The Man Who Smiled

by Henning Mankell

  “I’d like you to be there when we discuss the case this morning,” Wallander said. “We have to be absolutely clear about what we’re doing. I don’t want the investigation team to be split. That would prevent us from being able to react rapidly to any new development.”

  “I’ll be there,” Åkeson said. “I was supposed to be playing golf today. Of course, given the weather, I’d rather not.”

  “It’s probably pretty hot in Uganda,” Wallander said. “Or was it the Sudan?”

  “I haven’t even raised the subject with my wife yet,” Åkeson said in a low voice.

  After that call, Wallander drank another cup of coffee and then called Björk again. This time it was the man himself who answered. Wallander had decided not to say anything about what had happened the first time he visited Farnholm Castle. He would rather not do that on the phone; he needed to be face-to-face with Björk. He was brief and to the point.

  “We need to meet and discuss what’s happened,” Wallander said. “Something, that is, which is going to change the whole direction of the case.”

  “What happened?” Björk said.

  “I’d just as soon not discuss it over the phone,” Wallander said.

  “You’re not suggesting our phones are being tapped, I hope?” Björk said. “We need to keep things in perspective, after all.”

  “It’s not that,” Wallander said, although it struck him that he had never considered that possibility. It was too late to do anything about it now—he had already told Åkeson how things were going to develop from now on.

  “I need to see you briefly before the investigation meeting starts,” he said.

  “OK, half an hour from now,” Björk said. “But I don’t understand why you’re being so secretive.”

  “I’m not being secretive,” Wallander said. “But it’s sometimes better to discuss crucial things face-to-face.”

  “That sounds pretty dramatic to me,” Björk said. “I wonder if we shouldn’t contact Per.”

  “I’ve done that already,” Wallander said. “I’ll be in your office in half an hour.”

  Before meeting Björk, Wallander sat in his car outside the police station for a few minutes, gathering his thoughts. He considered canceling the whole thing; perhaps there were more important things to do; but then he acknowledged that he had to make it clear to Björk that Harderberg must be treated like any other Swedish citizen. Failure to reach that understanding would lead inevitably to a crisis of confidence that would end up with Wallander’s resignation. He thought how quickly things had moved. It was only just over a week since he had been pacing up and down the beach at Skagen, preparing to say good-bye forever to his life as a police officer. Now he was feeling that he had to defend his position and his integrity as a police officer. He must write about all this to Baiba as soon as he could.

  Would she be able to understand why everything had changed? Did he really understand it himself?

  He went to Björk’s office and sat on his visitors’ sofa.

  “What on earth has happened?” Björk said.

  “There’s something I must say before we go into the meeting,” Wallander said, and realized his voice sounded hesitant.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to resign again,” Björk said, looking worried.

  “No,” Wallander said. “I have to know why you called Farnholm Castle and warned them that the Ystad police were going to contact them in connection with the murder investigation. I have to know why you didn’t tell me or the others that you had called.”

  Wallander could see Björk was offended and annoyed.

  “Alfred Harderberg is an important man in our society,” Björk said. “He’s not suspected of any criminal activity. It was purely politeness on my part. May I ask how you know about the phone call?”

  “They were too well prepared when I got there.”

  “I don’t see that as being negative,” Björk said. “Given the circumstances.”

  “But it was inappropriate even so,” Wallander said. “Inappropriate in more ways than one. And besides, this kind of thing can create unrest in the investigation team. We have to be absolutely frank with one another.”

  “I have to say that I find it difficult being lectured by you—of all people—on frankness,” Björk said, no longer hiding the fact that he was furious.

  “My shortcomings are no excuse for others acting in that way,” Wallander said. “Not my superior in any case.”

  Björk rose to his feet. “I will not allow myself to be addressed in that manner,” he said, getting red in the face. “It was pure politeness, nothing more. In the circumstances, a routine conversation. It couldn’t have had any adverse effect.”

  “Those circumstances no longer apply,” Wallander said, realizing he was not going to get any further. The important thing now was to explain to Björk as quickly as possible how the whole situation had changed.

  Björk was staring at him, still on his feet. “Express yourself more clearly,” he said. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Information has come to light suggesting that Alfred Harderberg could be behind everything that’s happened,” Wallander said. “That would of course imply that the circumstances have changed quite dramatically.”

  Björk sat down again, incredulous. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that we have reason to believe that Harderberg is directly or indirectly mixed up in the murder of the two lawyers. And the attempted murder of Mrs. Dunér. And the destruction of my car.”

  Björk stared at him in disbelief. “Am I really expected to take that seriously?”

  “Yes, you are,” Wallander said. “Åkeson does.”

  Wallander gave Björk a brisk summary of what had happened. When he had finished, Björk sat looking at his hands before responding.

  “It would be very unpleasant, of course, if this were to turn out to be true,” he said in the end.

  “Murder and explosions are certainly unpleasant things,” Wallander said.

