The phone rang. He was supposed to be on vacation over Christmas, so he did not expect it to be from the police station. But when he picked up the receiver, it was Ann-Britt Höglund’s voice he heard.
“I know you’re on vacation,” she said. “I wouldn’t have phoned if it wasn’t important.”
“When I joined the force many years ago, one of the first things I learned was that a police officer is never on vacation,” he said. “What do they have to say about that at the police academy nowadays?”
“Professor Persson did talk about it once,” she said. “But to tell you the truth, I don’t have a clue what he said.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m calling from Svedberg’s office. Mrs. Dunér is in my room at the moment. She’s very anxious to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“She won’t say. She won’t talk to anybody but you.”
Wallander did not hesitate.
“Tell her I’ll be there,” he said. “She can wait in my office.”
“Aside from that, there’s nothing much happening here at the moment,” Ann-Britt Höglund said. “There’s only Martinsson and me here. The traffic boys are getting ready for Christmas. The population of Skåne is going to spend Christmas blowing into balloons.”
“Good,” he said. “There’s too much drunk driving. We have to stamp it out.”
“You sometimes sound like Björk,” she said, laughing.
“I hope not,” he said, horrified.
“Can you tell me any kind of crime for which the figures are improving?” she said.
He thought for a moment. “The theft of black-and-white televisions,” he said. “But that’s about all.”
He hung up, wondering what Mrs. Dunér would have to say. He really could not imagine what it might be.
It was 1:15 when Wallander arrived at the police station. The Christmas tree was glittering away in reception, and he remembered that he hadn’t yet bought the usual bunch of flowers for Ebba. On his way to his office he stopped at the canteen and wished everybody a merry Christmas. He knocked on Ann-Britt Höglund’s door, but there was no reply.
Mrs. Dunér was sitting on his visitor’s chair, waiting for him. The left arm looked as if it would fall off the chair at any moment. She stood up when he came in, they shook hands, and he hung up his jacket before sitting down. Wallander thought she looked tired.
“You wanted to speak to me,” he said, trying to sound friendly.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said. “It’s easy to forget that the police have so much to do.”
“I have time for you,” Wallander said. “What is it you want?”
She took a package out of the plastic shopping bag at the side of her chair, and handed it to him over his desk.
“It’s a present,” she said. ”You can open it now, or wait until tomorrow.”
“Why on earth would you want to give me a Christmas present?” Wallander asked in surprise.
“Because I now know what happened to my gentlemen,” she said. “It’s thanks to you that the perpetrators were caught.”
Wallander shook his head and stretched out his arms in protest. “That’s not true,” he said. “It was teamwork, with lots of people involved. You shouldn’t just thank me.”
Her reply surprised him. “This is no time for false modesty,” she said. “Everybody knows that you’re the one we have to thank.”
Wallander did not know what to say, and began to open the package. It contained one of the icons he had found in Gustaf Torstensson’s basement.
“I can’t possibly accept this,” he said. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, it’s from Mr. Torstensson’s collection.”
“Not any more it isn’t,” Mrs. Dunér replied. “He left them all to me in his will. And I’m only too happy to pass one of them on to you.”
“It must be very valuable,” Wallander said. “I’m a police officer, and I can’t accept such gifts. At the very least I’d have to talk to my boss first.”
She surprised him yet again. “I’ve already done that. He said it was OK.”
“You’ve spoken to Björk already?” Wallander said, astonished.
“I thought I’d better,” she said.
Wallander looked at the icon. It reminded him of Riga, of Latvia. And most especially of Baiba Liepa.
“It’s not as valuable as you might think,” she said. “But it’s beautiful.”
“Yes. It’s very beautiful. But I don’t deserve it.”
“That’s not the only reason I’m here,” Mrs. Dunér said.
Wallander looked at her, waiting for what was coming next.
“I have a question for you,” she said. “Is there no limit to human wickedness?”
“I’m hardly the right person to answer a question like that,” Wallander said.
“But who can, if the police can’t?”
Wallander carefully laid the icon on his desk.
“I take it you’re wondering how anybody can kill another human being to get a body part to sell for profit,” he said. “I don’t know what to say. It’s as incomprehensible to me as it is to you.”
“What’s the world coming to?” she said. “Alfred Harderberg was a man we could all look up to. How can anybody donate money to charity with one hand and kill people with the other?”
“We just have to fight it as best we can,” Wallander said.
“How can we fight something we can’t understand?”
“I really don’t know,” Wallander said. “But we have to do our best.”
The brief conversation died out. Martinsson’s cheerful laughter echoed down the corridor.
She rose to her feet. “I won’t disturb you any longer,” she said.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a better answer,” he said, opening the door.
“At least you were honest,” she said.
It occurred to Wallander that he had something to give her. He went to his desk and took the postcard with a picture of a Finnish landscape from one of the drawers.
“I promised to give this back to you,” he said. “We don’t need it any longer.”
“I’d forgotten all about it,” she said, putting it into her handbag.
He escorted her out of the police station.
“May I wish you a merry Christmas,” she said.
“Thank you,” Wallander said. “And the same to you. I’ll take good care of the icon.”
He went back to his office. Her visit had made him uneasy. He had been reminded of the melancholy he had had to live with for so long. But he thrust it to one side, took his jacket, and left the building. He was on vacation. Not just from his job, but from any thought that might depress him.
I may not deserve the icon, he thought, but I do deserve a few days off.
He drove home through the fog and parked.
Then he cleaned his apartment. Before going to bed he improvised something to stand the Christmas tree in and decorated it. He had hung the icon up in his bedroom. He studied it before putting the light out.
He wondered if it would be able to protect him.
The next day was Christmas Eve, the big day in Sweden. It was still foggy and gray outside. But Wallander felt that today he could rise above all the grayness.
He drove to Sturup Airport at 2 p.m., despite the fact that the plane was not due until 3:30. He felt very uncomfortable as he parked his car and approached the yellow airport building. He had the feeling everybody was looking at him.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist walking over to the gates to the right of the terminal.
The Gulfstream was no longer there. There was no sign of it.
It’s all over, he thought. I’m putting an end to it, here and now.
His relief was immediate.
The image of the smiling man faded away.
He went into the departure lounge, then out again, feeling more nervous than he could remember at any time since he was a teenager. He counted the stone tiles in the entrance, rehearsed his inadequate English, and tried in vain to think about anything except for what was about to happen.