'I know the rules,' Strom said. 'If that's all, you might as well push off.'
Wallander ran through the rain to his car. He stopped at Fridolf's cafe for a coffee and some sandwiches. It worried him that he had not told the whole truth at the morning meeting, but he knew he would be ready to concoct a certificate for Strom if that should prove to be necessary. His mind went back to Sten Torstensson, coming to ask for his help. He had turned him down. The least he could do now was to bring his murderers to light.
He sat in his car without starting the engine, watching the people hurrying through the rain. He thought of the occasion a few years back when he had driven home from Malmo while very drunk, and been stopped by some of his colleagues. They had protected him, and it had never been known about. That night he had not been an ordinary citizen: he had been a police officer, taken care of by the police force, instead of being punished, suspended or perhaps thrown out of the force. Peters and Noren, the officers who had seen him swerving all over the road and stopped him, had earned his loyalty. What if one day one of them tried to cash in on the favour they had done him?
In his heart of hearts Strom wanted to be back in the police force, Wallander was sure of it. The antagonism and hatred he displayed was only a superficial front. No doubt he dreamed of one day being a police officer again.
Wallander drove back to the station. He went to Martinsson's office, and found him on the phone. When he finished the call he asked Wallander how it had gone.
'Strom is going to look for an Italian pistol and he's going to collect some fingerprints,' Wallander said.
'I find it hard to believe he's done that for nothing,' Martinsson said.
'Me too,' Wallander said. 'But I suppose even somebody like Kurt Strom has a good side.'
'He made the mistake of getting caught,' Martinsson said. 'And then he made another mistake by making everything seem so big and significant. Did you know he has a severely handicapped daughter, by the way?'
Wallander shook his head.
'His wife left him when the girl was very small. He looked after her for years. She has some form of muscle illness. But then it got so bad that she couldn't stay at home any longer, and she had to go into a special home. He still visits her whenever he can.'
'How do you know all this?'
'I phoned Roslund in Malmo and asked him. I said I'd happened to bump into Strom. I don't think Roslund knew he works at Farnholm Castle, and I didn't mention it, of course.'
Wallander stood staring out of the window.
'There's not much else we can do but wait,' Martinsson said.
Wallander did not respond. It eventually dawned on him that Martinsson had said something. 'I didn't hear what you said.'
'All we can do is wait.'
'Yes,' Wallander said. 'And right now there's nothing I find harder to do.'
Wallander went back to his office, sat at his desk and contemplated the enlarged overview of Alfred Harderberg's worldwide empire they'd received from the fraud squad in Stockholm. He had pinned it to the wall.
What I'm looking at is really an atlas of the world, he thought. National boundaries have been replaced by ever-changing demarcation lines between different companies whose turnover and influence are greater than the budgets of many whole countries. He searched through the papers on his desk until he found the summary of the ten largest companies in the world that had been sent to him as an appendix by the fraud squad - they must have had a hyperactivity fit. Six of the biggest companies were Japanese and three American. The other was Royal Dutch/Shell, which was shared by Britain and Holland. Of those ten largest companies, four were banks, two telephone companies, one a car manufacturer and one an oil company. The other two were General Electric and Exxon. He tried to imagine the power wielded by these companies, but it was impossible for him to grasp what this concentration really meant. How could he when he did not feel he could get to grips with Harderberg's empire, even though that was like a mouse in the shadow of an elephant's foot compared with the Big Ten?
Once upon a time Alfred Harderberg had been Alfred Hansson. From insignificant beginnings in Vimmerby he had become one of the Silk Knights who ruled the world, always engaged in new crusades in the battle to outmanoeuvre or crush his competitors. On the surface he observed all the laws and regulations, he was a respected man who had been awarded honorary doctorates, he displayed great generosity and donations flowed from his apparently inexhaustible resources.
In describing him as an honourable man who was good for Sweden, Bjork had given voice to the generally accepted view.
What I'm really saying is that there is a stain somewhere, Wallander thought, and that smile has to be wiped from his face if we're going to nail a murderer. I'm trying to identify something which is basically unthinkable. Harderberg doesn't have a stain. His suntanned face and his smile are things we should, all of us Swedes, be proud of, and that's all there is to it.
Wallander left the police station at 6 p.m. It had stopped raining and the wind had died down. When he got home he found a letter among all the junk mail in the hall that was postmarked Riga. He put it on the kitchen table and looked hard at it, but did not open it until he had drunk a bottle of beer. He read the letter, and then, to be certain he had not misunderstood anything, read it through again. It was correct, she had given him an answer. He put the letter down on the table and pinched himself. He turned to the wall calendar and counted the days. He could not remember the last time he had been so excited. He had a bath, then went to the pizzeria in Hamngatan. He drank a bottle of wine with his meal, and it was only when he had become a bit tipsy that he realised he had not given a thought to Alfred Harderberg or Kurt Strom all evening. He was humming an improvised tune when he left the pizzeria, and then wandered about the streets until almost midnight. Then he went home and read the letter from Baiba one more time, just in case there was something in her English that he had misunderstood after all.
It was as he was about to fall asleep that he started thinking about Strom, and immediately he was wide awake again. Wait, Martinsson had said. That was the only thing they could do. He got out of bed and went to sit on the living-room sofa. What do we do if Strom doesn't find an Italian pistol? he thought. What happens to the investigation if the plastic container turns out to be a dead end? We might be able to deport a couple of foreign bodyguards who are in Sweden illegally, but that's about all. Harderberg, in his well-tailored suit, with that constant smile on his face, will depart from Farnholm Castle, and we'll be left with the wreckage of a failed murder investigation. We'll have to start all over again, and that will be very hard. We'll have to start examining every single thing that's happened as if we were seeing it for the first time.
He made up his mind to resign responsibility for the case if that did happen. Martinsson could take over. That was not only reasonable, it was also necessary. Wallander was the one who had pushed through the strategy of concentrating on Harderberg. He would sink to the bottom with the rest of the wreckage, and when he came up to the surface again it would be Martinsson who would be in charge.
When at last he went back to bed he slept badly. His dreams kept collapsing and blending into one another, and he could see the smiling face of Alfred Harderberg at the same time as Baiba's unfailingly serious expression.
He woke at 7 a.m. He made a pot of coffee and thought about the letter from Baiba, then sat down at the kitchen table and read the car adverts in the morning paper. He still had not heard anything from the insurance company, but Bjork had assured him that he could use a police car for as long as he needed to. He left the flat just after 9.00. The temperature was above freezing and there was not a cloud in the sky. He spent a few hours driving from one car showroom to another, and spent a long time examining a Nissan he wished he could afford. On the way back he parked the car in Stortorget and walked to the music shop in Stora Ostergatan. There was not much in the way of opera, and rather reluctantly he had to settle for a recording of selected arias. Then he bought some food and drove home. There were still several hours to go before he was due to meet Kurt Strom in Svartavagen.
It was 2.55 when Wallander parked outside the red doll's house in Sandskogen. When he knocked on the door there was no reply. He wandered around the garden, and after half an hour he started to get worried. Instinct told him something had happened. He waited until 4.15, then scribbled a note to Strom on the back of an envelope he had found in the car, giving him his phone numbers at home and at the station, and pushed it under the door. He drove back to town, wondering what he ought to do. Strom was acting on his own, and knew he had to take care of
