'I very much doubt that. And I don't like being woken up at 5 a.m. Who knows what one might say when one's half asleep?'
Wallander hung up.
'Let's keep calm,' he said. 'Carry on with your own investigation for the moment. There's something I have to sort out in Malmo. Let's meet again in my office after lunch.'
Svedberg and Martinsson left. Wallander felt vaguely uneasy at having given them the impression that he was going to Malmo on work business. He knew that police officers, just like everyone else, spent some of their working time on private matters when they had the opportunity, but he still felt uncomfortable about it. I'm old-fashioned, he thought. Even though I'm just over 40.
He told reception that he was going out and could be contacted after lunch. Then he drove down out through Sandskogen and turned off towards Kaseberga. The drizzle had stopped, but a stiff wind was getting up.
He stopped in Kaseberga to fill up with petrol. As he was early, he drove down to the harbour, where he parked the car and got out to brave the wind. There wasn't a soul in sight. The kiosk and smokehouses were all boarded up. We live in strange times, he thought. Parts of this country are open only in the summer. Whole villages hang up 'closed' notices for most of the year.
He walked out to the stone jetty, in spite of the cold. There wasn't a ship in sight. His mind turned to the men in the life-raft. Who were they? Why had they been tortured and murdered? Who had put their jackets back on?
He checked his watch, then returned to the car and drove straight out to his father's house, which looked as though it had been flung down in a field just south of Loderup. As usual, his father was painting out in the shed. Wallander was hit by the pungent smell of turps and oil paint. It was like returning to his childhood. One of Wallander's earliest memories was the remarkable smell that surrounded his father as he stood at his easel. Nothing had changed over the years. His father always painted the same picture, a melancholy sunset. Now and then, if whoever commissioned the painting wanted one, he would add a grouse in the foreground.
Wallander's father was a drawing-room artist. He'd honed his skill to such a level of perfection that he needed never to change his motif. It was only when he'd reached adulthood that Wallander realised that this had nothing to do with laziness or a lack of ability, but that this continuity gave his father the sense of security he needed in order to live his life.
The old man put down his brush and wiped his hands on a dirty rag. He was dressed as he always did, in overalls and cut-off gumboots.
'I'm ready,' he said.
'Aren't you going to get changed?' Wallander asked.
His father looked at him in bewilderment.
'Why should I get changed? Do you have to wear a suit in order to go shopping nowadays?'
Wallander could see that there was no point arguing. His father's obstinacy was inexhaustible. And the old man might get angry, making the trip to Malmo intolerable.
'Do as you like,' he shrugged.
'Yes,' his father answered. 'I'll do as I like.'
They drove to Malmo. His father gazed out at the scenery.
'It's ugly,' he said suddenly.
'What is?'
'Skane is ugly in the winter. Grey mud, grey trees, grey sky. Greyest of all are the people.' 'You might be right.'
'Of course I'm right. No question. Skane is ugly in the winter.'
The art shop was in the centre of town, and Wallander was lucky enough to find a car park right outside. His father knew exactly what he wanted: canvases, paint, brushes, some palette knives. When it came to paying, he produced a crumpled wad of notes from one of his pockets. Wallander kept in the background, and wasn't even allowed to help his father carry his purchases out to the car.
'That's that,' his father said. 'We can go home now.'
It occurred to Wallander that they might stop somewhere and have a meal. To his astonishment, his father found that a splendid idea. They stopped at the Svedala motel and went into the cafeteria.
'Tell the head waiter we want a good table,' his father told him.
'This is a self-service cafeteria,' Wallander said. 'I rather doubt if there's a head waiter here.'
'In that case we'll go somewhere else,' his father said abruptly. 'If we're going to eat out, I want my meal served to me.'
Wallander eyed his father's filthy overalls uneasily, but then remembered a rather seedy pizzeria in Skurup, and they drove there and ordered the lunch of the day, poached cod. Wallander watched the old man as they ate, and it occurred to him that he would probably never get to know his father before it was too late. In the past he'd thought of them as quite different people, but now he wasn't so sure. His wife, Mona, who'd left him the previous year, had often accused him of the same obstinacy, the same pedantic self-absorption. Perhaps I just don't want to recognise the similarities, he thought. Maybe I'm frightened of getting like him. Pig-headed, incapable of seeing anything he doesn't want to see.
At the same time he could see that being pig-headed was an advantage for a police officer. If he hadn't been what some outsiders would no doubt have categorised as overly stubborn, a great many cases that he'd been responsible for wouldn't have been solved. Obstinacy wasn't so much an occupational disease, rather it was an essential requirement.
'Have you been struck dumb?' His father interrupted his train of thought crossly. 'Sorry. I was thinking.'
'I don't want to go out for a meal with you if you haven't got anything to say.'
'What do you want me to say?'
'You can tell me how you're getting on. How your daughter's doing. You can even tell me if you've found yourself a new woman.'
'A new woman?'
'Are you still sulking about Mona?' 'No, I'm not sulking, but no, I haven't found a new woman, as you put it.' 'Why not?' 'It's not all that easy.' 'What do you do?' 'What do you mean?'
'Is that really such a difficult question? I'm simply asking how you go about finding yourself a new woman.'
'I don't go dancing, if that's what you think.'
'I don't think anything. I just wonder. You get odder and odder as the years go by.'
'Odder?'
'You should have done like I said. You should never have gone in for the police.'
So, we're back where we started, are we? Wallander thought. Plus ca change… The smell of turpentine. A freezing cold spring day in 1967. They were still living in the converted smithy outside Limhalm, but soon he would escape. He's been expecting the letter; he runs out to the letterbox as soon as he sees the postman's van; tears open the envelope and reads what he's been waiting for. He has been accepted by the Police College, and will enrol in the autumn. He races back, throws open the door to the cramped studio where his father is painting.
'I've been accepted by the Police College!' he cries. But his father doesn't congratulate him. He doesn't even put down his brush, just carries on painting. Wallander can still remember that he was busy tinting the clouds red from the setting sun, and how it dawned on him that he was a disappointment as a son. He was going to become a police officer.
The waiter came with their coffee.
'I've never understood why didn't you want me to become a police officer,' Wallander said. 'You did what you wanted to do.' 'That's no answer.'
'I never thought a son of mine would sit down at the dinner table with maggots from dead bodies crawling out of his shirtsleeves.'
Wallander was stunned by the reply. Maggots from dead bodies crawling out of his shirtsleeves?
'What do you mean?' he asked.
But his father didn't respond. He just drank up the last drop of the tepid coffee.
'I've finished,' he said. 'We can go now.'
Wallander asked for the bill, and paid. I'll never get an answer, he thought. I'll never know why he was so
