Is that how it was? Wallander wondered. Had everything been a show? Had there never been any real desire to identify the submarine? But for Hakan von Enke there was another, more important question. He was involved in a different hunt, not for a submarine but for a person. It kept recurring in his notes, like a stubbornly repeated drum roll. Who makes the decisions? Who changes them? Who?
At another point von Enke makes a comment:
By this stage Wallander no longer found it difficult to understand Hakan von Enke’s version of what had happened. Orders had been given, the chain of command had been followed - but suddenly somebody had intervened, changed course, and before anybody realised what was happening, the submarines had vanished. Von Enke mentioned no names, or at least didn’t point an accusing finger at anybody. But sometimes he referred to people as
Studying the photocopies of the war diaries took up most of Wallander’s time that night; but he also examined the rest of the material in great detail. There was an overview of Hakan von Enke’s life, from the day he first decided to become a naval officer. Photographs, souvenirs, picture postcards. School reports, military examination results, appointments. There were also wedding photographs of him and Louise, and pictures of Hans at various ages. When Wallander finally stood up and gazed out the window into the summer night and the drizzle, he thought: I know more than I did; but I can’t say that anything has become any clearer. Not why he’s been missing for nearly two months now, or why Louise has vanished as well. But I know more about who Hakan von Enke is.
Those were his final thoughts before he lay down on the sofa at last, pulled the blanket over himself, and fell asleep.
When he woke up the next morning he had a slight headache. It was eight o’clock; his mouth was as dry as if he’d been boozing the night before. But as soon as he opened his eyes he knew what he was going to do. He made the phone call before he’d even tasted his coffee. Sten Nordlander answered after the second ring.
‘I’m back in Stockholm,’ said Wallander. ‘I need to see you.’
‘I was just about to go out for a little trip in my boat - if you’d called a couple of minutes later you would have missed me. If you want to, you can come with me. We could chat to our hearts’ content.’
‘I don’t have much in the way of boating gear with me.’
‘I can supply everything. Where are you?’
‘In Grevgatan.’
‘I’ll pick you up in half an hour.’
Sten Nordlander was wearing shabby grey overalls with the Swedish navy emblem when he met Wallander. On the back seat of his car was a large basket with food and Thermoses. They drove out towards Farsta, then turned off onto small roads and eventually came to the little marina where Nordlander kept his boat. Nordlander had noticed the plastic bag and the file with the black covers, but he made no comment. And Wallander preferred to wait until they were in the boat.
They stood on the dock admiring the gleaming, newly varnished wooden boat.
‘A genuine Pettersson,’ said Nordlander. ‘Authentic through and through. They don’t make boats like this any more. Plastic means less work when you need to make your boat ready for launching in the spring, but it’s impossible to fall in love with a plastic boat the way you can a wooden boat. One like this smells like a bouquet of flowers. Anyway, let’s go and take a look at Harsfjarden.’
Wallander was surprised. He had lost his sense of direction once they had left town, and assumed that the boat was moored by an inland lake, or perhaps Lake Malaren. But now he could see that he was looking out towards Uto and the Baltic Sea, as Nordlander pointed out their location on a sea chart. To the north-west were Mysingen and Harsfjarden, and the legendary Musko naval base.
Sten Nordlander gave Wallander a pair of overalls similar to the ones he was wearing, and also a dark blue peaked cap.
‘Now you look presentable,’ Nordlander said when Wallander had changed into the borrowed gear.
The boat had a diesel engine. Wallander started it like a pro. He hoped there wouldn’t be too much of a wind once they came out into the navigable channels.
Nordlander concentrated on the route ahead, one hand on the attractively carved wooden steering wheel.
‘Ten knots,’ he said. ‘That’s about right. Gives you the opportunity to enjoy the sea rather than race off as if you were in a hurry to reach the horizon. What was it you wanted to talk about?’
‘I went to see Signe yesterday,’ Wallander said. ‘In her nursing home. She was lying curled up in bed, like a little child, even though she’s forty years old.’
Sten Nordlander raised a hand demonstratively.
‘I don’t want to hear. If Hakan or Louise had wanted to tell me about her, they would have.’
‘I won’t say another word about her.’
‘Is that why you called me? To tell me about her? I find that hard to believe.’
‘I found something. Something I’d like you to take a closer look at when we get a chance.’
Wallander described the folder, without going into detail about the contents. He wanted Nordlander to discover that for himself.
‘That sounds remarkable,’ he said when Wallander had finished.
‘Why? What surprises you about it?’
‘That Hakan kept a diary. He wasn’t the writing type. We went on a trip to England once, and he didn’t send any postcards - he said he had no idea what to write. His logbooks weren’t exactly compelling reading either.’
‘He even seems to have written what look like poems.’
‘I find that very hard to believe.’
‘You’ll see for yourself.’
‘What’s it all about?’
‘Most of it is about the place we’re heading for.’
‘Musko?’
‘Harsfjarden. The submarines. He seems to have been obsessed with all those events at the beginning of the eighties.’
Nordlander stretched out an arm and pointed in the direction of Uto.
‘That’s where they were searching for submarines in 1980,’ he said.
‘In September,’ Wallander elaborated. ‘They thought it was one of the so-called Whisky class, as NATO calls them. Probably Russian, but it could also have been Polish.’
Nordlander gave him an appraising look.
‘You’ve been doing your homework, haven’t you?’
Nordlander gave Wallander control of the wheel and produced coffee cups and a Thermos. Wallander maintained their course by aiming at a spot on the horizon that the skipper had pointed out to him. A coastguard ship heading in the opposite direction caused a swell as it passed by. Nordlander switched off the engine and allowed the boat to drift while they drank coffee and ate sandwiches.
‘Hakan wasn’t the only one who was upset,’ he said. ‘A lot of us wondered what on earth was going on. It was several years after the Wennerstrom affair, but there were a lot of rumours going around.’
‘About what?’
Nordlander cocked his head, challenging Wallander to say what he should already know.
‘Spies?’
‘It simply wasn’t plausible for the submarines that were definitely present under the surface of Harsfjarden always to be one step ahead of us. They acted like they knew what tactics we were adopting, and where our mines were laid. It was as if they could hear all the discussions our superiors were having. There were rumours about a spy even better placed than Wennerstrom. Don’t forget that this was the time when a spy in Norway, Arne Treholt,
