by the facts that von Enke had left his passport at home and that his credit card hadn’t been used. But the main thing was the man’s character, Ytterberg maintained. Hakan von Enke simply wasn’t the kind of man who disappeared. He would never abandon his wife. It didn’t add up.
Wallander spoke frequently to Louise. She was always the one who called, usually at about seven in the evening, when he was at home, eating a sloppily prepared dinner. Wallander could hear that she had reconciled herself to the thought that her husband was dead. In response to a direct question, she told him she was now getting a decent night’s sleep with the aid of sleeping pills. Everybody is waiting, Wallander thought as he replaced the receiver. He seems to be missing without a trace, gone up in the proverbial smoke and disappeared through the chimney of our existence. But is his body really lying hidden somewhere, rotting away? Or is he having dinner at this very moment? On a different planet, under another name, sitting opposite some celebrity we don’t know about?
What did Wallander think? His experience told him that the former submarine commander was dead. Wallander was afraid it would one day be revealed that his death was due to some banal cause, such as a mugging gone wrong. But he wasn’t sure. Perhaps there was still a small chance that von Enke had chosen to disappear, even if they couldn’t see why.
The one who dug in her heels deepest and refused to believe that von Enke had been killed was Linda. He’s not the kind of man anyone can kill, she insisted, indignantly, when she and Wallander met in their usual cafe while the baby slept soundly in her pushchair. But not even Linda could guess why he would want to run away. Hans never called, but listening to Linda’s theories and questions, Wallander had the impression that the two of them were as one in their convictions. But he didn’t ask, didn’t want to interfere; it was their life, nobody else’s.
Steven Atkins started sending long emails to Wallander, page after page. The longer Atkins’s messages became, the shorter the replies Wallander managed to produce. He would have liked to write more, but his English was so shaky that he didn’t dare venture into complicated sentence structure. Nevertheless, he learned that Steven Atkins now lived close to the major naval base just outside San Diego in California, Point Loma. He owned a little house in an area populated almost exclusively by ex-servicemen. On the next block, Atkins claimed, there were ‘enough former sailors to man a submarine, more likely several, right down to the last position’. Wallander asked himself what it would be like to live in a neighbourhood filled exclusively with former police officers. He shuddered at the thought.
Atkins wrote about his life, his family, his children and grandchildren, and he even attached pictures of them. Wallander had to ask Linda for help viewing them. They were sunlit photographs, with naval ships in the background, Atkins himself in uniform, and his large family smiling at Wallander. Atkins was bald and slim, and had his arm wrapped around the shoulders of his equally slim and smiling but not bald wife. Wallander thought the photo looked like an advertisement for dish soap, or some new breakfast cereal. Smiling and waving at him from the computer screen was the ideal, happy American family.
Wallander could see from his calendar that it was now exactly a month since Hakan von Enke had left his apartment in Grevgatan, closed the door behind him and never returned. Wallander had just had a long phone conversation with Ytterberg. It was 11 May, and rain was pouring down over Stockholm. Ytterberg sounded depressed - hard to tell if it was because of the weather or the state of the investigation. Wallander was wondering how he could pin down the right person to charge in connection with that sorry business on board the ferry. In other words, the conversation had been between two tired and distinctly grumpy police officers. Wallander wondered if Sapo was still showing an interest in the disappearance.
‘A man by the name of William comes to see me now and again,’ said Ytterberg. To tell you the truth, I don’t know if that’s his first or last name. And I can’t say I’m all that interested. The last time he was here I had a sudden urge to throttle him. I asked if they had any information they could give me that might make things a bit easier for us. A helping hand from one professional to another, which you might think is a matter of common courtesy in a democratic country like Sweden. But needless to say, they didn’t. Or at least, that’s what William said. You can never know if people in his trade are telling the truth. Their whole way of operating is a sort of game based on lies and deception. Obviously, ordinary police officers like you and me occasionally pull the wool over people’s eyes, but it’s not what you’d call the cornerstone of our professional operations.’
