Noises could be heard from the corridor, footsteps approaching and then fading away. He remembered something Rydberg had said during the last year of his life: 'A police station is essentially like a prison. Police officers and criminals live their lives as mirror images of each other. It's not really possible to decide who's incarcerated and who isn't.'
Wallander suddenly felt listless and lonely. He resorted to his only consolation: an imagined conversation with Baiba Liepa in Riga, as though she were standing there in front of him, and as if his office were a room in a grey building with dilapidated facades in Riga, in that flat with the dimmed lighting and the thick curtains permanently drawn. But the image became blurred, faded like the weaker of two wrestlers. Instead, Wallander pictured himself crawling on his muddy hands and knees through the Scanian fog with a shotgun in one hand and a pistol in the other, like a pathetic copy of some unlikely film idol, and then suddenly the illusion was ripped to shreds and reality imposed itself through the slits, and death and killing were not rabbits plucked out of a conjuror's hat. He watches himself witnessing a man being shot by a bullet through the head, and then he also shoots and the only thing he can be sure of is that his only hope is for the man he's aiming at to die.
I'm a man who doesn't laugh enough, he thought. Without my noticing, middle age has marooned me on a coast with too many dangerous submerged rocks.
He left all his papers on his desk. In reception, Ebba was busy on the telephone. When she signalled to him to wait, he shook his head and waved to indicate he was in a hurry.
He drove home and cooked a meal he would have been incapable of describing afterwards. He watered the five plants he had on his window ledges, filled the washing machine with clothes that had been strewn around the flat, discovered he had no washing powder, then sat on the sofa and cut his toenails. Occasionally he looked around the room, as if he expected to find that he wasn't alone after all. Shortly after 10.00 he went to bed and fell asleep almost immediately.
Outside the rain had eased off and become light drizzle.
When Wallander woke up the next morning it was still dark. The alarm clock with the luminous hands indicated that it was barely 5.00. He turned over and tried to go back to sleep, but found it impossible. His long stay out in the cold was still making itself felt. Whatever has changed, whatever is still the same, I will spend the rest of my life in two timescales, 'before' and 'after'. Kurt Wallander exists and doesn't exist.
He got up at 5.30, made coffee, waited for the newspaper to arrive and saw from the outside thermometer that it was 4degC outside. Driven by a feeling of unrest he did not have the strength to analyse or fight, he left the flat at 6 a.m. He got into his car and started the engine, thinking he might just as well pay a visit to Farnholm Castle. He could stop somewhere on the way, have a coffee and telephone to warn them he was coming. He drove east out of Ystad, averting his gaze as he passed the military training ground on his right where 18 months earlier he had fought the old Wallander's last battle. Out there in the fog he had discovered that there are people who would not shrink from any form of violence, who would not hesitate to commit murders in cold blood. Out there, on his knees in the mud, he had fought desperately for his own life and somehow, thanks to an incredibly accurate shot, he had killed a man. It was a point of no return, a birth and a burial at the same time.
He drove along the road to Kristianstad and slowed down as he passed the place where Gustaf Torstensson had died. When he came to Skane-Tranas he stopped at the cafe and went in. It was getting windy: he ought to have put on a thicker jacket. In fact, he ought to have given more thought to his clothes in general: the worn Terylene trousers and dirty windcheater he had on were perhaps not ideal for visiting a lord of the manor. As he entered the cafe he wondered what Bjork would have worn for a visit to a castle, supposing it had been on business.
He was the only customer. He ordered coffee and a sandwich. It was 6.45, and he leafed through a well- thumbed magazine on a shelf. He soon tired of that, and tried to think instead about what he was going to say to Alfred Harderberg, or whoever might be able to tell him about Gustaf Torstensson's last visit to his client. He waited until 7.30, then asked to use the telephone on the counter next to the old-fashioned cash register, and first called the police station in Ystad. The only one of his colleagues there that early was Martinsson. He explained where he was, and said that he expected the visit to take an hour or two.
'Do you know the first thing that entered my head when I woke up this morning?' Martinsson said.
'No.'
'That it was Sten Torstensson who killed his father.'
'How do you explain what then happened to the son?' Wallander said.
'I don't,' Martinsson said. 'But what seems to me to be clearer and clearer is that the explanation has to do with their professional rather than their private lives.'
'Or a combination of the two.'
'What do you mean?'
'Just something I dreamed last night,' Wallander said, ducking the question. 'Anyway, I'll be back at the station in due course.'
He hung up, lifted the receiver again and dialled the number of Farnholm Castle. It was answered on the very first ring. 'Farnholm Castle,' said a woman's voice. She had a slight foreign accent.
'This is Detective Chief Inspector Wallander of the Ystad police. I'd like to speak to Mr Harderberg.'
'He's in Geneva,' the voice said.
Wallander ought to have foreseen the possibility that an international businessman might be abroad.
'When will he be back?'
'He hasn't said.'
'Do you expect him tomorrow or next week?'
'I can't give you that information over the telephone. His schedule is strictly confidential.'
'Maybe so, but I am a police officer,' Wallander said, his anger rising.
'How am I to know that?' the woman said. 'You could be anybody.'
'I'll be at Farnholm Castle in half an hour,' Wallander said. 'Who shall I ask for?'
'That's for the guards at the main gate to decide,' the woman said. 'I hope you have some acceptable form of identification with you.'
'What do you mean by 'acceptable'?' Wallander shouted, but she had hung up.
Wallander slammed down the receiver. The powerfully built waitress was putting buns out on a plate, and looked up at him with displeasure. He put some coins on the counter, and left without a word.
Fifteen kilometres further north he turned to the west and was soon swallowed up by the dense forest to the south of Linderod Ridge. He braked when he came to the turning for Farnholm Castle and a granite plaque with gold lettering told him he was on course. Wallander thought the plaque looked like an expensive gravestone.
The castle road was asphalted and in good condition. Tucked discreetly into the trees was a high fence. He stopped and wound down his window to get a better view. It was a double fence with about a metre gap. He drove on. Another kilometre or so and the road swung sharply to the right. Just beyond the turn were the gates. Next to them was a grey building with a flat roof looking more like a pillbox than anything else. He drove forward and waited. Nothing happened. He sounded his horn. Still no reaction. He got out of the car, he was getting annoyed. He had a vague feeling of being humiliated by all these fences and closed gates. Just then a man emerged through one of the steel doors in the pillbox. He was wearing a dark red uniform Wallander had never seen before. He still had not familiarised himself with these new security companies that were popping up all over the country.
The man in the uniform came up to him. He was about the same age as Wallander.
Then he recognised him.
'Kurt Wallander,' said the guard. 'Long time no see.'
'Indeed,' Wallander said. 'How long ago was it we last met? Fifteen years?'
'Twenty,' the guard said. 'Maybe more.'
Wallander had dug out the man's name from his memory. Kurt Strom. They had been colleagues on the Malmo police force. Wallander was young then and inexperienced, and Strom was a year or so older. They had never had more than professional contact with each other, but Wallander had moved to Ystad and many years later he had heard that Strom had left the force. He had a vague memory that Strom had been sacked, something had been hushed up, possibly excessive force on a prisoner, or stolen goods vanishing from a police storeroom. He didn't know for sure.
'I was warned you were on your way,' Strom said.
'Lucky for me,' Wallander said. 'I was told I'd have to produce an 'acceptable form of identification'. What do