  “We must be very, very careful,” Björk said, apparently ignoring Wallander’s comment. “We can’t accept anything short of conclusive proof before we consider making a move.”

  “We don’t normally do that,” Wallander said. “Why should this case be any different?”

  “I have no doubt at all that this will turn out to be a dead end,” Björk said, getting to his feet to indicate that the conversation was over.

  “That is a possibility,” Wallander said. “So is the opposite.”

  It was 8:10 when he left Björk’s office. He fetched a cup of coffee and dropped by Höglund’s office, but she had not yet arrived. He went to his office to telephone Waldemar Kåge, the taxi driver in Simrishamn. He got through to him on his cell phone and explained what it was about. He made a note that he should send Kåge a check for 230 kronor. He wondered if he should phone the haulage contractor his father had punched and try to persuade him not to take the case to court, but decided against it. The meeting was due to start at 8:30. He needed to concentrate until then.

  He stood at the window. It was a gray day, very cold and damp. Late autumn already, winter just around the corner. I’m here, he thought: I wonder where Harderberg is right now. At Farnholm Castle? Or 30,000 feet up, in his Gulfstream, on the way to and from some intricate negotiation? What had Gustaf Torstensson and Borman discovered? What had really happened? What if Höglund and I are right, if two police officers of different generations, each with their own view of what the world is like, have come to the same conclusion? A conclusion that might even lead us to the truth?

  Wallander came into the conference room at 8:30. Björk was already at the short end of the table, Åkeson was standing by the window, looking out, and Martinsson and Svedberg were deep in conversation about what sounded to Wallander like salaries. Höglund was in her usual place opposite Björk at the other short end of the table. Neither Martinsson nor Svedberg seemed to be worried by Åkeson being there.
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  Wallander said good morning to Höglund. “How do you think this is going to go?” he asked softly.

  “When I woke up I thought I must have dreamed it all,” she said. “Have you spoken yet to Björk and Åkeson?”

  “Åkeson knows most of what happened,” he said. “I only had time to give Björk the short version.”

  “What did Åkeson say?”

  “He’ll go along with us.”

  Björk tapped on the table with a pencil and those who were still standing sat down.

  “All I have to say is that Kurt is going to do the talking,” Björk said. “Unless I am very much mistaken, it looks as though there might have been a dramatic development.”

  Wallander wondered what to say, his mind a sudden blank. Then he found the thread and began. He went through in detail what Höglund’s colleague in Eskilstuna had been able to enlighten them about, and he set out the ideas that had developed in the early hours of the morning, about how they should proceed without waking the sleeping bear. When he had finished—and his account lasted twenty-five minutes—he asked Höglund if she had anything to add, but she shook her head: Wallander had said all there was to say.

  “So, that’s as far as we’ve gotten,” Wallander said. “Because this means that we have no choice but to reassess our priorities for the investigation, we have Per here with us. Another consideration is whether we need to call in outside help at this stage. It’s going to be a very tricky and in many ways a laborious process, penetrating Harderberg’s world, especially since we can’t afford to let him notice how interested in him we are.”

  Wallander was not sure whether he had succeeded in getting across all the things he had wanted to. Höglund smiled and nodded at him, but when he studied the other faces around the table he still could not tell.

  “This really is something for us to get our teeth into,” Åkeson said when the silence had lasted long enough. “We must be clear about the fact that Alfred Harderberg has an impeccable reputation in the Swedish business community. We can expect nothing but hostility if we start questioning that reputation. On the other hand, I have to say there are sufficient grounds for us to start taking a special interest in him. Naturally, I find it difficult to believe that Harderberg was personally involved in the murders or the other events, and of course it might be that things happen in his setup over which he has no control.”

  “I’ve always dreamed of putting one of those gentlemen away,” Svedberg suddenly said.

  “A totally regrettable attitude in a police officer,” Björk said, unable to control his displeasure. “It shouldn’t be necessary for me to remind you all of our status as neutral civil servants—”

  “Let’s stick to the point,” Åkeson interrupted. “And perhaps we should also remind ourselves that in our role as servants of the law we are paid to be suspicious in circumstances in which normally we would not need to be.”

  “So we have the go-ahead to concentrate on Harderberg, is that correct?” Wallander asked.

  “On certain conditions,” Björk said. “I agree with Per that we have to be very careful and prudent, but I also want to stress that I will regard it as dereliction of duty if anything we do is leaked outside these four walls. No statements are to be made to the press without their first having been authorized by me.”

  “We gathered that,” said Martinsson, speaking for the first time. “I’m more concerned about figuring out how we’re going to manage to run a vacuum cleaner over the whole of Harderberg’s empire when there are so few of us. How are we going to coordinate our investigation with the fraud squads in Stockholm and Malmö? How are we going to cooperate with the tax authorities? I wonder if we should approach it quite differently.”

  “How would we do that?” Wallander said.

  “Hand the whole thing over to the national CID,” Martinsson said. “Then they can arrange cooperation with whichever squads and authorities they like. I think we have to concede that we’re too small to handle this.”

