“There could be even closer links,” she said. “We’ll have to ask the fraud squad to help us with this. I hardly know what I’m doing myself.”
“This is impressive.” Nyberg had not said a word until now. “Maybe we should find out if that plastics factory in Genoa makes other things besides speedboats.”
“Such as coolers for transplant organs?” Wallander said.
“For instance.”
“If this turns out to be true,” Wallander said, “it means that Harderberg is in some degree involved in the manufacturing and importing of these plastic containers. He might even have control, even if at first glance it looks to be a maze of different but interconnected companies. Can it really be possible that a Brazilian coffee producer has links with a tiny firm in Södertälje?”
“That would be no more odd than the fact that American car manufacturers also make wheelchairs,” Höglund said. “Cars cause car accidents, which in turn creates a demand for wheelchairs.”
Wallander clapped his hands and stood up. “OK, let’s turn up the pressure on this investigation,” he said. “Ann-Britt, can you get the financial experts to draw up some kind of large-scale wall map showing what Harderberg’s holdings really look like? I want everything on it—speedboats in Genoa, cobs at Farnholm Castle, everything we’ve found out so far. And Nyberg, can you devote yourself to this plastic container? Where it comes from, how it got into Gustaf Torstensson’s car.”
“That would mean that we blow the plan we’ve been working with so far,” Höglund objected. “Harderberg’s bound to find out that we’re digging into his companies.”
“Not at all,” Wallander said. “It’s all a matter of routine questions. Nothing dramatic. Besides, I’ll talk to Björk and Åkeson and suggest it’s high time we had a press conference. It will be the first time in my life I’ve ever taken that initiative, but I think it would be a good thing if we could give the autumn a helping hand in spreading around a little more mist and fog.”
“I heard that Åkeson is still in bed with the flu,” Höglund said.
“I’ll call him,” Wallander said. “We’re turning up the pressure, so he’ll have to come whether he’s got a cold or not. Tell Martinsson and Svedberg we’re meeting at two today.”
Wallander had decided to wait until everybody was there before he said anything about what had happened the previous night.
“OK, let’s get going,” he said.
Nyberg went out, but Wallander asked Höglund to stay behind. He told her that he and Widén had managed to place a stable girl at Farnholm Castle.
“Your idea was an excellent one,” he said. “We’ll see if it produces the goods.”
“Let’s hope she comes to no harm.”
“She’ll just be looking after some horses,” Wallander said. “And keeping her eyes open. Let’s not get hysterical. Harderberg can’t suspect everybody on his staff to be police officers in disguise.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said.
“How’s it going with the flight log?”
“I’m working on it,” she said, “but Avanca took all my time yesterday.”
“You’ve done well,” Wallander said.
She was pleased to be told that, he noticed. We’re far too reluctant to praise our colleagues, Wallander thought. Especially when there’s no end to the amount of criticism and backbiting we toss around.
“That’s all,” he said.
She left, and Wallander went to stand at the window and ask himself what Rydberg would have done in this situation. But for once he felt that he had no time to wait for his old friend’s answer. He just had to believe that the way he was running the investigation was right.
He used up a huge amount of energy during the rest of the morning. He convinced Björk of the importance of holding a press conference the next day, and he promised him that he would take care of the journalists himself once he had agreed with Åkeson what they were going to say.
“It’s not like you to call in the mass media on your own initiative,” Björk said.
“Maybe I’m becoming a better person,” Wallander said. “They say it’s never too late.”
After meeting with Björk he called Åkeson at home. It was his wife who answered, and she was reluctant to let Wallander talk to her husband, who was in bed.
“Has he got a temperature?” Wallander asked.
“When you’re sick, you’re sick. Full stop,” Mrs. Åkeson said.
“I’m sorry,” Wallander insisted, “but I’ve got to speak to him.”
After a considerable pause Åkeson came to the phone. He sounded worn out. “I’m sick,” he said. “Influenza. I’ve been on the toilet all night.”
“I wouldn’t disturb you if it weren’t important,” Wallander said. “I’m afraid I need you for a few minutes this afternoon. We can send a car to collect you.”
“I’ll be there,” Åkeson said. “But I can take a taxi.”
“Do you want me to explain why it’s important?”
“Do you know who killed them?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to approve a warrant for the arrest of Alfred Harderberg?”
“No.”
“Then you can explain when I get in this afternoon.”
Wallander called Farnholm Castle next. He did not recognize the voice of the woman who answered. Wallander introduced himself and asked if he could speak to Kurt Ström.
“He doesn’t come on duty until this evening,” the woman said. “No doubt you’ll get him at home.”
“I don’t suppose you’re prepared to give me his phone number,” Wallander said.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I thought it might be against your rules, security and so on.”
“No, not at all,” she said, and gave him the number.
“Please pass on my greetings to Dr. Harderberg, and thank him for his hospitality the other evening,” Wallander said.
“He’s in New York.”
“Well, please tell him when he comes back. Will he be away for long?”
“We expect him back the day after tomorrow.”
Something had changed. He wondered if Harderberg had issued instructions to respond positively to queries from the Ystad police.
Wallander dialed Ström’s home number. He let it ring for a considerable amount of time, but got no reply. He called reception and asked Ebba to find out where Ström lived. While he was waiting he went to get a cup of coffee. He remembered that he still had not been in touch with Linda, as he had promised himself he would be. But he decided to wait until evening.
Wallander left the station at around 9:30 and set off toward Österlen. Ström apparently lived in a little farmhouse not far from Glimmingehus. Ebba knew the area better than most, so she had drawn him a rough map. Ström had not answered the phone, but Wallander had a hunch he would find him there. As he drove through Sandskogen he tried to remember what Svedberg had told him about the circumstances in which Ström had been kicked out of the police force. He tried to anticipate what his reception would be. Wallander had occasionally come across police officers who had been involved in a crime, and he recalled such occasions with distaste. But he could not avoid the conversation in store for him.
He had no difficulty following Ebba’s map, and he drove straight to a small white-painted house typical of the area, to the east of Glimmingehus. It was set in a garden that was no doubt very pretty in the spring and summer. When he got out of the car two Alsatians in a steel cage started barking. There was a car in the garage, and Wallander assumed he had guessed right: Ström was at home. He did not need to wait long. Ström appeared from behind the house, wearing overalls and holding a trowel in his hand. He stopped dead upon seeing who his visitor was.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Wallander said. “I did call, but I got no answer.”