“That’s why we must speed up the work that’s being done on the plastic container,” Wallander said. “We have to take the lid off Avanca and see what’s underneath. There must be a thread we can start to pull somewhere inside there.”
“I wonder if we ought to have a down-to-earth talk with Kurt Ström,” Åkeson said. “Those men hanging around Harderberg all the time—who are they?”
“That thought had occurred to me too,” Wallander said. “Ström might be able to throw some light on matters. But the moment we contact Farnholm Castle and ask to speak to Ström, Harderberg will realize we suspect him of being directly involved. And once that happens, I doubt that we will ever solve these murders. With the resources he has at his disposal he can sweep the ground clean all around him. On the other hand, I think I’ll pay him one more visit to lay our own false trail.”
“You’ll have to be very convincing,” Åkeson said, “or he’ll see through you immediately.” He put his briefcase on the table and began putting away his files. “Kurt has described where we stand. It’s plausible, but it’s vague. However, let’s see what the fraud squads have to say for themselves on Monday.”
The meeting broke up. Wallander felt uneasy. His own words were resounding inside his head. Perhaps Åkeson was right. Wallander’s summary had sounded plausible, but nevertheless would the course they were on end up leaving them unable to prove anything?
Something has to happen, he thought. Something has to happen very soon.
When Wallander looked back on the weeks that followed, he would think of them as among the worst he had ever experienced in all his years as a police officer. Contrary to his expectations, nothing at all happened. The financial experts went through everything over and over again, but all they had to say was that they needed more time. Wallander managed to curb his impatience—or perhaps what really happened was that he managed to suppress his disappointment, because he could see that the fraud squads were working as hard as they could. When Wallander tried to contact Ström again, he found that he had left for Västerås to bury his mother. Rather than chase him there, Wallander elected to wait. He never managed to make contact with the two Gulfstream pilots since they were always away with Harderberg. The only thing the team did achieve during this grim period was to get access to the flight plans of the private jet. Alfred Harderberg had an astonishing itinerary. Svedberg calculated that the fuel bill alone would come to many millions of kronor per year. The financial analysts copied the flight plans and tried to fit them in with Harderberg’s hectic schedule of business deals.
Wallander met Sofia twice, on both occasions at the café in Simrishamn, but she had nothing more to report.
It was December, and it seemed to Wallander that the investigation was close to collapse. Perhaps it had collapsed already.
Nothing of any use to them happened. Nothing at all.
On Saturday, December 4, Höglund invited him for dinner. Her husband was at home, a brief pause between his unending trips around the globe looking for broken water pumps. Wallander had way too much to drink. The investigation was not mentioned once during the evening. It was very late by the time Wallander realized he should go home. He decided to walk. When he got to the post office on Kyrkogårdsgatan, he had to lean against a wall and throw up. When eventually he got home to Mariagatan, he sat with his hand on the telephone, meaning to call Baiba in Riga. But common sense prevailed and he called Linda in Stockholm instead. When she gathered who it was she was annoyed, and told him to call back the next morning. It was only after the brisk exchange was over that Wallander realized that she was probably not alone. That thought worried him, and he felt guilty as a result, but when he telephoned her the next day he did not refer to the matter. She told him about her work as an apprentice at an upholstery factory, and he could hear that she was happy with what she was doing. But he was disappointed that she made no mention of coming to visit him in Skåne for Christmas. She and a few friends had rented a cottage in the Västerbotten mountains. Eventually she asked him what he was up to.
“I’m chasing a Silk Knight,” he said.
“A Silk Knight?”
“One of these days I’ll explain to you what a Silk Knight is.”
“It sounds very attractive.”
“But it isn’t. I’m a police officer. We rarely chase anybody or anything attractive.”
Still nothing happened. On Thursday, December 9, Wallander was well on his way to giving up. The next day he would suggest to Åkeson that they should start looking at some other leads.
But on Friday, December 10, something actually did happen. He did not know it at the time, but the wilderness days were over. When Wallander got to his office, there was a note on his desk asking him to phone Kurt Ström without delay. He hung up his jacket, sat at his desk, and dialed the number. Ström answered immediately.
“I want to see you,” he said.
“Here or at your home?” Wallander asked.
“Neither,” Ström said. “I’ve got a cottage in Svartavägen in Sandskogen. Number 12. Can you be there in an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
Wallander put down the receiver and looked out of the window. Then he stood up, put on his jacket, and hurried out of the police station.
Chapter 16
Rain clouds scudded across the sky.
Wallander was nervous. Leaving the police station he had headed east, turned right down Jaktpaviljongsvägen, and stopped when he came to the youth hostel. Despite the cold and the wind he walked down to the deserted beach. He felt as if he had been transported back a few months in time. The beach was Jutland and Skagen, and he was once more on patrol, pacing up and down his territory.
But that feeling passed just as quickly as it had come. He had no time for unnecessary daydreams. He tried to figure out why Ström had made contact with him. His restlessness was due to the hope that Ström might be able to give him something that would lead to the breakthrough they so badly needed. But he knew that was wishful thinking. Ström not only hated him personally, he had no time at all for the force that had cast him out. They could not count on receiving help from Ström. Wallander had no idea what the man wanted.
It started raining. The raging wind sent him retreating to his car. He started the engine and turned up the heat. A woman walked past with her dog, heading for the beach. Wallander recalled the woman he kept seeing on the beach at Skagen. There was still almost half an hour to go before he was due to meet Ström in Svartavägen. He drove slowly back toward town and inspected the summer cottages at Sandskogen. He had no difficulty in identifying the red house Ström had described. He parked and walked into the little garden. The house looked like a magnified doll’s house. It was in a poor state of repair. As there was no car outside, Wallander thought he must have arrived first. But the front door opened and Ström was standing there.
“I didn’t see a car,” Wallander said. “I thought you hadn’t come yet.”
“But I had. You can forget about my car.”
Wallander went in as directed. He was met by a faint smell of apples. The curtains were drawn and the furniture was covered by white sheets.
“A nice house you have here,” Wallander said.
“Who said it was mine?” Ström said, taking off two of the sheets.
“I have no coffee,” he said. “You’ll have to make do without.”
Wallander sat down in one of the chairs. The house felt raw and damp. Ström sat down opposite him. He was wearing a crumpled suit and a long, heavy overcoat.