‘He was never at home in those days. At least, I remember him as being mostly absent. Every time he came through the door, I knew he would soon be leaving again. He always brought me presents. But I didn’t dare enjoy being with him. When his uniform was taken out to be aired and brushed, I knew what was going to happen. The following morning he would leave.’
‘Can you tell me more about what you regard as secretive behaviour on your mother’s part?’
‘It’s hard to pinpoint. Sometimes she seemed preoccupied, sunk so deep in her own thoughts that she grew angry if I happened to disturb her. It was almost as if I’d caused her pain, as if I’d stuck a pin in her. I don’t know if that makes sense to you, but that’s how I remember it. Sometimes she would close her notebooks, or quickly slide something over the paper she was working on when I came into the room.’
‘Was there anything your mother did only when your father wasn’t at home? Any routines that suddenly changed?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘You’re answering too quickly. Think about it.’
Hans stood up and gazed out the windows. Through the floor Wallander could see a street musician down below strumming away at a guitar with a hat in front of him on the pavement. No sound of music penetrated the glass. Hans returned to his chair.
‘What I’m about to say now is nothing I could swear to,’ he said. ‘It could be my imagination, my memory playing tricks. But now that I think about it, when Hakan was away she often talked on the phone, always with the door closed. She didn’t do that when he was at home.’
‘Didn’t talk on the phone or didn’t close the door?’
‘Neither.’
‘Go on.’
‘There were often papers lying around that she worked on. I have the feeling that when Hakan came home the papers were no longer there - there were flowers on the tables instead.’
‘What kind of papers?’
‘I don’t know. But sometimes there were drawings as well.’
Wallander gave a start.
‘Drawings of what?’
‘Divers. My mother was very good at drawing.’
‘Divers?’
‘Various dives, different phases of individual dives. “German leap with full twist” or whatever they say, that sort of thing.’
‘Can you remember any other kind of drawings?’
‘She sometimes drew me. I don’t know where those drawings are, but they were good.’
Wallander broke a Danish pastry in two and dunked one half in his coffee. He looked at his watch. The musician under his feet was still playing his silent music.
‘I’m not quite finished yet,’ said Wallander. ‘Let’s talk about your mother’s views. Political, social, economic. What did she think about Sweden?’
‘Politics were not a topic of conversation in my home.’
‘Never?’
‘One of them might say, “The Swedish armed forces are no longer capable of defending our country,” or something of the sort. The other might reply to the effect that it was the fault of the Communists. And that would be it. Either of them could have said either of those things. They were conservative, of course - we’ve spoken about that already. There was no question of voting for any party other than the Moderates. Taxes were too high. Sweden was allowing in too many immigrants who went on to cause chaos in the streets. I think you could say they thought exactly as you would expect them to.’
‘There was never any exception to that, then?’
‘Never, not that I can recall.’
Wallander nodded and ate the other half of the Danish.
‘Let’s talk about your parents’ relationship with each other,’ he said when he’d finished chewing. ‘What was that like?’
‘It was good.’
‘Did they ever argue?’
‘No. I think they really loved each other. That’s something I’ve thought about since - that as a child I never had the slightest fear that they would divorce. That thought never even occurred to me.’
‘But surely no couple ever lives together without the occasional conflict?’
‘They did. Unless they argued when I was asleep and I didn’t hear them. But I find that hard to believe.’
Wallander had no more questions. But he wasn’t ready to give up.
‘Is there anything else you could say about your mother? She was kind and she was secretive, perhaps mysterious, we know that now. But to be perfectly honest, you seem to know surprisingly little about her.’
‘I’ve come to see that,’ said Hans, with something that Wallander interpreted as painful honesty. ‘There were hardly ever any moments of real intimacy between us. She always kept me at a certain distance. She comforted me if I hurt myself, of course. But with hindsight I can see now that she found that almost troublesome.’
‘Was there any other man in her life?’
That was not a question Wallander had prepared in advance. But now that he’d asked it, it seemed an obvious one.
‘Never. I don’t think there was any disloyalty between my parents. On either side.’
‘What about before they got married? What do you know about that time?’
‘I have the feeling that because they met so early in their lives, neither of them ever had anybody else. Not anyone serious. But of course, I can’t be certain.’
Wallander put his notebook in his jacket pocket. He hadn’t written down a single word. There was nothing to write. He knew as little now as he had before he’d arrived.
He stood up. But Hans remained seated.
‘My father,’ he said. ‘I gather he’s called you. So he’s alive, but he doesn’t want to put in an appearance, is that it?’
Wallander sat down again. The guitar player under his feet had moved on.
‘There’s no doubt that he was the one who called. He said he was well. He gave no explanation of his behaviour. He just wanted you to know that he was alive.’
‘He really said nothing about where he was?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What impression did you get? Was he far away? Did he call from a landline or a mobile phone?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Because you don’t want to, or because you can’t?’
‘Because I can’t.’
Wallander stood up again. They left the room made of glass. When they passed by the conference room, the door was closed but the people inside were still arguing loudly. They said their goodbyes in reception.
‘Did I help at all?’ Hans asked.
‘You were honest,’ Wallander said. ‘That’s the only thing I can ask for.’
‘A diplomatic answer. So I wasn’t able to give you what you were hoping for.’
Wallander made a resigned gesture. The glass door opened, and he waved as he left. The lift took him silently down to the lobby. He had parked his car in a side street off Kongens Nytorv. Since it was very hot, he took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt.
Suddenly he had the feeling he was being watched. He turned round. The street was full of people, but he didn’t recognise any of the faces. After a hundred yards he stopped in front of a shop window and contemplated some expensive ladies’ shoes. He sneaked a look back along the section of street he’d just come from.
