“Inspector Wallander, Ystad police,” he shouted. “There’s a plane we have to stop. Dr. Alfred Harderberg’s Gulfstream. There’s no goddamn time to lose!”
“Don’t shoot,” gasped the terrified police officer.
“For heaven’s sake!” Wallander said. “I’m a police officer myself. Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Don’t shoot,” the man said again. Then he fainted.
Wallander stared in exasperation at the wretched man lying in front of him on the ground. Then he started pounding on the door with his fists. Höglund had caught up.
“Let me try,” she said.
Wallander looked around, as if expecting to see Harderberg at any moment. He ran over to the big windows overlooking the runways.
Harderberg was walking up the steps to the airplane. He ducked ever so slightly, then disappeared inside. The door closed immediately.
“We’re not going to make it!” Wallander yelled to Höglund.
He raced out of the terminal again. She was at his side all the way. He noticed that a car belonging to the airport was on its way in through the gates. He made one final effort and managed to squeeze through the gap before the gates closed. He banged on the trunk and shouted for the car to stop, but the driver was obviously scared out of his mind and accelerated away. Höglund was still outside the gates. She had not quite made it before they closed. Wallander flung out his arms in resignation. The Gulfstream was taxiing toward the runway. There were only a hundred meters left before it would turn, accelerate, and take off.
Right next to where Wallander was standing stood a tractor for towing baggage carts. He had no choice. He climbed up, switched on the engine, and steered toward the runway. He could see in his side mirror a long snake of trailers being towed along behind. He had not seen that they were connected to the tractor, but it was too late to stop now. The Gulfstream was just arriving at the runway and its engines were screaming. The baggage carts started tipping over as he cut across the grass between the apron and the runway.
Now he had reached the runway, where the black tire marks made from the braking airplanes looked like wide cracks in the asphalt. He drove straight toward the Gulfstream, which was pointing its nose at him. When there were two hundred meters still to go, he saw the plane begin to roll toward him. By then he knew he had managed it. Before the jet had reached enough speed to take off, the pilots would have to stop in order not to smash into the tractor.
Wallander applied the brakes, but something was wrong with the tractor. He pushed and pulled and slammed down his foot, but nothing happened. He was not moving fast, but the momentum was such that the nose wheel would be wrecked when the airplane collided with the tractor. Wallander jumped off as the last carts spilled loose, colliding with one another.
The pilots had switched off the engines to avoid an inferno. Wallander was struck on the head by one of the carts, and rose unsteadily to his feet. He could scarcely see through the blood trickling into his eyes. Strangely, he was still holding the pistol in his hand.
As the door of the airplane opened and the steps were lowered, he could hear an armada of sirens approaching.
Wallander waited.
Then Harderberg emerged from the plane and walked down the steps onto the runway. It seemed to Wallander that he looked different. He saw what it was. The smile had disappeared.
Höglund jumped out of the first of the police cars to reach the airplane steps. Wallander was busy wiping the blood out of his eyes with his torn shirt.
“Have you been hit?” she said.
Wallander shook his head. He had bitten his tongue, and found it hard to speak.
“You’d better phone Björk,” she said.
Wallander stared at her. “No,” he said. “You can do that. And deal with Dr. Harderberg.”
Then he started to walk away. She hurried to catch up.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going home to bed,” Wallander said. “I’m feeling a bit tired. And rather sad. Even if it turned out all right in the end.”
Something in his voice discouraged her from saying more.
Wallander continued to walk away. For some reason, nobody tried to stop him.
Chapter 18
On the morning of Thursday, December 23, Wallander went rather reluctantly to Österportstorg in Ystad and bought a Christmas tree. It was distinctly misty—there was not going to be a white Christmas in Skåne in 1993. He spent a considerable amount of time examining the trees, not at all sure what he really wanted, but in the end he picked one just about small enough to put on his table. He took it home and then spent a long time searching in vain for a stand he distinctly remembered having; probably it disappeared when he and Mona had divided up their possessions after the divorce. He made a list of things he needed to buy for Christmas. It was obvious that for the last few years he had been living in a state of increasing squalor. Every cupboard was bare. The list he made filled a whole sheet of paper. When he turned it over to continue on the next page, he found there was something written there already. Sten Torstensson.
He recalled that this was the very first note he had made in the case, that morning at the beginning of November, almost two months ago, when he had decided to go back to work. He remembered sitting at this table and being intrigued by the obituaries in Ystad Allehanda. Now, everything had changed. That November morning seemed an age away.
Alfred Harderberg and his two shadows had been arrested. Once the Christmas holiday was over Wallander would get down to the investigation that seemed likely to keep going on for a very long time.
He wondered what would happen to Farnholm Castle.
He also thought he should phone Widén and find out how Sofia was faring, after all she had been through.
He stood up, went to the bathroom, and examined himself in the mirror. His face looked thinner. But he had also aged. No one could now avoid seeing that he was approaching fifty. He opened his mouth wide and peered gloomily at his teeth. Despondent or annoyed, he couldn’t make up his mind which, he decided he would have to make an appointment with the dentist in the new year. Then he returned to his list in the kitchen, crossed out the name Sten Torstensson, and noted that he would have to buy a new toothbrush.
It took him three hours, in the pouring rain, to buy all the things on his list. He twice had to resort to hole-in-the-wall machines to withdraw more money, and he was outraged that everything was so expensive. He slunk home shortly before 1 p.m. with all his shopping bags, and sat down at the kitchen table to check his list. Needless to say, he had forgotten something: a stand for his Christmas tree.