is a solicitor shot in his office? Who plants a mine in an elderly lady's garden? Who blows my car up? Are we supposed to think it could be a madman who's decided for no reason at all that it would be fun to kill off everybody employed by a firm of solicitors in Ystad, and why not a police officer as well while we're at it?'
'You still haven't sifted through all the files of the solicitors' clients,' Akeson said. 'There's a lot we don't know yet.'
'I still think we need more time,' Wallander said. 'Not unlimited time. But more time.'
'I'll give you two weeks,' Akeson said. 'If you haven't come up with anything more convincing by then, we'll take a new approach.'
'That's not enough,' Wallander said.
'I could stretch it to three,' Akeson said with a sigh.
'Let's take Christmas as the landmark,' Wallander said. 'If anything crops up before then to suggest that we ought to change course, we can do that straight away. But let's keep going as we are until Christmas.'
Akeson turned to Bjork. 'What do you think?'
'I'm worried,' Bjork said. 'I don't think we're getting anywhere either. It's no secret that I've never really believed that Dr Harderberg has anything to do with all this.'
Wallander felt the urge to protest, but resisted the temptation. If needs be he would have to accept three weeks.
Akeson turned to the pile of papers on his desk. 'What's this about organ transports?' he said. 'I read that you'd found a cool box for transporting human organs in Gustaf Torstensson's car. Is that true?'
Wallander told them what Nyberg had discovered, and what they had subsequently managed to find out.
'Avanca,' Akeson said. 'Is that a company quoted on the Stock Exchange? I've never heard of it.'
'It's a small company,' Wallander said. 'Owned by a family called Roman. They started in the 1930s, importing wheelchairs.'
'In other words, it's not owned by Harderberg,' Akeson said.
'We don't know that yet.'
Akeson eyed Wallander up and down. 'How can a company owned by a family called Roman also be owned by Harderberg? You'll have to explain that to me.'
'I'll explain when I can,' Wallander said. 'But what I do know on the basis of what I've learned this last month is that the real owner of a company can be someone quite different from what it says on the company logo.'
Akeson shook his head. 'You're a hard nut to crack,' he said. He consulted his desk diary. 'Let's say Monday, December 20. Unless we've made a breakthrough before then. But I'm not going to allow you a single day more if the investigation hasn't produced significant results by then.'
'We'll make the most of the time,' Wallander said. 'I trust you realise that we're busting ourselves here.'
'I know,' Akeson said. 'But the bottom line is that I'm the prosecutor, and I have to do my duty.'
The meeting was over. Bjork and Wallander went back to their offices.
'It was good of him to give you as much time as that,' Bjork said as they parted in the corridor.
'Give
'You know exactly what I mean,' Bjork said. 'Let's not waste time discussing it.'
'I entirely agree,' Wallander said.
When he had got to his office and closed the door, he felt at a loose end. Somebody had put on his desk a photograph of Harderberg's jet parked at Sturup. Wallander glanced at it, then pushed it aside.
I've lost my touch, he thought. The whole investigation's gone to pot. I ought to pass it on to somebody else. I can't handle this.
He sat there in his chair, inert. His mind went back to Riga and Baiba. When he could no longer cope with doing nothing he penned her a letter, inviting her to Ystad for Christmas and New Year. To make sure that the letter would not just lie there or get torn to pieces, he put it in an envelope and without more ado handed it to Ebba in reception.
'Could you post that for me today?' he said. 'It's really urgent.'
'I'll take care of it myself,' she said, with a smile. 'Incidentally, you look shattered. Are you getting enough sleep?'
'Not as much as I need,' Wallander said.
'Who's going to thank you if you work yourself to death?' she said. 'Not me, for sure.'
Wallander went back to his office.
A month, he thought. A month in which to wipe the smile off Harderberg's face. He doubted if it would be possible.
He forced himself to work, despite everything.
Then he phoned Widen.
He also made up his mind to buy some cassettes of opera recordings. He missed his music.
Chapter 13
At around noon on Monday, November 22, Kurt Wallander got into the police car that was still doing service as a temporary replacement for his own burned-out wreck and set off west from Ystad. He was heading for the stables next to the ruins of Stjarnsund Castle where Sten Widen ran his business. When he reached the top of the hill outside Ystad he turned off into the lay-by, cut the engine and stared out to sea. On the far horizon he could just dimly see the outline of a cargo vessel sailing out into the Baltic. All of a sudden he was overcome by a fit of dizziness. He was terrified that it was his heart, but then he realised it was something else, that he seemed to be about to faint. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back and tried not to think. After a minute or so he opened his eyes. The sea was still there and the cargo vessel was still sailing out to the east.
I'm tired, he thought. Despite having rested all weekend. The feeling of exhaustion goes deep, deep down, I'm only half aware of the causes, and there is probably nothing I can do about it. Not now that I've made up my mind to return to work. The beach on Jutland no longer exists as far as I'm concerned. I renounced it of my own free will.
He did not know how long he sat there, but when he began to feel cold he started the engine and drove on. He would have preferred to go home and disappear into the security of his flat, but he forced himself to continue. He turned off towards Stjarnsund. After about a kilometre the road deteriorated badly. As always when he visited Widen, he wondered how big horseboxes could negotiate such a wretchedly maintained track.
The path sloped steeply towards the extensive farm with row upon row of stable blocks. He drove down into the yard and switched off the engine. A flock of crows were screeching in a nearby tree.
He got out of the car and made for the red-brick building Widen used as a combined home and office. The door was ajar, and he could hear Widen talking on the phone. He knocked and went in. As usual it was untidy and smelled strongly of horses. Two cats were lying asleep on the unmade bed. Wallander wondered how his friend could put up with living like this year after year.
The man who nodded to him as he came in without interrupting his telephone call was thin, with tousled hair and an angry red patch of eczema on his chin. He looked just as he had twenty-five years back. In those days they had seen a lot of each other. Widen had dreamed then of becoming an opera singer. He had a fine tenor voice, and they had planned a future with Wallander acting as his impresario. But the dream had collapsed, or rather, faded away; Wallander had become a police officer and Widen had inherited his father's business, training racehorses. They had drifted apart, without either of them really knowing why, and it was not until the early 1990s, in connection with a lengthy and complicated murder case, that they had come into contact again.
There was a time when he was my best friend, Wallander thought. I haven't had another one since then. Perhaps he will always be the best friend I ever had.
Widen finished his call and slammed the receiver down.
'What a bastard!' he snarled.
'A horse owner?' Wallander said.
