together.
Then he noticed a corner of a magazine sticking out from under the armchair. He bent down and picked up an English, or possibly American, journal on naval vessels. Wallander thumbed through it. There was everything from articles on the aircraft carrier
He stood up and ran his hand over the top of the unusually tall filing cabinet; there was a folder lying out of sight, and he took it down. It contained a report about the political situation in Cambodia, written by Robert Jackson and Evelyn Harrison, whoever they might be. Wallander was surprised to discover that it came from the US Department of Defense. It was dated March 2008, only just out. Whoever had read it had evidently felt strongly about it, underlining several sentences and making margin notes with big, forceful exclamation marks. It was titled ‘On the Challenges of Cambodia, Based on the Legacies of the Pol Pot Regime’.
He went back into the living room. The teacups had been cleared away. Louise was standing at one of the windows, gazing down into the street. When he cleared his throat, she turned so quickly that she gave the impression of being frightened, and Wallander was reminded of the way her husband had behaved at the party in Djursholm - the same kind of reaction, he thought. They are both worried, scared, and seem to be under some kind of threat.
He hadn’t intended to ask the question, but it simply came out of its own accord when he remembered Djursholm.
‘Did he have a gun?’
‘No. Not any more. Hakan probably had one when he was still on duty. But here at home? No, he’s never had one here.’
‘Do you have a summer cottage?’
‘We’ve talked about buying a place, but we never got round to it. When Hans was little we used to spend every summer on the island of Uto. In recent years we’ve gone to the Riviera and rented an apartment.’
‘Is there anywhere else he might keep a gun?’
‘No. Why are you asking?’
‘Perhaps he has some kind of store somewhere. Do you have an attic? Or a basement?’
‘We keep some old furniture and souvenirs from his childhood in a room in the basement. But I can’t believe there could be a gun there.’
She left the room and came back with a key to a padlock. Wallander put it in his pocket. Louise asked him if he’d like more tea, but Wallander said no. He couldn’t bring himself to say that he would love a cup of coffee.
He went back to the study and continued leafing through the report on Cambodia.
Wallander went back to the living room. Louise was sitting on a chair that Wallander suspected was very old. She was staring at her hands. She stood up when he came into the room and asked again if he would like a cup of tea. He accepted this time. He waited until she had poured his tea, and noticed that she didn’t have a cup herself.
‘I can’t find anything,’ Wallander said. ‘Could someone have been through his papers?’
She looked quizzically at him. Her tiredness made her face look grey, almost twisted.
‘I’ve been searching through them, of course. But who else could have?’
‘I don’t know, but it looks as if some papers are missing, as if disorder has been introduced into all those neat and tidy files. I could be wrong.’
‘No one has been in his study since the day he disappeared. Except for me, naturally.’
‘I know we’ve talked about this already, but let me ask you again. Was he neat by nature?’
‘He hated untidiness.’
‘But he wasn’t a pedant, I seem to remember you saying.’
‘When we have visitors for dinner, he always helps me set the table. He checks to make sure the cutlery and glasses are where they should be. But he doesn’t use a ruler to get the lines exactly right. Does that answer your question?’
‘It certainly does,’ said Wallander gracefully.
Wallander drank his tea, then went down to the basement to take a look at the family’s storeroom. It contained a few old suitcases, a rocking horse, plastic boxes full of toys used by earlier generations, not just Hans. Leaning against the wall were some skis and a dismantled device for developing photographic negatives.
Wallander sat down cautiously on the rocking horse. The thought struck him as suddenly and relentlessly as the thugs had attacked him only a few days ago: Hakan von Enke was dead. There was no other possible explanation. He was dead.
That realisation not only made him feel sad, it also troubled him.
Hakan von Enke was trying to tell me something, he thought. But unfortunately, in that bunker in Djursholm, I didn’t understand what.
7
Wallander was woken up as dawn was breaking by a young couple arguing in the room next door. The walls were so thin that he could hear clearly the harsh words they were exchanging. He got out of bed and rummaged through his toiletry bag for a pair of earplugs, but he had evidently left them at home. He banged on the wall, two heavy blows followed by one more, as if he were sending one final swear word via his fist. The argument ceased abruptly - or maybe they continued arguing in voices so low that he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Before going back to sleep he tried to recall if he and Mona had also had an argument in the hotel when they visited the capital. It happened occasionally that they dredged up pointless trivialities - always trivialities, never anything really serious - that made them angry. Our confrontations were never colourful, he thought, always grey. We were miserable or disappointed, or both at the same time, and we knew it would soon pass. But we would argue nonetheless, and we were both equally stupid and said things we immediately regretted. We used to send whole flocks of birds shooting out of our mouths and never managed to grab them by their wings.
He fell asleep and dreamed about somebody - Rydberg, perhaps, or possibly his father? - standing in the rain, waiting for him. But he had been delayed, perhaps by his car breaking down, and he knew he would be told off for arriving late.
After breakfast he sat in the lobby and dialled Sten Nordlander. Wallander began with his home number. No reply. No reply on the mobile either, although he was able to leave a message. He said his name and his business. But what was his business, in fact? Searching for the missing Hakan von Enke was a job for the Stockholm police, not for him. Perhaps he could be regarded as a sort of improvising private detective - a title that had acquired a bad reputation after the murder of Olof Palme.
His train of thought was interrupted by his mobile phone ringing. It was Sten Nordlander. His voice was rough and deep.
‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘Both Hakan and Louise have talked about you. Where can I pick you up?’
Wallander was waiting on the pavement when Sten Nordlander pulled up. His car was a Dodge from the mid-
