“You wanted to see me,” Wallander said. “Well, here I am.”
“I thought we could strike a deal, you and me,” Ström said. “Let’s say that I have something you want.”
“I don’t do deals,” Wallander said.
“You’re too quick out of the gate,” Ström said. “If I were you I’d at least listen to what I have to say.”
Wallander conceded the point. He should have waited before rejecting the offer. He gestured to Ström to continue.
“I’ve been away from work for a couple of weeks, burying my mother,” he said. “That gave me a lot of time to think. Not least about why the police were interested in Farnholm Castle. After you’d been to my place I could see of course that you suspected the murder of those two lawyers had something to do with the castle. The problem is simply that I can’t understand why. I mean, the son had never been there. It was the old man who was dealing with Harderberg. The one we thought had died in a car accident.”
He looked at Wallander, as if he were waiting for a reaction.
“Go on,” Wallander said.
“When I came back and started work again, I suppose I’d forgotten all about your visit,” he said. “But then something happened to put it in a new light.”
Ström produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from an overcoat pocket. He offered the pack to Wallander, who shook his head.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life,” Ström said, “it’s that you should keep your friends at arm’s length. But you can let your enemies get as close to you as they can.”
“I take it that’s why I’m here,” Wallander said.
“Could be,” Ström said. “You should know that I don’t like you, Wallander. As far as I’m concerned you represent the worst kind of upright bourgeois values the Swedish police force is stuffed so full of. But you can do deals with your enemies, or people you don’t like. Pretty good deals, even.”
Ström disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a saucer to use as an ashtray. Wallander waited.
“A new light,” Ström said again. “I came back to find out that I was going to be let go after Christmas. I hadn’t expected anything like that to happen. But it was obvious that Harderberg had decided to leave Farnholm.”
It used to be Dr. Harderberg, Wallander noted. Now it’s plain Harderberg, and he has trouble spitting even that out.
“Needless to say I was shattered,” Ström said. “When I accepted the job of security chief, I was assured that it was permanent. Nobody mentioned the possibility of Harderberg leaving the place. The wages were good, and I’d bought a house. Now I was going to be out of work again. I didn’t like it.”
Wallander had been wrong. It was only possible that Ström had something important to tell him.
“Nobody likes being let go,” Wallander said.
“What would you know about that?”
“Not as much as you do, obviously.”
Ström stubbed out his cigarette. “Let’s spell it out,” he said. “You need inside information about the castle. Information you can’t get without advertising the fact that you’re interested. And you don’t want to do that. If you did you’d have just driven up and demanded an interview with Harderberg. I don’t care why you want information without anybody knowing about it. What is important, though, is that I’m the only one who can supply you with it. In exchange for something I want from you.”
Wallander wondered if this was a trap. Was Harderberg pulling Ström’s strings? He decided not. Too risky, too easy for Wallander to see through it.
“You’re right,” he said. “There are things I want to know, and without it being noticed. What do you want in return?”
“Very little,” Ström said. “A piece of paper.”
“A piece of paper?”
“I have to think about my future,” Ström said. “If I have one, it’s not going to be in the private sector security service. When I got the job at Farnholm Castle, I had the impression that it was an advantage to be on bad terms with the Swedish police force. But, unfortunately, that can be a disadvantage in other circumstances.”
“What do you want on this piece of paper?”
“A positive reference,” Ström said. “On police letterhead. Signed by Björk.”
“That’s won’t work,” Wallander said. “It would obviously be a fake. You’ve never worked in Ystad. A check with National Headquarters and anyone could discover that you were kicked out of the force.”
“You can perfectly well fix a reference, if you want to,” Ström said. “I can deal with whatever they have in the National Police Archives myself, one way or another.”
“How?”
“That’s my problem. I don’t want you to help in any way.”
“How do you think I’m going to get Björk to sign a fake reference?”
“That’s your problem. It could never be traced to you anyway. The world is full of forged documents.”
“In that case you can fix it with no input from me. Björk’s signature could be forged.”
“Of course it could,” Ström said. “But the certificate would have to be a part of the system. In the computer database. That’s where you come in.”
Wallander knew Ström was right. He had once forged a passport himself. But still he found the idea objectionable.
“Let’s say that I’ll think about it,” Wallander said. “Let me ask you a few more questions. We can regard your answers as sample goods. When I’ve heard what they are I can tell you whether I’ll go along with you or not.”
“I’m the one who’ll decide whether enough questions have been asked,” Ström said. “And we’re going to figure this out here and now. Before you leave.”
“I’ll go along with that.”
Ström lit another cigarette, then faced up to Wallander.
“Why is Harderberg running away?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s he going?”
“I don’t know that either. Probably overseas.”
“What makes you think that?”
“There have been quite a few visits recently from estate agents from abroad.”
“What do you mean, foreign?”
“South America. Ukraine. Burma.”
“Is the castle up for sale?”
“Harderberg generally hangs on to his properties. He won’t be selling. Just because he’s not living at Farnholm Castle doesn’t mean that anybody else will be. He’ll mothball it.”
“When’s he going to move?”
“He could leave tomorrow. Nobody knows. But I think it will be pretty soon. Probably before Christmas.”
Wallander had so many questions to ask, far too many. He couldn’t make up his mind which ones were most important.
“The men in the shadows,” he said eventually. “Who are they?”
Ström nodded in acknowledgment. “That’s a pretty good way of describing them,” he said.
“I saw two men in the entrance hall,” Wallander said. “The night I visited Harderberg. But I also saw them the first time I went to the castle, and talked to Anita Karlén. Who are they?”
Ström contemplated the smoke rising from his cigarette. “I’ll tell you,” he said. “But it’ll be the last sample you’ll get.”
“If your answer’s right,” Wallander said. “Who are they?”
“One of them is Richard Tolpin,” Ström said. “He was born in South Africa. A soldier, mercenary. I don’t think there’s been a conflict or a war in Africa these last two decades where he hasn’t been involved.”
“On which side?”
“The side that paid better. But at first it looked like it would turn out badly for him. When Angola kicked the Portuguese out in 1975 they captured about twenty mercenaries who were sent for trial. Fifteen of them were condemned to death. Including Tolpin. Fourteen of them were shot. I have no idea why they spared Tolpin. Presumably because he could be useful to the new regime.”