cropped up: Bror Sundelius. As Wallander looked him up in the phone book, he thought about the conversation with Ylva Brink. What had she really told him that he hadn't already known? That Louise was a well-kept secret. A well- guarded secret, Wallander thought.
He made some notes to himself. Why would you keep a woman secret for so long? Ylva Brink had told him about Svedberg's strong aversion to homosexuality, and about his hypochondria. She had also said he met with a retired bank director from time to time to study the night sky. Wallander laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair. For the most part, his picture of Svedberg remained the same. The only revelation was this woman, Louise. And nothing seemed to point to an explanation of his death. He felt that he suddenly saw the whole drama clearly in front of him. Svedberg had failed to show up for work because he was already dead. He had caught a burglar by surprise who shot him on the spot, then fled with the telescope in his arms. The crime was unpremeditated, banal and horrifying. There was no other possible explanation.
It was 8.10 p.m. Wallander called Lisa Holgersson at home. She wanted to talk about the funeral and he told her to contact Ylva Brink. Then he told her what they had learned over the course of the afternoon. He also told her that he was starting to lean towards the violent-and-heavily-drugged-burglar theory.
'The national chief of police has called me,' she said. 'He wanted to express his condolences and his concern.'
'In that order?'
'Yes, thank God.'
Wallander told her he had arranged a meeting the next morning at 9 a.m., and promised to keep her abreast of any developments. After he'd hung up, Wallander dialled the number for Sundelius, but there was no answer or even an answerphone.
Once he put the phone down again he felt somewhat at a loss. Where should he go from here? He felt a growing impatience, but knew he had to wait for the autopsy report and the forensic evidence to come in.
He started to replay the conversation with Ylva Brink and thought about the last thing she had said, that Svedberg was honourable. There was a knock at the door and Martinsson entered.
'There's a bunch of impatient reporters at the door,' he said. Wallander made a face.
'We don't have anything new to tell them.'
'I think they'll make do with something old, just as long as they get something.'
'Can't you send them away for now? Promise them a press conference as soon as we feel we have something to report.'
'Have you forgotten the orders that came from on high instructing us to get along smoothly with the press?' Martinsson said, his voice heavy with irony.
Wallander hadn't forgotten. The national chief of police had recently issued directives to improve relations between the various police districts and local media. Reporters were now to be welcomed and treated with kid gloves.
Wallander got up heavily. 'I'll talk to them,' he said.
It took him 20 minutes to convince the reporters that he had no new information to give them. He almost lost his temper towards the end, when they continued to regard his claim with suspicion. But he managed to control himself and the reporters finally left. He got a cup of coffee from the canteen and went back to his office. He called Sundelius once more without success.
The phone rang. More reporters, Wallander thought despondently. But it was Sten Widen.
'Where are you?' Widen asked. 'I realise you have a lot going on and you have my condolences, but I've been waiting here for a while now.'
Wallander swore under his breath. He had completely forgotten his promise to visit Sten Widen at his horse ranch near the castle ruins at Stjarnsund. They had been friends since childhood and shared a passion for opera. As adults, they had started to grow apart. Wallander became a police officer and Sten Widen took over the ranch from his father, where he raised racehorses. A couple of years ago they had started seeing each other again, and they had made plans for this evening. It had totally slipped his mind.
'I should have called you,' Wallander said. 'I completely forgot.'
'They announced it over the radio. Was your colleague murdered or was it manslaughter?'
'We don't know, it's too early to tell. But the last 24 hours have been horrific.'
'We can get together some other time.'
Wallander made up his mind. 'Give me half an hour.'
'Don't feel pressured.'
'I don't; I need to get away for a while.'
Wallander left the station, went to the flat and picked up his mobile phone, then took the E65 out of town. He saw the castle ruins and slowed down to turn into Widen's ranch. Apart from the neighing of a horse, all was quiet.
Widen came out to greet him. Wallander was used to seeing him in dirty work clothes, but now he was wearing a white shirt and his hair was combed back. As they shook hands Wallander smelt alcohol on his breath. He knew that Widen drank too much, but he had never said anything to him. Somehow it never came up.
'What a beautiful evening,' Widen said. 'Summer finally arrived in August. Or is it the other way around? August finally arrived with summer. Who really arrives with whom?'
Wallander felt a twinge of jealousy. This was what he had dreamed of, living out in the countryside with a dog and maybe even Baiba. But nothing had come of it.
'How's business?' he asked.
'Not so good. The eighties were the golden decade. Everyone seemed to have plenty of money then. Now they don't. People spend most of their time praying they won't lose their jobs.'
'Isn't it just the wealthy who buy racehorses? I didn't think they had to worry about unemployment.'
'They're still around,' Widen agreed. 'But there don't seem to be as many of them as before.'
They walked down towards the stables. A girl wearing riding gear appeared around the corner with a horse.
'That's Sofia. She's the only one left. I had to get rid of everyone else,' Widen said.
Wallander remembered hearing something a couple of years ago about Widen sleeping with one of the girls working on the ranch. What had her name been? Jenny?
Widen exchanged some words with the girl and Wallander caught the name of the horse, Black Triangle. The outlandish names still surprised him.
They went into the stables.
'This is Dreamgirl Express,' Widen said, showing him another horse. 'Right now she supports me almost all by herself. Owners complain about the upkeep being expensive, and my accountant keeps calling earlier and earlier in the morning. I really don't know how much longer I can get by.'
Wallander stroked the horse's muzzle carefully.
'You've always managed before,' he said.
Widen shook his head.
'Right now it doesn't look good,' he said. 'But I can probably get a good price for the place and then I'll take off.'
'Where will you go?'
'I'm just going to pack my bags, get a good night's sleep, and decide in the morning.'
They left the stables and walked up to the main house. Wallander remembered it being a huge mess, but surprisingly everything was very neatly arranged this time.
'A couple of months ago I realised that cleaning could be therapeutic,' Widen said in answer to Wallander's obvious surprise.
'That doesn't work for me. God knows I've tried.'
Widen gestured for him to sit at the table, where he had set out glasses and a couple of bottles. Wallander hesitated, then nodded and sat down. His doctor wouldn't like it but right now he didn't have the energy to abstain.
'Do you remember that time we went to Germany to hear Wagner?' Widen said, much later in the evening. 'It's 25 years ago now. I found some photos the other day. Do you want to see them?'
'Sure.'
