Wallander caught her eye, and she smiled fleetingly at him.
So, it is not the same as it was before, he thought. With a woman among us, nothing can stay as it used to be.
That was as much as he had time to think. Björk had risen to his feet, and Wallander sensed that he was nervous. Perhaps it had been too late. Perhaps his contract had already been terminated without his knowing?
“Monday mornings are normally tough,” Björk said. “Especially when we have to deal with the particularly unpleasant and incomprehensible murder of one of our colleagues, Mr. Torstensson. But today I am able to commence our meeting with some good news. Kurt has announced that he is back in good health, and is starting work again as of now. I am the first to welcome him back, of course, but I know all my colleagues feel the same. Including Ann-Britt Höglund, whom you haven’t met yet.”
There was silence. Martinsson stared at Björk in disbelief, and Svedberg put his head to one side, gaping at Wallander as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Ann-Britt Höglund looked as if what Björk had just said hadn’t sunk in.
Wallander felt obligated to say something. “It’s true,” he said. “I’m starting work again today.”
Svedberg stopped rocking to and fro and slammed the palms of his hands down on the table with a thud. “That’s terrific news, Kurt. We couldn’t have managed another damned day without you.”
Svedberg’s spontaneous comment made the whole room burst out laughing. One after another they stood up in a line to shake Wallander by the hand. Björk tried to organize coffee and pastries, and Wallander had difficulty hiding the fact that he was moved.
It was all over in a few minutes. There was no more time for emotional outpourings, for which Wallander was grateful, at least for now. He opened the notebook he had brought with him from his office, containing nothing but Sten Torstensson’s name.
“Kurt has asked me if he can join the murder investigation without more ado,” Björk said. “Of course he can. I think the best way to kick off is by making a summary of how things stand. Then we can give Kurt a little time to familiarize himself with the particulars.”
He nodded to Martinsson, who had obviously been the one to take on Wallander’s role as team leader.
“I’m still a bit confused,” Martinsson said, leafing through his papers. “But basically this is how it looks. On the morning of Wednesday, October 27, in other words five days ago, Mrs. Berta Dunér—secretary to the law firm—arrived for work as usual, a few minutes before eight a.m. She found Sten Torstensson shot dead in his office. He was on the floor between the desk and the door. He had been hit by three bullets, each one of which would have been enough to kill him. Since nobody lives in the building, which is an old stone-built house with thick walls, and located on a main road as well, nobody heard the shots. At least, nobody has come forward as of yet. The preliminary postmortem results indicate he was shot at around eleven p.m. That would fit in with Mrs. Dunér’s statement to the effect that he often worked late at night, especially after his father died in such tragic circumstances.”
Martinsson paused at this point and looked questioningly at Wallander.
“I know his father died in a road accident,” Wallander said.
Martinsson nodded and continued: “That’s more or less all we know. In other words, we know next to nothing. We don’t have a motive, no murder weapon, no witness.”
Wallander wondered if he should say something about Torstensson’s visit to Skagen. All too often he had committed what was a cardinal sin for a police officer and held back information that he should have passed on to his colleagues. On each occasion, it’s true, he figured that he had good grounds for keeping quiet, but he had to concede that his explanations had almost always been unconvincing.
I’m making a mistake, he thought. I’m starting my second life as a police officer by disowning everything previous experience has taught me. Nevertheless, something told him it was important in this particular case. He treated his instinct with respect. It could be one of his most reliable messengers, as well as his worst enemy. He was certain he was doing the right thing this time.
Something Martinsson had said made him prick up his ears. Or perhaps it was something he had not said.
His train of thought was interrupted by Björk slamming his fist on the table. This normally meant that the chief of police was annoyed or impatient.
“I’ve asked for pastries,” he said, “but there’s no sign of them. I suggest we break off at this point and that you fill Kurt in on the details. We’ll meet again this afternoon. We might even have something to go with our coffee by then.”
When Björk had left the room, they all gathered around the end of the table he had vacated. Wallander felt he had to say something. He had no right simply to barge in on the team and pretend nothing had happened.
“I’ll try to start at the beginning,” he said. “It’s been a rough time. I honestly didn’t think I’d ever be able to get back to work. Killing a man, even if it was in self-defense, hit me hard. But I’ll do my best.”
Nobody said a word.
“You mustn’t think we don’t understand,” Martinsson said, at last. “Even if police work trains you to get used to just about everything, making you think there’s no end to how awful life can be, it really strikes home when adversity lands on somebody you know well. If it makes you feel any better, I can tell you that we’ve missed you just as much as we missed Rydberg a few years ago.”
Dear old Chief Inspector Rydberg, who died in the spring of 1991, had been their patron saint. Thanks to his enormous abilities as a police officer, and his willingness to treat everybody in a way that was both straightforward and personal, he had always been right at the heart of every investigation.
Wallander knew what Martinsson meant.
Wallander had been the only one who had grown so close to Rydberg that they had been good friends. Behind Rydberg’s surly exterior was a person whose knowledge and experience went far beyond the criminal cases they investigated together.
I’ve inherited his status, Wallander thought. What Martinsson is really saying is that I should take on the mantle that Rydberg had but never displayed publicly. Even invisible mantles exist.
Svedberg stood up.
“If nobody has any objection I’m going over to Torstensson’s offices,” he said. “Some people from the Bar Council have turned up and are going through his papers. They want a police officer to be present.”
Martinsson slid a pile of case documents over to Wallander.
“This is all we have so far,” he said. “I expect you’d like a little peace and quiet to work your way through them.”
Wallander nodded. “The road accident. Gustaf Torstensson.”
Martinsson looked up at him in surprise. “That’s finished and done with,” he said. “The old man drove into a field.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d still like to see the reports,” Wallander said, tentatively.
Martinsson shrugged. “I’ll drop them off in Hanson’s office.”
“Not any more,” Wallander said. “My old room is mine again.”
Martinsson got to his feet. “You disappeared one day, and now you’re back just as suddenly. Forgive the slip of the tongue.”
Martinsson left the room. Only Wallander and Ann-Britt Höglund were left now.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said.
“I’m sure what you’ve heard is absolutely true, I regret to say.”
“I think I could learn a lot from you.”
“I very much doubt that.”
Wallander hurriedly got to his feet to cut short the conversation, gathering the papers he had been given by Martinsson. Höglund held open the door for him. When he was back in his office and had closed the door behind him, he noticed he was dripping with sweat. He took off his jacket and shirt, and started drying himself on one of the curtains. Just then Martinsson opened the door without knocking. He hesitated when he caught sight of the half-naked Wallander.