The Troubled Man (2011)

‘I assume he’s out fishing,’ said Wallander.

‘What else? He has nearly a mile of nets out there. Every other day he delivers fish to Soderkoping.’

‘Eel?’

She sounded almost offended when she replied.

‘If he’d been after eels he’d have taken eel traps with him,’ she said. ‘But there are no eels any more. Before long there won’t be any fish left at all.’

‘Does he still have the boat?’

‘Which boat?’

‘The big trawler. NRG123.’

Wallander noticed that she was becoming less and less cooperative, almost suspicious.

‘He tried to sell it ages ago. Nobody wanted it, it was such a wreck. It rotted away. He sold the engine for a hundred kronor. What exactly do you want?’

‘I want to speak to him,’ Wallander said, in as friendly a tone as he could manage. ‘Does he have a mobile phone with him?’

‘There’s not much of a signal out there. You’d be better off calling him when he gets back home. He should be here in about two hours.’

‘I’ll do that.’

He managed to bring the call to a close before she had another chance to ask him what he wanted. He leaned back and put his feet on his desk. Now he had no meetings, no tasks that required his immediate attention. He grabbed his jacket and left the police station - to be on the safe side, he left via the basement garage, so that nobody could catch him at the last moment. He walked down the hill into town, and felt a spring in his step. He wasn’t yet so old that nothing affected him any more. Sun and warm weather made everything more tolerable.

He had lunch in a cafe just off the square, read Ystads Allehanda and one of the evening newspapers. Then he sat on a bench in the square. He had another quarter of an hour to kill. He wondered where Hakan and Louise were at that moment. Were they still alive, or were they dead? Had they made some kind of pact regarding their disappearance? He was reminded of the turmoil caused by the spy Stig Bergling, but he had trouble finding any similarities between the serious submarine commander and the conceited Bergling.

Wallander also considered another factor that he reluctantly conceded could be of vital significance. Hakan von Enke had visited his daughter regularly. Was he really prepared to let her down by going underground? The inevitable conclusion was that von Enke must be dead.

There was an alternative, of course, Wallander thought as he watched people rummaging through old LP records at one of the market stands. Von Enke had been scared. Could it be that whoever he was afraid of had caught up with him? Wallander had no answers, only questions that he must try to formulate as clearly and precisely as possible.

When the time came he called Boko just as a somewhat drunk man sat down on the other end of the bench. A man’s voice eventually answered. Wallander decided to put all his cards on the table. He said his name, and explained that he was a police officer.

‘I found a photograph in a file that belongs to a man called Hakan von Enke. Do you know him?’

‘No.’

The answer came quickly and firmly. Wallander had the impression that Lundberg was on his guard.

‘Do you know his wife? Louise?’

‘No.’

‘But your paths must have crossed somehow. Why else would he have a photo of you and a man I assume is your father. And of the boat NRG123. That’s your boat, isn’t it?’

‘My father bought it in Gothenburg sometime in the early 1960s. Around the time when they started building bigger boats and no longer used wood as the main material. He got it cheap. There was no shortage of herring in those days.’

Wallander described the photo, and wondered where it had been taken.

‘Fyrudden,’ said Lundberg. ‘That’s where the boat was berthed. Helga, she was named. She was built in a yard in the south of Norway. Tonsberg, I think.’

‘Who took the picture?’

‘It must have been Gustav Holmqvist. He ran a marine joinery business and was always taking pictures when he wasn’t working.’

‘Could your father have known Hakan von Enke?’

‘My father’s dead. He never mixed with that crowd.’

‘What do you mean, “that crowd”?’

‘Noblemen.’

‘Hakan von Enke is also a seafarer. Like you and your father.’

‘I don’t know him. Neither did my dad.’

‘Then how did he get hold of that photograph?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Maybe I should ask Gustav Holmqvist. Do you have his phone number?’

‘He doesn’t have a phone number. He’s been dead for fifteen years. And his wife is dead. Their daughter too. They’re all dead.’

Wallander obviously wasn’t going to get any further. There was nothing to suggest that Eskil Lundberg wasn’t telling the truth. Yet at the same time, Wallander had the feeling that something didn’t add up. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

Wallander apologised to Lundberg for disturbing him, and remained sitting with his mobile phone in his hand. The drunken man on the other end of the bench had fallen asleep. It suddenly dawned on Wallander that he recognised him. Several years ago Wallander had arrested him and some accomplices for a series of burglaries. The man had spent some years in jail, and then left Ystad. Evidently he was back again.

Wallander stood up and began walking to the police station. He repeated the conversation to himself, word for word. Lundberg hadn’t displayed any curiosity at all. Was he really as uninterested as he seemed to be? Or did he know what I was going to ask about? Wallander continued rehashing the conversation until he was back in his office. He hadn’t reached any clear conclusion.

His thoughts were interrupted by Martinsson, who appeared in the doorway.

‘We’ve found the old woman,’ he said.

Wallander stared at him. He didn’t know what Martinsson was talking about.

‘Who?’

‘The woman who killed her husband with an axe. Evelina Andersson. The woman in the swamp. I’m going to drive out there again. Do you want to come with me?’

‘Yes, I’ll come.’

Wallander racked his memory in vain. But he didn’t have the slightest idea what Martinsson was talking about.

They took Martinsson’s car. Wallander still didn’t know where they were going, or why. He was feeling increasingly desperate. Martinsson glanced at him.

‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

It was only after they had left Ystad that his memory became unblocked. It’s that shadow inside my head, Wallander thought, furious with himself. Everything came back to him now, with full force.

‘Something just occurred to me,’ he said. ‘I forgot that I have a dentist appointment.’

Martinsson braked.

‘Should I turn round?’

‘No. One of the others can drive me back.’

Wallander didn’t bother to take a look at the woman they had just lifted out of the swamp. A patrol car took him back to Ystad. He got out at the police station and thanked the driver for the lift, then sat in his own car. He felt cold and worried. The gaps in his memory were scaring him.

After a while he went up to his office. He had decided to talk to his doctor about the sudden spells of darkness that filled his head. He had just sat down when his mobile phone gave a chime: he had received a text. It