As Wallander and Björk settled down in Åkeson’s office, Åkeson told the switchboard they were not to be disturbed. He had a bad cold, and blew his nose frequently.
“I really ought to be at home in bed,” he said, “but let’s get through this meeting as arranged.” He pointed to the heap of files before going on. “You won’t be surprised to hear that even with the best will in the world, I can’t say the results you’ve achieved so far are satisfactory. A few extremely vague pointers in the direction of Alfred Harderberg is all we’ve got.”
“We need more time,” Wallander said. “This is a particularly complicated investigation. We knew it would be from the outset. This is the best lead we’ve got.”
“If we can call it a lead,” Åkeson interrupted. “You made a case for concentrating on Harderberg, but we haven’t really gotten any further since then. Looking through the material, I’m forced to conclude that we’re only marking time. The fraud squad haven’t come up with any financial irregularities either. Harderberg seems to be a remarkably honorable gentleman. We have nothing to link him or his businesses directly or indirectly with the murder of Gustaf Torstensson and his son.”
“Time,” Wallander said again. “That’s what we need. We could also turn the whole thing upside down and say that the moment we can definitely exclude Harderberg from our deliberations, we’ll be in a better position to approach the case from a different angle.”
Björk said nothing. Åkeson looked hard at Wallander.
“I really should call an end to it at this point,” he said. “You know that. Convince me that we should carry on a little longer concentrating all our efforts on Harderberg.”
“The justification is in the paperwork,” Wallander said. “I’m still sure we’re on the right track. The whole team agrees with me, for what it’s worth.”
“I still think we ought to consider splitting the team and setting some of them to work from another angle,” Åkeson said.
“We don’t have another angle,” Wallander said. “Who fakes an accident to cover up a murder, and why? Why is a lawyer shot in his office? Who plants a mine in an elderly lady’s garden? Who blows up my car? Are we supposed to think it could be a madman who’s decided for no reason at all that it would be fun to kill off everybody employed by a law firm in Ystad, and why not a police officer as well while we’re at it?”
“You still haven’t sifted through all the files of the lawyers’ clients,” Åkeson said. “There’s a lot we don’t know yet.”
“I still think we need more time,” Wallander said. “Not unlimited time. But more time.”
“I’ll give you two weeks,” Åkeson said. “If you haven’t come up with anything more convincing by then, we’ll take a new approach.”
“That’s not enough,” Wallander said.
“I could stretch it to three,” Åkeson said with a sigh.
“Let’s make Christmas the deadline,” Wallander said. “If anything comes up before then to suggest that we ought to change course, we can do that immediately. But let’s keep going as we are until Christmas.”
Åkeson turned to Björk. “What do you think?”
“I’m worried,” Björk said. “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere either. It’s no secret that I’ve never really believed that Dr. Harderberg has anything to do with all this.”
Wallander felt the urge to protest, but resisted the temptation. If need be he would have to accept three weeks.
Åkeson turned to the pile of papers on his desk. “What’s this about organ transplants?” he said. “I read that you found a cooler for transporting human organs in Gustaf Torstensson’s car. Is that true?”
Wallander told them what Nyberg had discovered, and what they had subsequently managed to find out.
“Avanca,” Åkeson said. “Is that a company quoted on the stock exchange? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a small company,” Wallander said. “Owned by a family called Roman. They started in the 1930s, importing wheelchairs.”
“In other words, it’s not owned by Harderberg,” Åkeson said.
“We don’t know that yet.”
Åkeson eyed Wallander up and down. “How can a company owned by a family called Roman also be owned by Harderberg? You’ll have to explain that to me.”
“I’ll explain when I can,” Wallander said. “But what I do know on the basis of what I’ve learned this last month is that the real owner of a company can be someone quite different from what it says on the company logo.”
Åkeson shook his head. “You’re a hard nut to crack,” he said. He consulted his desk diary. “Let’s say Monday, December 20. Unless we’ve made a breakthrough before then. But I’m not going to allow you a single day more if the investigation hasn’t produced significant results by then.”
“We’ll make the most of the time,” Wallander said. “I trust you realize that we’re busting our asses here.”
“I know,” Åkeson said. “But the bottom line is that I’m the prosecutor, and I have to do my duty.”
The meeting was over. Björk and Wallander went back to their offices.
“It was good of him to give you that much time,” Björk said as they parted in the hallway.
“Give me time?” Wallander said. “You mean us, don’t you?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” Björk said. “Let’s not waste time discussing it.”
“I entirely agree,” Wallander said.
When he had got back to his office and closed the door, he felt at loose ends. Somebody had put a photograph of Harderberg’s jet parked at Sturup on his desk. Wallander glanced at it, then pushed it aside.
I’ve lost my touch, he thought. The whole investigation’s gone down the drain. I ought to pass it on to somebody else. I can’t handle this.
He sat there in his chair, inert. His mind went back to Riga and Baiba. When he could no longer cope with doing nothing he penned her a letter, inviting her to Ystad for Christmas and New Year’s. To make sure that the letter would not just lie there or get torn to pieces, he put it in an envelope and without further ado handed it to Ebba in reception.
“Could you mail that for me today?” he said. “It’s really urgent.”
“I’ll take care of it myself,” she said, with a smile. “Incidentally, you look shattered. Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Not as much as I need,” Wallander said.
“Who’s going to thank you if you work yourself to death?” she said. “Not me, that’s for sure.”
Wallander went back to his office.
A month, he thought. A month in which to wipe the smile off Harderberg’s face. He doubted if it would be possible.
He forced himself to work, despite everything.
Then he phoned Widén.
He also made up his mind to buy some cassettes of opera recordings. He missed his music.
Chapter 13
At around noon on Monday, November 22, Kurt Wallander got into the police car that was still doing service as a temporary replacement for his own burned-out wreck and set off west from Ystad. He was heading for the stables next to the ruins of Stjärnsund Castle where Sten Widén ran his business. When he reached the top of the hill outside Ystad he turned off onto the side of the road, cut the engine, and stared out to the sea. On the far horizon he could just dimly see the outline of a cargo vessel sailing out into the Baltic. All of a sudden he was overcome by a fit of dizziness. He was terrified that it was his heart, but then he realized it was something else, that he seemed to be about to faint. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and tried not to think. After a minute or so he opened his eyes. The sea was still there and the cargo vessel was still sailing out to the east.