'We had a horse when I was growing up,' he said. 'When the horse was in its stall and was given hay, it would eat all of it. I mean that someone must have given the horse some hay. Maybe just an hour or so before we got there.'Wallander reached for the phone.
'If you're thinking of calling Nystrom, don't bother,' said Noren.
Wallander let his hand drop.
'I talked to him before I came here. And he hadn't given the horse any hay.'
'Dead men don't feed their horses,' said Wallander. 'Who did?' Noren stood up. 'It seems weird,' he said. 'First they kill a man. Then they put a noose on somebody else. And then they go out to the stable and give the horse some hay. Who the hell would do anything that weird?''You're right,' said Wallander. 'Who would do that?''It might not mean anything,' said Noren.
'Or maybe it does,' replied Wallander. 'It was good of you to tell me.'Noren said goodbye and left.
Wallander sat and thought about what he had just heard. His hunch had been correct. There
His thoughts were interrupted by the telephone. Another reporter who wanted to talk with him. At 12.45 p«m. he left the police station. He had to visit a friend he hadn't seen in many, many years.
CHAPTER 5
Kurt Wallander turned off the E65 where a sign pointed towards the ruins of Stjarnsund Castle. He got out of the car and unzipped to have a leak. Through the roar of the wind he could hear the sound of accelerating jet engines at Sturup airport. Before he got back in the car, he scraped the mud from his shoes. The change in the weather had been abrupt. The thermometer in his car showed -50 C. Ragged clouds were racing across the sky as he drove on.
Beyond the castle ruin the gravel road forked, and he kept to the left. He had never come this way before, but he was positive it was the right road. Despite the fact that almost ten years had passed since it had been described to him, he remembered the route in detail. He had a mind that seemed programmed for landscapes and roads.
After about a kilometre the surface deteriorated. He went slowly forwards, wondering how large lorries ever managed to negotiate it. The road sloped sharply downward, and a large farm with long wings of stables lay spread out before him. He drove into the yard and stopped. A flock of crows cawed overhead as he climbed out of the car.
The farm seemed oddly deserted. A stable door flapped in the wind. For a moment he wondered whether he had taken the wrong road after all.
What desolation, he thought. The Scanian winter with its screeching flocks of crows. The clay that sticks to the soles of your shoes.
A young, fair-haired girl emerged from one of the stables. How like Linda she looked, he thought. She had the same blond hair, the same thin body, the same ungainly movements as she walked. He watched her closely.
The girl started tugging at a ladder that led to the stable loft. When she caught sight of him she let go of the ladder and wiped her hands on her grey breeches.
'Hello,' said Wallander. 'I'm looking for Sten Widen. Is this the right place?''Are you a policeman?' asked the girl.'Yes,' Wallander replied, surprised. 'How could you tell?'
'I could hear it in your voice,' said the girl, once more pulling at the ladder, which seemed to be stuck.'Is he at home?' asked Wallander.'Help me with the ladder,' the girl said.
He saw that one of the rungs had caught on the cladding of the stable wall. He grabbed hold of the ladder and twisted it until the rung came free.
'Thanks,' said the girl. 'Sten is probably in his office' She pointed to a red brick building a short distance from the stable.'Do you work here?' asked Wallander.
'Yes,' said the girl, climbing quickly up the ladder. 'Now I'd move away if I were you!'
With surprisingly strong arms she began heaving bales of hay through the loft doors. Wallander walked over towards the office. Just as he was about to knock on the heavy door, a man came walking around the end of the building.
It was more than ten years since Wallander had seen Sten Widen, but he didn't seem to have changed. The same tousled hair, the same thin face, the same red eczema near his lower lip.
'Well, this is a surprise,' said the man with a nervous laugh. 'I thought it was the blacksmith. But it's you. How long has it been, anyway?'
'Nearly eleven years,' said Wallander. 'Summer of '79.'
'The summer all our dreams fell apart,' said Sten Wid6n. 'Would you like some coffee?'
They went into the red brick building. Wallander noticed the smell of oil emanating from the walls. A rusty combine harvester stood inside in the darkness. Widen opened another door. A cat ran out as Wallander entered a room that seemed to be a combination of office and living quarters. An unmade bed stood along one wall. There was a TV and a video, and a microwave on a table. An old armchair was piled high with clothes. Most of the rest of the space was taken up by a large desk. Widen poured coffee from a thermos next to a fax machine in one of the wide window recesses.
Wallander was thinking about Widen's lost dream of becoming an opera singer. About how in the late 1970s the two of them had imagined a future for themselves that neither of them could achieve. Wallander was supposed to become an impresario, and Widen's tenor would resound from the opera stages of the world.
Wallander had been a policeman back then. And he still was.
When Widen realised that his voice wasn't good enough, he had taken over his father's run-down racing stables. Their earlier friendship had not been able to withstand the shared disappointment. At one time they had seen each other every day, but now eleven years had passed since their last meeting. Even though they lived no more than 50 kilometres apart.
'You've put on weight,' said Wid?n, moving a stack of newspapers from a wooden chair.
'And you haven't' said Wallander, conscious of his own irritation.
'Racehorse trainers seldom get fat,' said Wid6n, laughing nervously again. 'Skinny legs, skinny wallets. Except for the big time trainers, of course. Khan or Strasser. They can afford it.'
'So how's it going?' asked Wallander, sitting down on the chair.
'So so,' said Widen. 'I get by. I've always got one horse in training that does well. I get in a few new colts and manage to keep the place going. But actually - ' He broke off.
Then he stretched, opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whisky.'Want some?' he asked.
Wallander shook his head. 'It wouldn't look good if a policeman got caught for being drunk in charge,' he replied. 'Though it happens once in a while.'
'Well,
He extracted a cigarette from a crumpled pack and rummaged through the papers and form guides before he found a lighter.
'How's Mona doing?' he asked. 'And Linda? And your dad? And your sister, what's her name, Kerstin?''Kristina.'
'That's it. Kristina. I've never had a particularly good memory, you know that.' 'You never forgot the music.' 'I didn't?'
He drank from the bottle again, and Wallander could see that something was troubling him. Maybe he shouldn't have dropped by. Maybe Sten didn't want to be reminded of what once had been.
