Once upon a time Alfred Harderberg had been Alfred Hansson. From insignificant beginnings in Vimmerby he had become one of the Silk Knights who ruled the world, always engaged in new crusades in the battle to outmaneuver or crush his competitors. On the surface he observed all the laws and regulations, he was a respected man who had been awarded honorary doctorates, he displayed great generosity, and donations flowed from his apparently inexhaustible resources.
In describing him as an honorable man who was good for Sweden, Björk had voiced the generally accepted view.
What I’m really saying is that there is a stain somewhere, Wallander thought, and that smile has to be wiped from his face if we’re going to nail a murderer. I’m trying to identify something which is basically unthinkable. Harderberg doesn’t have a stain. His suntanned face and his smile are things we should, all of us Swedes, be proud of, and that’s all there is to it.
Wallander left the police station at 6 p.m. It had stopped raining and the wind had died down. When he got home he found a letter among all the junk mail in the hall that was postmarked Riga. He put it on the kitchen table and looked hard at it, but did not open it until he had drunk a bottle of beer. He read the letter, and then, to be certain he had not misunderstood anything, read it through again. It was correct, she had given him an answer. He put the letter down on the table and pinched himself. He turned to the wall calendar and counted the days. He could not remember the last time he had been so excited. He took a bath, then went to the pizzeria on Hamngatan. He drank a bottle of wine with his meal, and it was only when he had become a little tipsy that he realized he had not given a thought to Alfred Harderberg or Kurt Ström all evening. He was humming an improvised tune when he left the pizzeria, and then wandered about the streets until almost midnight. Then he went home and read the letter from Baiba one more time, just in case there was something in her English that he had misunderstood after all.
It was as he was about to fall asleep that he started thinking about Ström, and immediately he was wide awake again. Wait, Martinsson had said. That was the only thing they could do. He got out of bed and went to sit on the living-room sofa. What do we do if Ström doesn’t find an Italian pistol? he thought. What happens to the investigation if the plastic container turns out to be a dead end? We might be able to deport a couple of foreign bodyguards who are in Sweden illegally, but that’s about all. Harderberg, in his well-tailored suit, with that constant smile on his face, will depart from Farnholm Castle, and we’ll be left with the wreckage of a failed murder investigation. We’ll have to start all over again, and that will be very hard. We’ll have to start examining every single thing that’s happened as if we were seeing it for the first time.
He made up his mind to resign responsibility for the case if that did happen. Martinsson could take over. That was not only reasonable, it was also necessary. Wallander was the one who had pushed through the strategy of concentrating on Harderberg. He would sink to the bottom with the rest of the wreckage, and when he came up to the surface again it would be Martinsson who would be in charge.
When at last he went back to bed he slept badly. His dreams kept collapsing and blending into one another, and he could see the smiling face of Alfred Harderberg at the same time as Baiba’s unfailingly serious expression.
He woke at 7 a.m. He made a pot of coffee and thought about the letter from Baiba, then sat down at the kitchen table and read the auto ads in the morning paper. He still had not heard anything from the insurance company, but Björk had assured him that he could use a police car for as long as he needed to. He left the apartment just after 9:00. The temperature was above freezing and there was not a cloud in the sky. He spent a few hours driving from one car showroom to another, and spent a long time examining a Nissan he wished he could afford. On the way back he parked the car on Stortorget and walked to the record shop on Stora Östergatan. There was not much in the way of opera, and rather reluctantly he had to settle for a recording of selected arias. Then he bought some food and drove home. There were still several hours to go before he was due to meet Kurt Ström in Svartavägen.
It was 2:55 when Wallander parked outside the red dollhouse in Sandskogen. When he knocked on the door there was no reply. He wandered around the garden, and after half an hour he started to get worried. Instinct told him something had happened. He waited until 4:15, then scribbled a note to Ström on the back of an envelope he had found in the car, giving him his phone numbers at home and at the station, and pushed it under the door. He drove back to town, wondering what he should do. Ström was acting on his own and knew he had to take care of himself. He was perfectly capable of getting himself out of awkward situations, Wallander had no doubt, but even so, he felt increasingly worried. After establishing that nobody in the investigative team was still in the building, he went to his office and called Martinsson at home. His wife answered and told Wallander that Martinsson had taken his daughter to the swimming pool. He was about to call Svedberg, but changed his mind and called Höglund instead. Her husband answered. When she came to the phone, Wallander told her that Ström had failed to turn up at their rendezvous.
“What does that mean?” she said.
“I don’t know,” Wallander said. “Probably nothing, but I’m worried.”
“Where are you?”
“In my office.”
“Do you want me to come in?”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll call you back if anything happens.”
He hung up and continued waiting. At 5:30 p.m. he drove back to Svartavägen and shone his flashlight on the door. The corner of the envelope was still sticking out underneath, so Ström had not been home. Wallander had his cell phone with him, and dialed Ström’s number at Glimmingehus. He let it ring for about a minute, but there was no answer. He was now convinced that something had happened, and decided to go back to the station and get in touch with Åkeson.
He had just stopped at a red light on Österleden when his cell phone rang.
“There’s a Sten Widén trying to get in touch with you,” said the operator at the police switchboard. “Do you have his number?”
“Yes, I do,” Wallander said. “I’ll call him now.”
The lights had changed and the driver of a car behind him sounded his horn impatiently. Wallander pulled onto the side of the road, then dialed Widén’s number. One of the stable girls answered.
“Is that Roger Lundin?” she asked.
“Yes,” Wallander said, surprised. “That’s me.”
“I’m supposed to tell you that Sten is on his way to your apartment in Ystad.”
“When did he leave?”
“A quarter of an hour ago.”
Wallander made a racing start to beat the yellow light and drove back to town. Now he was certain something had happened. Ström had not returned home, and Sofia must have contacted Widén and had something so important to tell him that Widén had felt it was necessary to drive to his apartment. When he turned onto Mariagatan there was no sign of Widén’s old Volvo Duett. He waited in the street, wondering desperately what could have happened to Ström.
When Widén’s Volvo appeared Wallander opened the door before Widén even had time to switch off the engine.
“What happened?” he said, as Widén tried to extricate himself from the tattered seat belt.
“Sofia phoned,” he said. “She sounded hysterical.”