After the call Wallander returned to the file of interrogation notes lying open on the desk in front of him. Next to the file was a photograph of a badly injured woman’s face. That’s why I do what I do, he told himself. Because her face looks like that, because somebody nearly beat her to death.
When Wallander came home that evening, he found that Jussi was ill. He was lying in his kennel, didn’t want to eat or drink. Wallander broke into a cold sweat and immediately called a veterinary surgeon he knew who had once helped him nail a man who had been attacking young horses grazing in their paddocks around Ystad. He lived in Kaseberga and promised to come. His examination suggested that Jussi had eaten something that disagreed with him, and that he would soon be well again. Jussi spent that night on a mat in front of the open fire, and Wallander kept checking to make sure he was all right. The next morning Jussi was back on his feet, albeit unsteadily.
Wallander was relieved. When he arrived at his office and switched on his computer, it occurred to him in passing that he hadn’t heard from Steven Atkins in five days. Perhaps there was nothing else to say, no more photographs to send. But shortly before noon, just as Wallander was starting to think about whether to go home for lunch or to eat somewhere in town, he had a call from reception. He had a visitor.
‘Who is it?’ Wallander asked. ‘What does he want?’
‘He’s a foreigner,’ said the receptionist. ‘He seems to be a police officer.’
Wallander went down to the front desk. He realised immediately who his visitor was. He wasn’t wearing a police uniform, but that of the US Navy. It was Steven Atkins standing there with his cap under his arm.
‘I didn’t mean to turn up without warning,’ he said. ‘But I got the arrival time in Copenhagen wrong. I called you at home and on your cell phone and didn’t get a reply, so I came here.’
‘This is a surprise,’ said Wallander. ‘But you are most welcome, of course. Am I right in thinking that this is your first visit to Sweden?’
‘Yes. My dear friend Hakan was always inviting me to come visit, but I never got around to it.’
They had lunch at the restaurant in town that Wallander considered to be the best. Atkins was a friendly man who took an interest in his surroundings. He asked questions that were genuine and not just polite, and he listened carefully to the answers. At first Wallander found it hard to imagine that Atkins had been in command of a submarine, especially one of the biggest nuclear-powered types in the US Navy. He seemed much too jovial. But of course, Wallander had no idea what kind of person made a good submarine commander.
What motivated Atkins to travel to Sweden was purely and simply his concern about what had happened to his friend. Wallander was touched when he saw how worried Atkins was. An old man missing another old man - a friendship that was obviously very close.
Atkins had checked in to the Hilton at Kastrup Airport, then rented a car and driven to Ystad.
‘I had to see what it was like, driving over that incredibly long bridge,’ he said with a laugh.
Wallander was jealous of the man’s glistening white teeth. After the meal he called the police station and informed them that he wouldn’t be in for the rest of the day. Then they drove out to Wallander’s house. Atkins turned out to be very fond of dogs, and got on with Jussi like a house on fire. They went for a long walk with Jussi on his leash, following paths around the fields with occasional stops to admire the sea views and the undulating countryside. Atkins suddenly turned to face Wallander, and bit his lip.
‘Is Hakan dead?’
Wallander understood his intention. Atkins had fired off his question so that Wallander wouldn’t be able to hide behind an evasive or not fully truthful response. He wanted a clear and definite answer. He was the submarine commander demanding to know whether a ship had been lost.
‘We don’t know. He vanished without a trace.’
Atkins stared at him for quite a while, then nodded slowly. They resumed walking and were back at the house half an hour later. Wallander made coffee. They sat down at the kitchen table.
‘You told me about the last phone conversation you and Hakan had,’ said Wallander. ‘Why would anyone say he had reached a conclusion if the person he was talking to had no idea what he was talking about?’
‘Sometimes people believe that others know what they’re thinking,’ said Atkins. ‘Perhaps Hakan thought I knew what he meant.’
‘You must have had a lot of conversations. Was there a theme that kept cropping up? Something more important than the rest?’
