“There will be someone else with you?”
“Yes.”
“Could I ask for that person’s name?”
“You may ask, but you won’t get it. There will be another police officer from Ystad.”
“I’ll contact Dr. Harderberg,” Lind said. “You should be aware that he sometimes changes his plans at very short notice. He could be forced to go somewhere else before coming home.”
“I can’t allow that,” Wallander said, fearing that he was far exceeding his authority in saying so.
“I must say you surprise me,” Lind said. “Can a police officer really decide what Dr. Harderberg does or doesn’t do?”
Wallander continued to exceed his authority. “I only have to speak to a prosecutor—he can issue demands,” Wallander said.
He realized his mistake even as he spoke. They had decided to tread carefully. Harderberg would be asked some questions, but as important as his answers was convincing him that their interest in him was purely routine. He tried to tone down what he had said.
“Dr. Harderberg is suspected of nothing illegal, let me make that clear,” he said. “It’s just that we need to speak to him at the earliest possible moment, for reasons to do with our investigation. No doubt a prominent citizen like Dr. Harderberg will be anxious to help the police solve a serious crime.”
“I’ll contact him,” Lind repeated.
“Thank you for calling,” Wallander said and replaced the receiver.
A thought had struck him. With Ebba’s help he tracked down Martinsson and asked him to come to his office.
“Harderberg has been in touch,” he said. “He’s in Barcelona, but on his way home. I thought of taking Ann-Britt with me and going to see him this evening.”
“She’s at home. Her kid’s not well,” Martinsson said. “She just phoned.”
“You can come instead, in that case,” Wallander said.
“That’s fine by me,” Martinsson said. “I want to see that aquarium with gold dust for sand.”
“There’s another matter,” Wallander said. “What do you know about airplanes?”
“Not a lot.”
“I had a thought,” Wallander said. “Harderberg has a private jet. A Gulfstream, whatever that is. It must be registered somewhere. There must be flight logs showing when he’s out on his travels, and where he goes to.”
“If nothing else he must have a few pilots,” Martinsson said. “I’ll look into it.”
“Give that job to somebody else,” Wallander said. “You’ve got more important things to do.”
“Ann-Britt can do it from her phone at home,” Martinsson said. “I think she’ll be pleased to be doing something useful.”
“She could develop into a good police officer.”
“Let’s hope so,” Martinsson said. “But to tell you the truth, we have no way of knowing. All we know is that she did well at the academy.”
“You’re right,” Wallander said. “It’s awfully hard to imitate reality at school.”
After Martinsson had left, Wallander sat down to prepare for the meeting at 9:00. When he had woken up that morning, all the thoughts he had had during the night about the loose ends of the investigation were still in the forefront of his mind. He had decided they would have to write off anything they judged to be of no immediate relevance to the investigation. If eventually they concluded that the route they had decided on was a cul-de-sac, they could always go back to the loose ends. But only then could the loose ends be allowed to occupy their attention.
Wallander pushed aside all the papers piled up on his desk and put an empty sheet in front of him. Many years ago Rydberg had taught him a way of approaching an investigation in a new light. We have to keep moving from one lookout tower to another, Rydberg had said. If we don’t, our overviews become meaningless. No matter how complicated an investigation is, it has to be possible to describe it to a child. We have to see things simply, but without simplifying.
Wallander wrote: “Once upon a time there was an old lawyer who paid a visit to a rich man in his castle. On the way back home somebody killed him and tried to make us believe it had been a car accident. Soon afterward his son was shot dead in his office. He had begun to suspect it hadn’t been a car accident after all, and so he went to see me to ask for help. He had made a secret trip to Denmark although his secretary was told he had gone to Finland. She also received a postcard from there. A few days later somebody planted a mine in the garden of the secretary. A wide-awake officer from Ystad noticed that I was being followed by a car as we drove to Helsingborg. The lawyers had received threatening letters from an accountant working for a county council. The accountant later committed suicide by hanging himself in a tree near Malmö, although the probability is that he, too, was murdered. Just as with the car accident, the suicide was contrived. All these incidents are linked, but there is no obvious thread. Nothing has been stolen and there is no sign of passions such as hatred or jealousy running high. All that was left behind was a strange plastic container. And now we start all over again. Once upon a time there was an old lawyer who paid a visit to a rich man in his castle.”
Wallander put down his pen.
Alfred Harderberg, he thought. A modern-day Silk Knight. Lurking in the background, everybody’s background. Flying all over the world and doing his business deals that are so difficult to penetrate, as if it were all a kind of ritual for which only the initiated know the rules.
He read through what he had written. The words were transparent, but there was nothing in them to put the investigation in a new light. Least of all was there anything to suggest that Harderberg might be involved.
This must be something very big, Wallander thought. If my suspicions are right and he really is behind all this, then Gustaf Torstensson—and Borman too—must have discovered something that threatened his whole empire. Presumably Sten did not know what it was or he would have told me. But he came to visit me and he suspected he was being watched, and that turned out to be true. They could not take the risk of him passing on what he knew. Nor could they risk Mrs. Dunér knowing anything.
This must be something very big, he thought again. Something so big that might nevertheless fit into a plastic container that reminds you of a cooler.
Wallander went to get another cup of coffee. Then he phoned his father.
“It’s blowing a gale,” Wallander said. “There’s a risk your roof might get blown off.”
“I’m looking forward to that,” his father said.
“Looking forward to what?”
“Seeing my roof flying off over the fields like a bird. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
“I should have had it repaired years ago,” Wallander said, “but I’ll make sure it’s done before winter sets in.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” his father said. “It would mean you’d have to come here.”
“I’ll make time. Have you thought about what happened in Simrishamn?”
“What is there to think about?” his father said. “I just did what was right.”
“You can’t just attack people at the drop of a hat,” Wallander said.
“I’m not going to pay any fines,” his father said. “I’m not going to prison either.”
“There’s no question of that,” Wallander said. “I’ll phone you tonight to find out what’s happened to the roof. There might be hurricane-strength gusts.”
“Maybe I ought to climb up on the chimney.”
“What on earth for?”
“So that I can go flying myself.”
“You’ll kill yourself. Isn’t Gertrud there?”
“I’ll take her with me,” said his father, and put the receiver down.
Wallander was left sitting there with the telephone in his hand. Björk came in at that very moment.