fifties, covered in shiny chrome and with whitewall tyres. No doubt Nordlander had been a sort of Teddy boy in his youth. Even now he was wearing a leather jacket, American-style boots, jeans and a thin vest despite the cold weather. Wallander couldn’t help wondering how on earth von Enke and Nordlander had become such good friends. At first glance he found it impossible to think of two people who seemed more different. But judging by outward appearances was always dangerous. That reminded him of one of Rydberg’s favourite sayings:
‘Jump in,’ said Sten Nordlander.
Wallander didn’t ask where they were going; he merely sank back into the red leather seat that was no doubt authentic. He asked a few polite questions about the car, and received similarly polite answers. Then they sat in silence. Two large dice in woolly material were swinging back and forth in the rear window. Wallander had seen lots of similar cars in his early youth. Behind the wheel were always middle-aged men wearing suits that glistened just as much as the chrome fittings on the cars. They came to buy up his father’s paintings by the dozen, and paid in notes peeled off thick bundles. He used to call them ‘the Silk Knights’. He discovered later they had humiliated his father by paying far too little for his paintings.
The memory made him feel sad. But it was in the past, impossible to resurrect.
There were no seat belts in the car. Nordlander saw that Wallander was looking for one.
‘This is a classic car,’ he said. ‘It’s excused from the obligatory seat belts.’
They eventually came to somewhere or other on Varmdo - Wallander had lost his sense of distance and direction long ago. Nordlander pulled up outside a brown-painted building containing a cafe.
The woman who owns the cafe used to be married to one of Hakan’s and my mutual friends,’ said Nordlander. ‘She’s a widow now. Her name’s Matilda. Her husband, Claes Hornvig, was first officer on a Snake that both Hakan and I worked on.’
Wallander nodded. He recalled that Hakan von Enke had referred to that class of submarine.
‘We try to give her business whenever we can. She needs the money. And besides, she serves pretty good coffee.’
The first thing Wallander noticed when he entered the cafe was a periscope standing in the middle of the floor. Nordlander explained which decommissioned submarine it had come from, and it dawned on Wallander that he was in a private museum for submarines.
‘It’s become a habit,’ explained Nordlander. ‘Anyone who ever served on a Swedish submarine makes at least one pilgrimage to Matilda’s cafe. And they always bring something with them - it’s unthinkable not to. Some stolen china, perhaps, or a blanket, or even items from the controls. Bonanza time of course was when submarines were being decommissioned and sent to the scrapyard. Lots of ex-servicemen turned up to collect souvenirs, and there was always somebody determined to find something to grace Matilda’s collection. The money didn’t matter; it was a question of salvaging something from the dead submarine.’
A woman in her twenties emerged from the swinging doors leading into the kitchen.
‘Matilda and Claes’s granddaughter Marie,’ said Nordlander. ‘Matilda still puts in an appearance now and again, but she’s over ninety now. She claims that her mother lived to be a hundred and one and her grandmother a hundred and three.’
‘That’s right,’ said the girl. ‘My mum’s fifty. She says she’s only lived half her life.’
They were served a tray of coffee and pastries. Nordlander also helped himself to a slice of cheesecake. There were a few other customers at other tables, most of them elderly.
‘Former submarine crew?’ Wallander wondered as they made their way to the room furthest away from the street, which was empty.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Nordlander. ‘But I do recognise some of them.’
This room in the heart of the cafe had old uniforms and signal flags hanging from the walls. Wallander had the feeling that he was in a props store for military films. They sat down at a table in the corner. On the wall beside them was a framed black-and-white photograph. Sten Nordlander pointed it out.
‘There you have one of our Sea Snakes. Number two in the second row is me. Number four is Hakan. Claes Hornvig wasn’t with us on that occasion.’
Wallander leaned forward in order to get a better view. It wasn’t easy to distinguish the various faces. Nordlander informed him that the picture had been taken in Karlskrona, just before they had set off on a long trip.
‘I suppose it wasn’t exactly our ideal voyage,’ he said. ‘We were due to go from Karlskrona up to the Kvarken straits, then on to Kalix and back home again. It was November, freezing cold. If I remember correctly there was a storm blowing the whole time. The ship was tossing and turning something awful - the Baltic Sea is so shallow, we could never get down deep enough. The Baltic Sea is nothing more than a pool.’
Nordlander attacked the pastries with eager intent. It didn’t seem to matter what they tasted like. But suddenly he laid down his fork.
‘What happened?’ he said.
‘I know no more than you or Louise.’
Nordlander pushed his coffee cup violently to one side. Wallander could see that he was just as tired as Louise. Someone else who can’t get to sleep, he thought.
‘You know him,’ Wallander said, ‘better than most. Louise said you and Hakan were very close. If that’s the case, then your view of events is more important than most others.’
‘You sound just like the police officer I spoke to in Bergsgatan.’
‘But I
Sten Nordlander nodded. He was very tense. You could tell how worried he was from his fixed expression and his tight lips.
‘How come you weren’t at his seventy-fifth birthday party?’ Wallander asked.
‘I have a sister who lives in Bergen, in Norway. Her husband died unexpectedly. She needed my help. Besides, I’m not exactly a fan of big dos like that. Hakan and I had our own celebration. A week earlier.’
‘Where?’
‘Here. With coffee and biscuits.’
Nordlander pointed to a naval cap hanging on the wall.
‘That’s Hakan’s. He made a present of it when we had our little celebration.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘What we always talk about. What happened in October 1982. I was serving on the destroyer
‘So you weren’t only a chief engineer on submarines?’
‘I started out on a torpedo boat, then it was a corvette, then a destroyer, then a submarine, and in the end back to a destroyer. We were deployed to the west coast when the submarines started appearing in the Baltic Sea. At about noon on 2 October, Commander Nyman announced that we should head for the Stockholm archipelago at full speed because we were needed as backup.’
‘Were you in contact with Hakan during those hectic days?’
‘He called me.’
‘At home or on board?’
‘On the destroyer. I was never at home then. All leave was cancelled. We were on red alert, you could say. Bear in mind that this was the blissful time before mobile phones had become common currency. The sailors manning the destroyer’s telephone exchange would come down and inform us that we had a call. Hakan usually called at night. He wanted me to receive his call in my cabin.’
‘Why?’
‘I suppose he didn’t want anybody else to hear what we were talking about.’
There was something surly and reluctant in the way Sten Nordlander answered questions. He sat there mashing the remains of the pastry with his fork.
‘We spoke to each other practically every night between the first and the fifteenth of October. I don’t think he was supposed to talk to me the way he did, but we trusted each other. His responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders. A depth charge can go off course and sink a submarine instead of forcing it up to the surface.’
By now Nordlander had turned the remains of his pastry into an unappetising mess. He put down his fork and
