'You've done good,' he said.
'I may have even more for you,' Andersson replied. 'Even if you never asked me for it. There is also a record of a cab ride from Smedsgatan. Specifically, Thursday morning at four o'clock. The driver's name was Orre. But you won't be able to get hold of him right now. He's on holiday in Mallorca.'
Can taxi drivers afford to do that? Wallander thought. Is that because they make money under the table? But of course he mentioned nothing of these speculations to Andersson.
'It could be important.'
'Do you still not have a car?'
'Not yet.'
'Are you planning to go there?'
'Yes.'
'You can use a police car, of course, can't you?'
'Of course.'
'Because otherwise I could take you. I'm not doing anything in particular. It's a long time since we had a chat.'
Wallander decided to take him up on his offer and Lars Andersson promised to pick him up in half an hour. During that time Wallander called directory assistance and asked who was registered on telephone service at Smedsgatan 9. He received the answer that there was service there but that the number was private.
It was raining harder. Wallander put on his rubber boots and a raincoat. He stood at the kitchen window and saw Andersson slow down in front of his building. The car had no sign on the roof. It was his private car.
A crazy expedition in crazy weather, Wallander thought as he locked the front door. But rather this than pacing around the apartment waiting for Mona to call. And if she does it'll serve her right. That I don't answer.
Lars Andersson immediately started to bring up old school memories. Half of it Wallander no longer had any recollection of. He often thought Andersson tiring because he constantly returned to their school years, as if they represented the best time of his life so far. For Wallander, school had been a grey drudge, where only geography and history enlivened him somewhat. But he still liked the man who sat behind the wheel. His parents had run a bakery out in Limhamn. For a while, the boys had been in frequent contact. And Lars Andersson was someone Wallander had always been able to count on. Someone who took their friendship seriously.
They left Malmo behind and were soon in Arlov.
'Do you often get requests out here?' Wallander asked.
'It happens. Mostly on the weekends. People who have been drinking in Malmo or Copenhagen and who are on their way home.'
'Has anything bad ever happened to you?'
Lars Andersson glanced over at him.
'What do you mean?'
'Muggings, threats. I don't know.'
'Never. I've had a guy who tried to slip away without paying. But I caught up with him.'
They were now in the centre of Arlov. Lars Andersson drove straight to the address.
'Here it is,' he said and pointed through the wet windscreen. 'Smedsgatan 9.'
Wallander cranked down his window and squinted out into the rain. Number 9 was the last of a row of six town houses. There was a light on in one window. Someone must be home.
'Aren't you going to go in?' Lars Andersson asked with surprise.
'It's a matter of surveillance,' Wallander answered vaguely. 'If you drive up a little I'll get out and take a look around.'
'Do you want me to come along?'
'That won't be necessary.'
Wallander got out of the car and pulled up the hood of his raincoat.
What do I do now? he wondered. Ring the doorbell and ask if it is possible that Mr Halen was here last Wednesday between three in the afternoon and four in the morning? Is it a matter of adultery? What do I say if a man answers the door?
Wallander felt silly. This is senseless and childish and a waste of time, he thought. The only thing that I have managed to prove is that Smedsgatan 9 is actually an address in Arlov.
Nonetheless, he couldn't help crossing the street. There was a mailbox next to the gate. Wallander tried to read the name on it. He had cigarettes and a box of matches in his pocket. With some difficulty he was able to light one of the matches and read the name before his flame was extinguished by the rain.
'Alexandra Batista,' he read. So Maria in the newsagent had been right, it was the first name that started with A. Halen had called a woman named Alexandra. The question now was if she lived there alone or with family. He looked over the fence to see if there were any children's bicycles or other items that would indicate a family's presence. But he saw nothing like that.
He walked round the house. On the other side there was an undeveloped piece of property. Several old rusty drums had been placed behind a dilapidated fence. That was all. The house was dark from the back. Light was only coming from the kitchen window facing the street. Despite a rising feeling of being involved in something absolutely unjustified and senseless, Wallander decided to complete his investigation.
He stepped over the low fence and ran across the lawn to the house. If anyone sees me they will call the police, he thought. And I will get caught. And then the rest of my police career goes up in smoke.
He decided to give up. He could find the telephone number for the Batista family tomorrow. If it was a woman who answered he could ask a few questions. If it was a man he could hang up.
The rain was letting up. Wallander dried off his face. He was about to go back the same way that he had come when he discovered that the door to the balcony was open. Maybe they have a cat, he thought. That needs free passage at night.
At the same time he had a feeling that something wasn't right. He could not put his finger on what it was. But he was not able to dismiss it. Carefully he walked over to the door and listened. The rain had stopped almost completely now. In the distance he heard the sound of a tractor trailer die away and disappear. From inside the house he heard nothing. Wallander left the balcony door and walked over to the front of the house again.
The light was still shining in the window, which was open a little. He pressed up against the wall and strained to hear something. Everything was still, quiet. Then he gently raised himself on tiptoe and peered in through the window.
He jumped. Inside, there was a woman sitting in a chair, staring straight at him. He ran out to the street. At any moment someone was going to come running out onto the front steps and call for help. Or else there would be police cars. He hurried over to the car where Andersson was waiting and jumped into the front seat.
'Has anything happened?'
'Just drive,' Wallander said.
'Where to?'
'Away from here. Back to Malmo.'
'Was anyone home?'
'Don't ask. Start the engine and drive. That's all.'
Lars Andersson did as Wallander asked. They came out onto the main road towards Malmo. Wallander thought about the woman who had stared at him.
The feeling was there again. Something wasn't right.
'Turn into the next car park, would you?'
Lars Andersson continued to do as he was told. They stopped. Wallander sat without saying anything.
'You don't think it's best that I be told what's going on?' Andersson asked gingerly.
Wallander didn't answer. There was something about that woman's face. Something he couldn't pinpoint.
'Go back,' he said.
'To Arlov?'
Wallander could hear that Andersson was starting to resist.
'I'll explain later,' Wallander said. 'Drive back to the same address. If you have the taxi meter you can turn it on.'
'I don't charge my friends, damn it!' Andersson said angrily.
