The Man Who Smiled (1994)

outstanding results with minimal resources. We'll be used as proof that the Swedish police force is not undermanned at all. We'll be used as evidence to show that in fact there are too many police officers. So many that they keep getting in each other's way and that gives rise to a great waste of money and deteriorating clear-up rates.'

'But we haven't achieved any results at all yet,' Wallander said.

'I'm talking about the Central Police Bureau,' Akeson said. 'I'm talking about the mysterious world of politics. A world where masses of words are used to camouflage the fact that they're doing nothing but straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel. Where they go to bed every night and pray that the next day they'll be able to turn water into wine. I'm not talking about the fact that we haven't yet discovered who killed the two solicitors. I'm talking about the fact that we now know that Alfred Harderberg is not the model citizen, superior to all others, that we thought he was.'

That was absolutely true. During that hectic week they had managed to build a bird's-eye view of Harderberg's empire that naturally was by no means comprehensive, but they could see that the gaps - indeed, the black holes - indicated quite clearly that the man who lived in Farnholm Castle should not be allowed out of their sight for one minute.

When Akeson and Wallander stood outside the police station that night, on November 14 to be exact, they had got far enough to be able to draw certain conclusions. The first phase was over, the beaters had done their work and the hunters could prepare to move in. Nothing had leaked out, and they had begun to discern the shape and nature of the leviathan in which Lars Borman and more especially Gustaf Torstensson must have discovered something it would have been safer for them not to have seen.

The question was: what?

It had been a hectic time, but Wallander had organised his troops well and had not hesitated to take on the most boring work himself - which often proved to produce the most interesting information. They had gone through the story of Harderberg's life, from the day he was born, the son of an alcoholic timber merchant in Vimmerby, when he was known as Hansson, to the present day when he was the driving force of an enterprise with a turnover of billions in Sweden and abroad. At one point during the laborious exercise, wading through company reports and accounts, tax returns and share brochures, Svedberg said: 'It's simply not possible for a man who owns as much as this to be honest.' In the end it was Sven Nyberg, the surly and irritable forensic specialist, who gave them the information they needed. As so often happens, it was pure coincidence that he stumbled upon the tiny crack in Harderberg's immaculately rendered wall, the barely visible fault they had craved. And if Wallander, despite his exhaustion, had not picked up on a remark Nyberg made as he was on his way out of Wallander's office late one night, the opportunity might have slipped away.

It was nearly midnight on Wednesday and Wallander was poring over a resume Hoglund had drawn up on Harderberg's worldly possessions when Nyberg belted on the door. Nyberg was not a discreet person; he stamped down corridors and he belted on doors, as if he were about to make an arrest, when he visited his fellow officers. That night he had just completed the forensic lab's preliminary report on the mine in Mrs Duner's garden and the blowing up of Wallander's car.

'I thought you would want the results right away,' he said after flopping down on one of Wallander's visitors' chairs.

'What have you got?' Wallander said, peering at Nyberg with red-rimmed eyes.

'Nothing,' Nyberg said.

'Nothing?'

'You heard.' Nyberg was irritated. 'That's also a result. It's not possible to say for certain where the mine was manufactured. We think it might be from a factory in Belgium, a company called Poudreris Reunie de Belgique or however you pronounce it. The explosive used suggests that. And we didn't find any splinters, which means that the force of the mine was upwards. That also suggests Belgian in origin. But it could also have been from somewhere else entirely. As for your car, we can't say definitely that there was explosive material in your petrol tank. In other words we can't say anything at all for sure. So the result is nothing.'

'I believe you,' Wallander said, searching through his pile of papers for a note he had made about what he wanted to ask Nyberg.

'And that Italian pistol, the Bernadelli, we don't know any more about that either,' Nyberg said while Wallander made notes. 'There's no report of one having been stolen. All the people registered in Sweden as owning one have been able to produce it. Now it's up to you and Per Akeson to decide whether we should call them all in and give them a test firing.'

'Do you think that would be worth it?'

'Yes and no,' Nyberg said. 'Personally, I think we ought to run a check on stolen Smith & Wessons first. That'll take a few more days.'

'We'll do as you suggest, then,' Wallander said, making a note. Then they went on going through Nyberg's points.

'We didn't find any fingerprints in the solicitors' offices,' Nyberg said. 'Whoever shot Sten Torstensson didn't press his thumb helpfully on the window pane. An inspection of the threatening letters from Lars Borman produced negative results as well. But we did establish that it was his handwriting. Svedberg has samples from both of his children.'

'What did they say about the language?' Wallander asked. 'I forgot to ask Svedberg.'

'What do you mean, the language?'

'The letters were very oddly phrased.'

'I have a vague memory from one of our meetings that Svedberg said that Borman was word blind.'

'Word blind?' Wallander frowned. 'I don't remember hearing that.'

'Maybe you'd left the room to fetch more coffee?'

'Could be. I'll have a word with Svedberg. Have you got anything else?'

'I went to give Gustaf Torstensson's car the onceover,' Nyberg said. 'No fingerprints there either. I examined the ignition and the boot, and I've spoken to the pathologist in Malmo. We're almost certain that he didn't get the fatal blow to the back of his head by hitting it against the car roof. There's nothing anywhere in the bodywork that matches the wound. So it's more probable that somebody hit him. He must have been outside the car when it happened. Unless there was somebody in the back seat.'

'I thought about that,' Wallander said. 'The likelihood is that he stopped on the road and got out of the car. Somebody came up behind him and hit him. Then the accident was faked. But why did he stop in the fog? Why did he get out?'

'I couldn't say,' Nyberg said.

Wallander put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. His back ached, and he needed to go home and get some sleep.

'The only thing of note we found in the car was a plastic container made in France,' Nyberg said.

'What was in it?'

'Nothing.'

'Why is it interesting, then?'

Nyberg shrugged and got up to leave. 'I've seen a similar one before. Four years ago. When I was on a study visit at the hospital in Lund.'

'The hospital?'

'I have a good memory. It was identical.'

'What was it used for?'

Nyberg was already at the door. 'How should I know?' he said. 'But the container we found in Torstensson's car was chemically clean. Only a container that's never contained anything could be as clean as that one.'

Nyberg left. Wallander could hear him stamping down the corridor.

Then he pushed the heap of paper to one side and stood up to go home. He put on his jacket, then paused. There was something Nyberg had said. Just before he left the room. Something about the plastic container.

Then it came to him, and he sat down again.

There's something funny there, he thought. Why would there be a plastic container that has never been used in Torstensson's car? An empty container, but evidently a very special one? There was only one possible