loose-fitting tunic shirt. She was in her thirties, and looked a bit like Linda - although his daughter would never have worn so much make-up.
‘I work for various papers,’ Halbing said. ‘If I have a good story, I sell it to the one that pays best.’
‘And right now you think I’m a good story, is that it?’
‘On a scale of one to ten you might just about scrape into four. No more than that.’
‘What would I have been if I’d shot the waiter in the restaurant?’
‘Then you’d have been a perfect ten. That would obviously have been worth a front-page headline.’
‘How did you find out about this?’
The photographer was itching to pick up his camera, but he kept his promise. Lisa Halbing was still wearing her forced smile.
‘You realise of course that I’m not going to answer that question.’
‘I assume it was the waiter who tipped you off.’
‘It wasn’t, in fact. But I’m not going to say anything more about that.’
Looking back, it was clear to Wallander that one of his colleagues must have leaked the details. It could have been anyone, even Lennart Mattson himself. Or the investigating officer from Malmo. How much would they have earned? All the years he had been a police officer, leaks had been a continuing problem, but he had never been affected himself until now. He had never contacted a journalist, nor had he ever heard the slightest suggestion that any of his close colleagues had done so either. But then, what did he know? Precisely nothing.
Later that evening he called Linda and warned her about what she could expect to read in the following day’s paper.
‘Did you tell them the honest truth?’
‘At least nobody can accuse me of lying.’
‘Then you’ll be OK. Lies are what they’re after. They’ll make a meal of it, but I don’t think there’ll be any repercussions.’
Wallander slept badly that night. The following day he was waiting for the phone to ring, but he had only two calls. One was from Kristina Magnusson, who was angry about the way the incident had been blown out of proportion. Shortly afterwards, Lennart Mattson called.
‘It’s a pity you made a statement to the press,’ he said disapprovingly.
Wallander was furious.
‘What would you have done if you’d been confronted by a journalist and a cameraman on your front doorstep? People who knew every detail of what had happened? Would you have shut the door in their face, or lied to them?’
‘I thought it was you who had contacted them,’ said Mattson lamely.
‘Then you are even more stupid than I thought you were.’
Wallander slammed down the phone and unplugged it. Then he called Linda on his mobile phone and said she should use that number if she wanted to talk to him.
‘Come with us,’ she said.
‘Come with you where?’
She seemed surprised.
‘Didn’t I tell you? We’re off to Stockholm. It’s Hakan’s seventy-fifth birthday. Come with us!’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m staying here. I’m not in a party mood. I’ve had enough of that after my evening at the restaurant.’
‘We’re leaving the day after tomorrow. Think about it.’
When Wallander went to bed that night he was convinced that he wasn’t going anywhere. But by the next morning he had changed his mind. The neighbours could take care of Jussi. It might be a good idea to make himself scarce for a few days.
The following day he flew to Stockholm. Linda and her family drove. He checked into a hotel across from the Central Station. When he leafed through the evening newspapers, he noted that the gun story had already been relegated to an inside page. The big news story of the day was an unusually audacious bank robbery in Gothenburg, carried out by four robbers wearing Abba masks. Reluctantly, he sent the robbers his grateful thanks.
That night he slept unusually soundly in his hotel bed.
4
Hakan von Enke’s birthday party was held in a rented party facility in Djursholm, the upmarket suburb of Stockholm. Wallander had never been there before. Linda assured him that a business suit would be appropriate - von Enke hated dinner jackets and tails, although he was very fond of the various uniforms he had worn during his long naval career. Wallander could have worn his police uniform if he’d wanted to, but he had taken his best suit with him. Under the circumstances, it didn’t feel right for him to use his uniform.
Why on earth had he agreed to go to Stockholm? Wallander asked himself as the express train from Arlanda Airport came to a halt in the Central Station. Perhaps it would have been better to go somewhere else. He occasionally used to take short trips to Skagen in Denmark, where he liked to stroll along the beaches, visit the art gallery, and lounge around in one of the guest houses he had been using for the past thirty years. It was to Skagen that he had retreated many years ago when he had toyed with the idea of resigning from the police forcce. But here he was in Stockholm to attend a birthday party.
When Wallander arrived in Djursholm, Hakan von Enke went out of his way to make him welcome. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Wallander, who was placed at the head table, between Linda and the widow of a rear admiral. The widow, whose name was Hok, was in her eighties, used a hearing aid, and eagerly refilled her wine glass at every opportunity. Even before they had finished the soup course she had started telling slightly smutty jokes. Wallander found her interesting, especially when he discovered that one of her six children was an expert in forensic medicine in Lund - Wallander had met him on several occasions and had a good impression of him. Many speeches were delivered, but they were all blessedly short. Good military discipline, Wallander thought. The toastmaster was a Commander Tobiasson, who made a series of witty remarks that Wallander found highly amusing. When the admiral’s wife fell silent for a little while due to the malfunctioning of her hearing aid, Wallander wondered what he could expect when he celebrated his own seventy-fifth birthday. Who would come to the party, assuming he had one? Linda had told him that it had been Hakan von Enke’s own idea to rent the party rooms. If Wallander understood the situation correctly, his wife, Louise, had been surprised. Usually her husband was dismissive of his birthdays, but he had suddenly changed his mind and set up this lavish spread.
Coffee was served in an adjacent room with comfortable easy chairs. When everyone had finished eating, Wallander went out into a conservatory to stretch his legs. The restaurant was surrounded by spacious grounds - the estate had previously been the home of one of Sweden’s first and richest industrialists.
He gave a start when Hakan von Enke appeared by his side out of nowhere, clutching something as un-PC as an old-fashioned pipe and a packet of tobacco. Wallander recognised the brand: Hamilton’s Blend. For a short period in his late teens he had been a pipe smoker himself, and used the same tobacco.
‘Winter,’ said von Enke. ‘And we’re in for a snowstorm, according to the forecast.’
Von Enke paused for a moment and gazed out at the dark sky.
‘When you’re on board a submarine at a sufficient depth, the climate and weather conditions are totally irrelevant. Everything is calm; you’re in a sort of ocean basement. In the Baltic Sea, twenty-five metres is deep enough if there isn’t too much wind. It’s more difficult in the North Sea. I remember once leaving Scotland in stormy conditions. We were listing fifteen degrees at a depth of thirty metres. It wasn’t exactly pleasant.’
He lit his pipe and eyed Wallander keenly.
‘Is that too poetic a thought for a police officer?’
‘No, but a submarine is a different world as far as I’m concerned. A scary one, I should add.’
The commander sucked eagerly at his pipe.
‘Let’s be honest,’ he said. ‘This party is boring both of us stiff. Everybody knows that I arranged it. I did it because a lot of my friends wanted me to. But now we can hide ourselves away in one of the little side rooms. Sooner or later my wife will come looking for me, but we can talk in peace until then.’
‘But you’re the star of this show,’ said Wallander.
‘It’s like in a good play,’ said von Enke. ‘In order to increase the excitement, the main character doesn’t need
