was moving in Norwegian government circles, and Willy Brandt’s secretary was spying for East Germany. The suspicions didn’t lead anywhere. Nobody was exposed. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t somebody high up in the Swedish military who was spying.’
Wallander thought about the letters
‘There must have been individuals you suspected?’
‘There were naval officers who thought a lot of facts suggested that Palme himself was a spy. I always thought that was nonsense. But the truth is, nobody was above suspicion. And we were being attacked in different ways.’
‘Attacked?’
‘Cutbacks. All the available money was being spent on guided missiles and on the air force. The navy was being squeezed more and more. Quite a few journalists at the time spoke dismissively about our “budget submarines”. They figured the alleged invaders had been invented as part of a plan for the navy to get more and better resources.’
‘Were you ever doubtful?’
‘What about?’
‘About the existence of the submarines.’
‘Never. Of course the Russian submarines existed.’
Wallander produced the black file from its plastic bag. He felt sure Sten Nordlander had never seen it before. His surprised expression didn’t seem put on. He dried his hands and placed the open file on his knee. There was hardly any wind, barely a ripple on the surface of the sea.
Nordlander leafed slowly through the pages. He occasionally looked up to check where the boat was drifting, then looked back down at the file. When he came to the end, he closed it, handed it back to Wallander and shook his head.
‘I’m astonished,’ he said. ‘But then, I knew Hakan was looking into these matters. I just didn’t realise he was doing it in so much detail. What would you call it? A diary? A private memoir?’
‘I think it can be read in two ways,’ said Wallander. ‘Partly just as it stands. But also as an incomplete investigation into what happened.’
‘Incomplete?’
He’s right, Wallander thought. Why did I say that? The book is presumably just the opposite. Something completed and closed.
‘You’re probably right,’ Wallander said. ‘He must have finished it. But what did he think he would achieve?’
‘It was a long time before I realised how much time he was spending in archives, reading reports, investigation accounts, books. And he spoke to everybody you could think of. Sometimes people would call me and ask what Hakan was up to. I just told them I thought he wanted to know the truth about what had happened.’
‘And what he was doing wasn’t popular, I gather? That’s what he told me.’
‘I think that in the end he was seen as unreliable. That was tragic. Nobody in the navy was more honest and conscientious than Hakan. He must have been deeply hurt, even if he never said anything.’
Nordlander lifted the hatch and took a look at the engine.
‘A real beauty, like a beating heart,’ he said as he closed the hatch again. ‘I once worked as chief engineer on one of our two Halland-class destroyers, the
‘I have a question,’ Wallander said. ‘It’s extremely important. Is there anything in the stuff you’ve just looked through that shouldn’t be there?’
‘Something secret, you mean?’ said Nordlander, frowning. ‘Not that I could see.’
‘Did anything surprise you?’
‘I didn’t read in detail. I could barely decipher the margin comments. But nothing gave me pause.’
‘Then can you explain to me why he hid the stuff away?’
Nordlander hesitated before answering. He contemplated a sailing boat passing some distance away.
‘I don’t understand what could have been secret about it,’ he said eventually. ‘Who was he hiding it from?’
Wallander pricked up his ears. Something the man sitting beside him had said was important. But he couldn’t pin it down. He memorised both sentences.
Nordlander started the engine again and revved up to ten knots, heading for Mysingen and Harsfjarden. Wallander stood beside him. Over the next few hours Sten Nordlander took him on a guided tour of Musko and Harsfjarden. He pointed out where the depth charges had been sunk, and where the submarines might have been able to escape through minefields that had not been activated. The whole time, Wallander was following their route on a sea chart, noting all the deep and hidden depressions. He understood that only a very well-trained crew could negotiate Harsfjarden under the surface.
When Nordlander decided they had seen enough, he changed course and headed for a cluster of islets and skerries in the narrows between Orno and Uto. Beyond was the open sea. He skilfully guided the boat into an inlet in one of the skerries, and moored at the bottom of a cliff.
‘Not many people know about this inlet,’ he said as he shut down the engine. ‘So I always have it to myself. Enjoy!’
Wallander jumped ashore and secured the mooring rope, then collected the basket and placed it on a convenient rock. It smelled like the sea and the vegetation that filled the crevices. He felt like a child again, on a journey of exploration on an unknown island.
‘What’s the island called?’ he asked.
‘It’s not much more than a rocky outcrop. It doesn’t have a name.’
Without further ado Nordlander undressed and jumped into the water. Wallander watched his head bobbing up before disappearing again under the surface. He’s like a submarine, Wallander thought. Practising diving and surfacing. He’s not worried about how cold the water is.
Nordlander clambered back up onto the rocks and took a large red towel from the picnic basket.
‘You should give it a try,’ he said. ‘It’s cold, but it does you good.’
‘Some other time perhaps. What’s the water temperature?’
‘There’s a thermometer behind the compass. You can take a measurement while I get dried off and serve up the food.’
Wallander found the thermometer attached to a little rubber ball. He let the ball float in the water, then pulled it out and took the reading.
‘Eleven degrees,’ he said when he came back to where Nordlander was laying out the food. ‘Too cold for me. Do you go swimming in the winter as well?’
‘No. But I’ve thought about it. We can eat in ten minutes. Go for a walk around the little island. You might find a message in a bottle from a capsised Russian submarine.’
Wallander wondered if there was something behind Nordlander’s words, but he didn’t think so. Sten Nordlander wasn’t a man who dealt in obscure subtexts.
He sat down on a large flat rock with an unobstructed view of the horizon, picked up a few stones and threw them into the water. When had he last played ducks and drakes? He recalled a visit to Stenshuvud with Linda when she was a teenager and reluctant to take trips with him. They had played ducks and drakes then, and she was much better at it than he was. And now she’s as good as married, he thought. She found the right man. If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t be standing here on this rocky outcrop, staring out to sea and wondering about his vanished parents.
One day he would teach Klara to skim flat stones over the water and watch them jump along like frogs before sinking.
He was just about to stand up and go - Sten Nordlander had shouted for him - but he remained seated with the last stone in his hand. Small, grey, a fragment of Swedish rock. A thought struck him, vague at first, but becoming clearer all the time.
