varied his routine. He was one of those people folks say you could set your watch by. That was absolutely true in Gustaf Torstensson’s case. He was a sort of bloodless, cutout silhouette, neither nice nor nasty. Just boring.”
“According to Sten Torstensson, he was also cheerful,” Wallander said.
“You could have fooled me,” Mrs. Dunér said.
“How well did the two of them get along?”
She did not hesitate, she answered directly to the point. “Gustaf Torstensson was annoyed that his son was trying to modernize the business,” she said. “And naturally enough, Sten Torstensson thought his father was a millstone around his neck. But neither of them revealed their true feelings to the other. They were both afraid of fighting.”
“Before Sten Torstensson died he said something had been upsetting and worrying his father for several months,” Wallander said. “Can you comment on that?”