  “That thought had occurred to me too,” Åkeson said. “But at this stage, before we’ve even made an initial investigation, the fraud squads in Stockholm and Malmö would probably turn us down. I don’t know if you realize this, but they’re probably even more overworked than we are. There are not many of us, but they are so understaffed they’re verging on collapse. We’ll have to take charge of this ourselves for the time being at least. Do the best we can. Nevertheless, I’ll see if I can interest the fraud squads in helping us. You never know.”

  Looking back, Wallander had no doubt that it was what Åkeson had to say about the hopeless situation the national CID were in that established once and for all the basis of the investigation. The murder investigation would be centered on Harderberg and the links between him and Lars Borman and him and the dead lawyers. Wallander and his team would also be on their own. It was true that the Ystad police were always having to deal with various kinds of fraud cases, but this was so much bigger than anything they had come across before, and they did not know of any financial impropriety associated with the deaths of the two solicitors.

  In short, they had to start looking for an answer to the question: what were they really looking for?

  When Wallander wrote to Baiba in Riga a few nights later and told her about “the secret hunt,” as he had started to call the investigation, he realized that as he wrote to her in English, he would have to explain that hunting in Sweden was different from an English foxhunt. “There’s a hunter in every police officer,” he had written. “There is rarely, if ever, a fanfare of horns when a Swedish police officer is after his prey. But we find the foxes we are after even so. Without us, the Swedish henhouse would have been emptied long ago: all that remained would have been a scattering of bloodstained feathers blowing around in the autumn breeze.”

  The whole team approached their task with enthusiasm. Björk removed the lid of the box where he generally kept overtime locked away. He urged everybody on, reminding them again that not a word of their activities must leak out. Åkeson had removed his jacket, loosened his tie, which was usually so neatly knotted, and become one of the workers, even if he never let slip his authority as ultimate leader of the operation that was now getting under way.

  But it was Wallander who called the shots; he could feel that, and it gave him frequent moments of deep satisfaction. Thanks to unexpected circumstances and the goodwill of his colleagues, which he barely deserved, he had been given an opportunity to atone for some of the guilt he felt after rejecting the confidence Sten Torstensson had shown in him by coming to Skagen and asking for his help. Leading the search for Sten’s murderer and the murderer of his father was enabling Wallander to redeem himself. He had been so preoccupied with his own private woes that he had failed to hear Sten’s cry for help, had not allowed it to penetrate the barricades he had built around his all-consuming depression.

  He wrote another letter to Baiba that he never mailed. In it he tried to explain to her, and hence also to himself, just what it meant, killing a man last year and now, adding to his guilt, rejecting Sten Torstensson’s plea for help. The conclusion he seemed to reach, even though he doubted it deep down, was that Sten’s death had started to trouble him more than the events of the previous year on the fog-bound training area, surrounded by invisible sheep.

  But nothing of this was discernible to those around him. In the canteen his colleagues would comment in confidence that Wallander’s return to duty and to health was as much a surprise as it would have been if he had picked up his bed and walked when he had been at his lowest. Martinsson, who was sometimes unable to hold his cynicism in check, said: “What Kurt needed was a challenging murder. Not some nervous, carelessly executed manslaughter committed on the spur of the moment. The dead lawyers, a mine in a garden, and some Far Eastern explosive mixture in his gas tank—that was just what he needed to bring him back into the fold.”

  The others agreed that there was more than a grain of truth in what Mart
insson said.

  It took them a week to complete the exhaustive survey of Harderberg’s empire that would be the platform for the rest of the investigation. During that week neither Wallander nor any of his colleagues slept for more than five hours at a time. They would later look back at that period and conclude that a mouse really could roar if it had to. Even Åkeson, who was rarely impressed by anything, had to tip his nonexistent hat to what the team had achieved.

  “Not a word of this must get out,” he said to Wallander one evening when they had gone outside for a breath of fresh autumn air, trying to drive away their tiredness. Wallander did not at first understand what he meant.

  “If this gets out, the National Police Board and the Ministry of Justice will set up an inquiry that will eventually lead to something called the ‘Ystad Model’ being presented to the Swedish public: how to achieve outstanding results with minimal resources. We’ll be used as proof that the Swedish police force is not undermanned at all. We’ll be used as evidence to show that in fact there are too many police officers. So many that they keep getting in each other’s way and that leads to a great waste of money and deteriorating clearance rates.”

  “But we haven’t achieved any results at all yet,” Wallander said.

  “I’m talking about the National Police Board,” Åkeson said. “I’m talking about the mysterious world of politics. A world where masses of words are used to camouflage the fact that they’re doing nothing but straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel. Where they go to bed every night and pray that the next day they’ll be able to turn water into wine. I’m not talking about the fact that we haven’t yet discovered who killed the two lawyers. I’m talking about the fact that we now know that Alfred Harderberg is not the model citizen, superior to all others, that we thought he was.”