Wallander nodded slowly. He had grown up in Klagshamn, and wondered which clearing it was Borman had hanged himself in. Perhaps it was somewhere he had played as a child?
“How old was he?”
“He’d passed fifty, but he can’t have been much older than that,” Mrs Forsdahl said.
“So he lived in Klagshamn,” Wallander said, “and worked as an accountant at the county offices. It seems a little unusual to me, staying in a hotel. It’s not that far between Malmö and Helsingborg.”
“He didn’t like driving,” Forsdahl said. “Besides, I think he enjoyed it here. He could shut himself away in his room in the evening and read his books. We used to leave him in peace, and he appreciated that.”
“You have his address in your ledgers, of course,” Wallander said.
“We heard his wife sold the house and moved,” Mrs Forsdahl said. “She couldn’t cope with staying there after what had happened. And his children are grown up.”
“Do you know where she moved to?”
“To Spain. Marbella, I think it’s called.”
Wallander looked at Höglund, who was making copious notes.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question now?” Forsdahl said. “Why are the police interested in Borman so long after his death?”
“It’s pure routine,” Wallander said. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you more than that. Except that there’s no question of his being suspected of any crime.”
“He was an honest man,” Forsdahl insisted. “He thought people ought to lead a simple life and always do the right thing. We talked quite a lot over the years. He would always get angry when we touched on the dishonesty that seems to be common nowadays in society.”
“Was there really no explanation for why he had committed suicide?” Wallander asked.
Both Forsdahl and his wife shook their heads.
“OK,” Wallander said. “Just one more thing. We’d like to take a look at the record books for the final year, if you don’t mind.”
“They’re in the basement,” Forsdahl said, getting to his feet.
“Martinsson might call,” Höglund said. “I’d better go get the car phone.”
Wallander gave her the keys and Mrs. Forsdahl went with her. He heard her slamming the car door without the neighbor’s dog starting to bark. When she returned they all went down into the basement. In a room that was surprisingly big for a basement was a long row of ledgers on a shelf running the whole length of one wall. There was also the old hotel sign, and a board with seventeen room keys hanging on it. A museum, Wallander thought, how touching. This is where they hide their memories of a long working life. Memories of a little hotel that got to a point where it was no longer viable.
Forsdahl took down the last of their ledgers and put it on a table. He looked up August, then the 26th, and pointed to one of the columns. Wallander and Höglund leaned forward to examine it. Wallander recognized the handwriting. He also thought the letter had been written by the same pen Borman used when he signed the register. He was born on October 12, 1939, and described himself as a county offices accountant. Höglund noted his address in Klagshamn: Mejramsvägen 23. Wallander did not recognize the street name. It was probably one of the housing estates that had sprung up after he had left. He turned back to the records for June, and found Borman’s name there again, on the day that the first of the letters had been mailed.
“Do you understand any of this?” Höglund said, quietly.
“Not a lot,” Wallander said.
The mobile phone rang, and Wallander nodded to indicate she should answer it. She sat down on a stool and started writing down what Martinsson had to say. Wallander closed the ledger and watched Forsdahl return it to its place. When the call was finished they went back upstairs, and on the way Wallander asked what Martinsson had said.
“It was the Audi,” she said. “We can talk about it later.”
Wallander and Höglund prepared to leave.
“I am sorry we’re here so late,” Wallander said. “Sometimes the police can’t wait.”
“I hope we’ve been of some help,” Forsdahl said. “Even though it’s painful to be reminded of poor old Lars Borman.”
“I understand how you feel,” Wallander said. “If you should remember anything else, please call the Ystad police.”
“What else is there to remember?” asked Forsdahl, in surprise.
“I don’t know what it might be,” Wallander said, shaking hands.
They left the house and got into the car. Wallander switched on the interior light. Höglund had taken out her notebook.
“I was right,” she said, looking at Wallander. “It was the white Audi. The number didn’t fit the car. The license plate had been stolen. It should have been on a Nissan that hasn’t even been sold yet. It’s registered with a showroom in Malmö.”
“And the other cars?”
“All in order.”
Wallander started the engine. It was 11:30, and there was no sign of the wind dropping. They drove out of town. There was not much traffic on the highway. And there were no cars behind them.
“Are you tired?” Wallander said.
“No,” she replied.
“In that case let’s stop for a while,” he said. He drove into a twenty-four-hour gas station with an attached café that was just south of Helsingborg. “We can have a little late-night conference, just you and me, and see if we can figure out how far we got this evening. We can also see what other cars stop. The only one we don’t need to worry about is a white Audi.”
“Why not?”
“If they do come back they’ll be using a different car,” Wallander said. “Whoever they are, they know what they’re doing. They won’t appear twice in the same car.”
They went into the café. Wallander ordered a hamburger, but Höglund didn’t want anything. They found a seat with a view of the parking area. A couple of Danish truck drivers were drinking coffee, but the other tables were empty.
“So, what do you think?” Wallander said. “About an accountant with the county offices writing threatening letters to a couple of lawyers, then going out to the forest to hang himself.”
“It’s hard to know what to say,” she said.
“Try,” Wallander said.
They sat in silence, lost in thought. A truck from a rental firm pulled up outside. Wallander’s burger was called; he got up to get it and returned to the table.
“The accusation in Borman’s letter is injustice,” she said. “But it doesn’t say what the injustice was. Borman wasn’t a client. We don’t know what their relationship was. In fact, we don’t know anything at all.”
Wallander put down his fork and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I’m sure you’ve heard about Rydberg,” he said. “An old detective inspector who died a couple of years ago. He was a wise bird. He once said that police officers always tend to say they know nothing, whereas in fact we always know a lot more than we think.”
“That sounds like one of those pearls of wisdom they were forever feeding us at college,” she said. “The kind we used to write down and then forget as quickly as possible.”
Wallander was annoyed. He did not like anybody questioning Rydberg’s competence. “I couldn’t care less what you wrote down or didn’t write down at the police academy,” he said. “But at least pay attention to what I say. Or what Rydberg said.”
“Have I made you angry?” she said, surprised.
“I never get angry,” Wallander said, “but I think your summary of what we know about Lars Borman was poor.”