most of it before, but he went through it one more time with a fine-tooth comb. There was a lot he did not understand. The most complicated commercial transactions - the way in which a company melted away and became something different, and the complex business of shares and bonds - made him feel that he was entering a world he could not begin to comprehend. Occasionally he broke off to try to get hold of Nyberg, but he had no luck. He gave lunch a miss, and did not leave the station until 3.30. There had been no word from Nyberg, and that was strange. Wallander began to accept that he would not know what that plastic container had been used for until after he had been to Farnholm Castle. He struggled through the gale as far as Stortorget and ordered a kebab. He was thinking all the time about Harderberg.
When he got back to the police station there was a note on his desk saying that someone in the office at Farnholm Castle had phoned and Dr Harderberg would expect him at 7.30 p.m. He went to look for Martinsson. They needed to prepare themselves, go through the questions they were going to ask, and which ones they would save for the time being. In the corridor he bumped into Svedberg, who was on his way out.
'Martinsson wants you to phone him at home,' Svedberg said. 'He left some time ago. I don't know why.'
Wallander went back to his room and dialled Martinsson's number.
'I have to cry off, I'm afraid,' Martinsson said. 'My wife's ill. I haven't been able to find a babysitter. Can you take Svedberg instead?'
'He's just left,' Wallander said. 'I've no idea where he's going.'
'I'm sorry about this,' Martinsson said.
'Don't worry, of course you have to stay at home,' Wallander said. 'I'll find a solution somehow.'
'You could take Bjork,' Martinsson said ironically.
'You're right, I could,' Wallander said in all seriousness. 'I'll think about it.'
The moment he put down the phone he decided to go to Farnholm Castle on his own. He realised that was what he had really wanted to do all along. My biggest weakness as a police officer, he thought. I always prefer to go alone. Over the years he had begun to question whether it really was a weakness.
In order to concentrate in peace and quiet, he left the police station without further ado, got into his car and drove out of Ystad. The gale really was gusting up to hurricane strength. The car swayed and rattled. Ragged clouds raced across the sky. He wondered how his father's roof was faring at Loderup. He felt a sudden need to listen to some opera, drove on to the hard shoulder and switched on the inside light. But he couldn't find any of his cassettes - and then it dawned on him that this wasn't his own car. He carried on towards Kristianstad. He tried to think through what he was going to say to Harderberg, but discovered that what he was most looking forward to was the meeting itself. There had not been a single photograph of the man at Farnholm, or in any of the press reports he had read, and Hoglund had said that he actively disliked being photographed. On the few occasions he appeared in public his staff ensured that there were no photographers around. An enquiry to Swedish Television revealed that they did not have a single clip of him in their archives.
Wallander thought back to his first visit to the castle. What had struck him then was that very rich people are characterised by silence and remoteness. Now he could add another characteristic: they were invisible. Faceless people in beautiful surroundings.
Just before he got to Tomelilla he ran over a hare that seemed hypnotised by his headlights. He stopped and got out into a wind that almost blew him over. The hare was lying on the verge, its hind legs kicking. Wallander searched for a big enough stone, but by the time he found one the hare was dead. He toed it into the ditch, and returned to his car with an ugly taste in his mouth. The gusts were so strong that they almost ripped the car door out of his grasp.
He drove on to Tomelilla where he stopped at a cafe and ordered a sandwich and a cup of coffee. It was 5.45. He took out his notebook and wrote down questions that he could use as a framework for his interview. He felt tense. What concerned him was that this must mean he hoped he was going to come face to face with the murderer.
He stayed in the cafe for nearly an hour, refilling his cup and allowing his thoughts to wander. He found himself thinking about Rydberg. For a moment he had trouble conjuring up his face, and that worried him. If I lose Rydberg, he thought, I lose the only real friend I've got. Dead or alive.
He paid and left. A sign outside the cafe had been toppled by the wind. Cars flashed past but he couldn't see any people. A real November storm, he thought, as he drove off. Winter is blowing open its portals.
He arrived at the castle gates at 7.25. He expected Strom to come out and greet him, but nobody did. The bunker appeared to be deserted. Then the gates glided open without a sound. He drove towards the castle. Powerful spotlights lit up the facade and the grounds. It was like a stage set - an image of reality, not reality itself.
He stopped by the steps and switched off his engine. The castle door opened as he climbed out of the car. When he was halfway up the steps a powerful gust made him stumble and he dropped his notebook. It was carried away by the wind. He shook his head and continued up the steps. A young woman with close-cropped hair was waiting to receive him.
'Was that something important?' she asked.
Wallander recognised her voice. 'It was only a notebook,' he said.
'We'll send somebody out for it,' Jenny Lind said.
Wallander contemplated her heavy earrings and the blue ribbons in her black hair.
'There was nothing in it,' he said.
She let him in and the door closed behind them.
'You said you would have somebody with you,' she said.
'They couldn't make it.'
Wallander noticed two men hovering in the shadows by the great staircase. He recalled the shadows he had seen on his first visit. He could not make out their faces, and wondered fleetingly if they really were alive, or just two suits of armour.
'Dr Harderberg will be here in a moment,' the girl said. 'You can wait in the library.'
She led him through a door to the left of the hall. Wallander could hear his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. He wondered how the woman in front of him could move so quietly, then he saw to his surprise that she was barefoot.
'Isn't it cold?' he said, indicating her feet.
'There's under-floor heating,' she said impassively, and showed him into the library.
'We'll look for your notes,' she said, then left him and closed the door behind her.
Wallander found himself in a large, oval-shaped room lined with bookshelves. In the middle was a group of leather chairs and a serving table. The lights were dim and, unlike the entrance hall, the library had oriental carpets on the floor. Wallander stood quite still and listened. He was surprised to hear no sound from the storm raging outside. Then he realised that the room was soundproof. This was where Gustaf Torstensson had spent the last evening of his life, where he had met his employer and several other, unknown, men.
Wallander looked about him. Behind a column he discovered a large aquarium with strangely shaped fish slowly swimming around. He went closer to see if there was gold dust on the bottom: the sand certainly glittered. He continued his tour of the room. I am no doubt being observed, he thought. I can't see any cameras, but they'll be there, hidden among the books, and they'll be sensitive enough to beam adequate pictures despite the dim lighting. There'll be hidden tape recorders as well, of course. They expected me to have somebody with me. They would have left us alone together for a while in order to listen in on our conversation.
Wallander did not hear Harderberg come into the room, but at a certain moment he knew he was no longer alone. He turned and saw a man standing beside one of the sumptuous leather chairs.
'Inspector Wallander,' the man said, and smiled. What Wallander would remember afterwards was that the smile never seemed to leave the man's tanned face. He could never forget it.
'Alfred Harderberg,' Wallander said. 'I'm very grateful you were able to receive me.'
'We all need to do our bit when the police call in,' Harderberg said.
The voice was unusually pleasant. They shook hands. Harderberg was wearing an immaculate and no doubt very expensive pinstriped suit. Wallander's first impression was that everything about him was perfect - his clothes, his way of moving, his way of speaking. And that smile never left his face.
They sat down.
