'Now you can close it again. We'll have to sort this out by ourselves.'
'Are you certain it's Harderberg?' she said. 'What's happened? Are you wounded?'
Wallander ignored the last two questions.
'I'm certain,' he said. 'I also know we will never ever get him if he leaves the country.'
'What are you going to do?'
He shook his head. 'I don't know,' he said. 'In fact, I haven't the slightest bloody idea. I'll have to think of something.'
But as they approached Sturup 40 minutes later, he still had no idea what he was going to do. With tyres screeching, he pulled up at the gates to the right of the airport building. The better to see, he clambered on to the roof of the car. All around passengers arriving for early flights paused to see what was going on. A catering truck inside the gates blocked his view. Wallander waved his arms and cursed in an attempt to attract the driver's attention and get him to move the truck. But the man behind the wheel had his head buried in a newspaper and was oblivious to the man on the roof of the car, ranting and raving. Then Wallander drew his pistol and shot straight up into the air. There was immediate panic among the watching crowd. People ran off in all directions, abandoning suitcases on the pavement. The driver of the truck had reacted to the shot and grasped that Wallander wanted him to move out of the way.
Harderberg's Grumman Gulfstream was still there. The pale yellow light from the spotlights was reflected by the body of the jet.
The two pilots, on their way to the aircraft, had heard the shot and stopped in their tracks. Wallander jumped off the car roof so that they would not be able to see him. He fell, hitting his left shoulder hard against the road. The pain made him even more furious. He knew Harderberg was somewhere inside the yellow airport building and he had no intention of letting him get away. He raced towards the entrance doors, stumbling over suitcases and trolleys, Hoglund a few paces behind him. He still had his pistol in his hand as he ran through the glass doors and headed for the airport police offices. As it was early on a Sunday morning there were not many people in the terminal. Only one queue had formed at a check-in desk, for a charter flight to Spain. As Wallander came charging up, covered in blood and mud, all hell broke loose. Hoglund tried to reassure people, but her voice was drowned in the uproar. One of the police officers on duty had been out to buy a newspaper, and saw Wallander approaching. The pistol in his hand was the first thing he had seen. The officer dropped the paper and started feverishly keying in the door code, but Wallander grabbed him by the arm before he had finished.
'Inspector Wallander, Ystad police,' he shouted. 'There's a plane we have to stop. Dr Alfred Harderberg's Gulfstream. There's no bloody time to lose!'
'Don't shoot,' gasped the terrified police officer.
'For heaven's sake, man!' Wallander said. 'I'm a police officer myself. Didn't you hear what I said?'
'Don't shoot,' the man said, again. Then he fainted.
Wallander stared in exasperation at the wretched man lying in front of him on the ground. Then he started belting on the door with his fists. Hoglund had caught up.
'Let me try,' she said.
Wallander looked round, as if expecting to see Harderberg at any moment. He ran over to the big windows overlooking the runways.
Harderberg was walking up the steps into the aeroplane. He ducked ever so slightly then disappeared inside. The door closed immediately.
'We're not going to make it!' Wallander yelled to Hoglund.
He raced out of the terminal again. She was at his side all the way. He noticed that a car belonging to the airport was on its way in through the gates. He made one final effort and managed to squeeze through the gap before the gates closed. He banged on the boot and shouted for the car to stop, but the driver was obviously frightened out of his wits and accelerated away. Hoglund was still outside the gates. She had not quite made it before they closed. Wallander flung out his arms in resignation. The Gulfstream was taxiing towards the runway. There were only 100 metres left before it would turn, accelerate and take off.
Right next to where Wallander was standing stood a tractor for towing baggage trailers. He had no choice. He climbed up, switched on the engine and steered towards the runway. He could see in his side mirror a long snake of trailers being towed along behind. He had not seen that they were connected to the tractor, but it was too late to stop now. The Gulfstream was just arriving at the runway and its engines were screaming. The baggage trailers had started tipping over as he cut across the grass between the apron and the runway.
Now he had reached the runway, where the black tyre marks made as the aircraft braked looked like wide cracks in the asphalt. He drove straight towards the Gulfstream, which was pointing its nose at him. When there were 200 metres still to go, he saw the plane begin to roll towards him. By then he knew he had managed it. Before the jet had got up enough speed to take off, the pilots would have to stop in order not to smash into the tractor.
Wallander applied the brakes, but something was wrong with the tractor. He pushed and pulled and slammed down his foot, but nothing happened. He was not moving fast, but the momentum was such that the nose wheel would be wrecked when the aircraft collided with the tractor. Wallander jumped off as the last trailers spilled loose, colliding with one another.
The pilots had switched off the engines to avoid an inferno. Wallander was struck on the head by one of the trailers, and rose unsteadily to his feet. He could scarcely see through the blood trickling into his eyes. Strangely, he was still holding the pistol in his hand.
As the door of the aeroplane opened and the steps were lowered, he could hear an armada of sirens approaching.
Wallander waited.
Then Harderberg emerged from the plane and walked down the steps on to the runway. It seemed to Wallander that he looked different. He saw what it was. The smile had disappeared.
Hoglund jumped out of the first of the police cars to reach the aircraft steps. Wallander was busy wiping the blood out of his eyes with his torn shirt.
'Have you been hit?' she said.
Wallander shook his head. He had bitten his tongue, and found it hard to speak.
'You'd better phone Bjork,' she said.
Wallander stared at her. 'No,' he said. 'You can do that. And deal with Dr Harder berg.'
Then he started to walk away. She hurried to catch up.
'Where are you going?'
'I'm going home to bed,' Wallander said. 'I'm a bit on the tired side. And rather sad. Even if it turned out alright in the end.'
Something in his voice discouraged her from saying more.
Wallander continued to walk away. For some reason, nobody tried to stop him.
Chapter 18
On the morning of Thursday, December 23, Wallander went rather reluctantly to Osterportstorg in Ystad and bought a Christmas tree. It was distinctly misty - there was not going to be a white Christmas in Skane in 1993. He spent a considerable time examining the trees, not at all sure what he really wanted, but in the end he picked one just about small enough to put on his table. He took it home and then spent ages searching in vain for a stand he distinctly remembered having: probably it disappeared when he and Mona had divided up their possessions after the divorce. He made a list of the things he needed to buy for Christmas. It was obvious that for the last few years he had been living in a state of increasing squalor. Every cupboard was bare. The list he made filled a whole page of A4. When he turned over to continue on the next page, he found there was something written there already.
He recalled that this was the very first note he had made in the case, that morning at the beginning of November, almost two months ago, when he had decided to go back to work. He remembered sitting at this table and being intrigued by the death notices in
