He remained seated for so long that Nordlander had to shout for him again. Then he stood up and walked over to the picnic, but with the thought firmly lodged in his mind.
After he had been dropped off back at Grevgatan that evening by Sten Nordlander and watched him drive away, he hurried up the stairs to the apartment.
His suspicion was confirmed. The little grey stone that had been lying on Hakan von Enke’s desk was missing.
14
The sea trip had tired Wallander out. It had also stimulated many thoughts. Not just about why the stone was missing. Something inside him had clicked when Sten Nordlander said: ‘Who was he hiding it from?’ Hakan von Enke could have had only one reason for hiding his book.
It must have something to do with people. People who were still alive. At one point in the book von Enke had written a list of names that had meant nothing to Wallander - with one exception, that of a man who often appeared in the media during the hunt for the submarines, a man highly placed in the Swedish navy: Sven-Erik Hakansson. Beside that name von Enke had written a cross, an exclamation mark, and a question mark. What could that mean? The notes were not haphazard; everything was calculated, even if much of it was in a secret language that Wallander had only partially been able to interpret.
He took out the file again and examined the names once more, wondering if they were people involved somehow or other in the battle against the intruders, or if they were suspects. And if so, suspected of what?
He took a deep breath.
The man outside the fence in Djursholm, Wallander thought. Was that someone who didn’t like the idea of Hakan von Enke hunting down a spy?
Wallander adjusted the floor lamp next to the sofa and worked his way through the thick file yet again. He paused every time he came to notes that could possibly indicate traces of a spy. Perhaps that was also the answer to another question, the feeling that somebody had removed documents from the archive in von Enke’s study. The person responsible for removing the papers was probably Hakan von Enke himself. It was all like some sort of Russian nesting doll. He had not only hidden his notes, but he had also hidden from outsiders what they actually meant. He had laid a smokescreen. Or perhaps rather a minefield that could be activated whenever he wanted, if he noticed that someone was getting close to him, someone who had no business being there.
Wallander eventually turned off the light and went to bed. But he couldn’t get to sleep. On a sudden impulse, he got up, dressed and went out. Earlier in his life when he was feeling especially lonely he had tried to improve the situation by going for long nocturnal walks. There wasn’t a single street in Ystad that he hadn’t become familiar with. Now he walked along Strandvagen and then turned left towards the bridge to Djurgarden. It was a warm summer night and there were still people out and about, many of them drunk and boisterous. Wallander felt like a furtive stranger as he wandered through the shadows. He continued past the amusement park at Grona Lund, and didn’t turn back until he came to the Thielska art gallery. He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, just strolling around in the night instead of sleeping. When he arrived back at the apartment he fell asleep right away; his excursion had achieved its desired effect.
The following day he drove home. He was back in Skane by mid-afternoon and stopped to stock up on provisions before tackling the final stretch and picking up Jussi, who was overjoyed to see him and left muddy paw prints on his clothes. After eating and sleeping for an hour or two, he sat down at the kitchen table with the file in front of him. He had taken out his strongest magnifying glass. His father had given it to him many years ago, when he had displayed a sudden interest in tiny insects crawling around in the grass. It was one of the few presents he had ever received, apart from the dog, Saga, and he treasured it. Now he used it to examine the photographs between the black covers, leaving the texts and margin notes in peace for a change.
One of the photos seemed to stick out like a sore thumb. It hadn’t occurred to him before, but there was something too
The photo, which was in black and white, had been taken at some sort of harbour. In the background was a building with no windows, presumably a warehouse. With the aid of the magnifying glass, Wallander was able to make out two trucks and some stacks of fish crates in a blurred area at the edge of the picture. The photographer had aimed the camera at two men standing by a fishing boat, an old-fashioned trawler. One of the men was old, the other very young, no more than a boy. Wallander guessed that the picture had been taken sometime in the sixties. The fashion was still wool sweaters and leather jackets, sou’westers and oilskins. The boat was white, and scraped up. Behind and between the older man’s legs Wallander could just make out the registration plate. The last letter was
‘You just vanished into thin air,’ she said. ‘I think we have enough missing persons to contend with.’
‘You don’t have to worry about me,’ said Wallander. ‘I came home an hour or so ago. I was planning to call you tomorrow.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘now! I - not to mention Hans - want to know what you’ve found out.’
‘Is he at home?’
‘He’s at work. I told him off this morning because he’s never here. I tried to hammer it into him that one of these days I’ll start working again. What will happen then?’
‘Well, what will happen?’
‘He’ll have to help. Anyway, tell me all about it.’
Wallander started to describe his visit to Signe, the lonely, hunched-up creature with the blonde hair, but before he had hit his stride, Klara started crying and Linda was forced to hang up. He promised to call her the following day.
The first thing he did when he arrived at the police station the next morning was to find Martinsson and figure out whether or not he would be on duty over the midsummer holiday. Martinsson was, of all his colleagues, best acquainted with the constantly changing work schedule, and he was able to answer within a couple of minutes. Despite so many officers being on leave, Wallander would not be required to work over Midsummer. As for Martinsson, he had arranged to take his youngest daughter to a yoga camp in Denmark.
‘I don’t really know what it involves,’ he said, trying to hide his concern. ‘Is it normal for a thirteen-year-old to be so crazy about yoga?’
‘Better that than a lot of other things.’
‘My two older children were into horses. Much less stressful. But this girl is different.’
‘We’re all different,’ said Wallander mysteriously, and left the room.
He dialled the number he had tracked down the previous evening and soon discovered that NRG123 belonged to a fisherman by the name of Eskil Lundberg on Boko in the Gryt southern archipelago. He made another call and, when an answering machine came on, he left a message saying it was urgent.
Then he called Linda and finished the conversation they had begun the previous evening. She had spoken to Hans, and as soon as possible they would go visit Signe. Wallander wasn’t surprised, but he wondered if they really understood what was in store for them. What had he himself expected to find?
‘We’ve decided to celebrate midsummer,’ she said. ‘In spite of everything that’s happened, and all the
