The Man Who Smiled

by Henning Mankell

  Wallander stood staring out of the window.

  “There’s not much else we can do but wait,” Martinsson said.

  Wallander did not respond. It eventually dawned on him that Martinsson had said something. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “All we can do is wait.”

  “Yes,” Wallander said. “And right now there’s nothing I find harder to do.”

  Wallander went back to his office, sat at his desk, and contemplated the enlarged overview of Alfred Harderberg’s worldwide empire they had received from the fraud squad in Stockholm. He had pinned it to the wall.

  What I’m looking at is really an atlas of the world, he thought. National boundaries have been replaced by ever-changing demarcation lines between different companies whose turnover and influence are greater than the budgets of many whole countries. He searched through the papers on his desk until he found the summary of the ten largest companies in the world that had been sent to him as an appendix by the fraud squad—they must have had a hyperactivity fit. Six of the biggest companies were Japanese and three American. The other was Royal Dutch/Shell, which was shared by Britain and Holland. Of those ten largest companies, four were banks, two telephone companies, one a car manufacturer, and one an oil company. The other two were General Electric and Exxon. He tried to imagine the power wielded by these companies, but it was impossible for him to grasp what this concentration really meant. How could he when he did not feel he could get a grip on Harderberg’s empire, even though that was like a mouse in the shadow of an elephant’s foot compared with the Big Ten?

  Once upon a time Alfred Harderberg had been Alfred Hansson. From insignificant beginnings in Vimmerby he had become one of the Silk Knights who ruled the world, always engaged in new crusades in the battle to outmaneuver or crush his competitors. On the surface he observed all the laws and regulations, he was a respected man who had been awarded honorary doctorates, he displayed great generosity, and donations flowed from his apparently inexhaustible resources.

  In describing him as an honorable man who was good for Sweden, Björk had voiced the generally accepted view.

  What I’m really saying is that there is a stain somewhere, Wallander thought, and that smile has to be wiped from his face if we’re going to nail a murderer. I’m trying to identify something which is basically unthinkable. Harderberg doesn’t have a stain. His suntanned face and his smile are things we should, all of us Swedes, be proud of, and that’s all there is to it.

  Wallander left the police station at 6 P.M. It had stopped raining and the wind had died down. When he got home he found a letter among all the junk mail in the hall that was postmarked Riga. He put it on the kitchen table and looked hard at it, but did not open it until he had drunk a bottle of beer. He read the letter, and then, to be certain he had not misunderstood anything, read it through again. It was correct, she had given him an answer. He put the letter down on the table and pinched himself. He turned to the wall calendar and counted the days. He could not remember the last time he had been so excited. He took a bath, then went to the pizzeria on Hamngatan. He drank a bottle of wine with his meal, and it was only when he had become a little tipsy that he realized he had not given a thought to Alfred Harderberg or Kurt Ström all evening. He was humming an improvised tune when he left the pizzeria, and then wandered about the streets until almost midnight. Then he went home and read the letter from Baiba one more time, just in case there was something in her English that he had misunderstood after all.

  It was as he was about to fall asleep that he started thinking about Ström, and immediately he was wide awake again. Wait, Martinsson had said. That was the only thing they could do. He got out of bed and went to sit on the living-room sofa. What do we do if Ström doesn’t find an Italian pistol? he thought. What happens to the investigation if the plastic container turns out to be a dead end? We might be able to deport a couple of foreign bodyguards who are in Sweden illegally, but that’s about all. Harderberg, in his well-tailored suit, with that constant smile on his face, will depart from Farnholm Castle, and we’ll be left with the wreckage of a failed murder investigation. We’ll have to start all over again, and that will be very hard. We’ll have to start examining every single thing that’s happened as if we were seeing it for the first time.

  He made up his mind to resign responsibility for the case if that did happen. Martinsson could take over. That was not only reasonable, it was also necessary. Wallander was the one who had pushed through the strategy of concentrating on Harderberg. He would sink to the bottom with the rest of the wreckage, and when he came up to the surface again it would be Martinsson who would be in charge.

  When at last he went back to bed he slept badly. His dreams kept collapsing and blending into one another, and he could see the smiling face of Alfred Harderberg at the same time as Baiba’s unfailingly serious expression.

  He woke at 7 A.M. He made a pot of coffee and thought about the letter from Baiba, then sat down at the kitchen table and read the auto ads in the morning paper. He still had not heard anything from the insurance company, but Björk had assured him that he could use a police car for as long as he needed to. He left the apartment just after 9:00. The temperature was above freezing and there was not a cloud in the sky. He spent a few hours driving from one car showroom to another, and spent a long time examining a Nissan he wished he could afford. On the way back he parked the car on Stortorget and walked to the record shop on Stora Östergatan. There was not much in the way of opera, and rather reluctantly he had to settle for a recording of selected arias. Then he bought some food and drove home. There were still several hours to go before he was due to meet Kurt Ström in Svartavägen.

  It was 2:55 when Wallander parked outside the red dollhouse in Sandskogen. When he knocked on the door there was no reply. He wandered around the garden, and after half an hour he started to get worried. Instinct told him something had happened. He waited until 4:15, then scribbled a note to Ström on the back of an envelope he had found in the car, giving him his phone numbers at home and at the station, and pushed it under the door. He drove back to town, wondering what he should do. Ström was acting on his own and knew he had to take care of himself. He was perfectly capable of getting himself out of awkward situations, Wallander had no doubt, but even so, he felt increasingly worried. After establishing that nobody in the investigative team was still in the building, he went to his office and called Martinsson at home. His wife answered and told Wallander that Martinsson had taken his daughter to the swimming pool. He was about to call Svedberg, but changed his mind and called Höglund instead. Her husband answered. When she came to the phone, Wallander told her that Ström had failed to turn up at their rendezvous.

  “What does that mean?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” Wallander said. “Probably nothing, but I’m worried.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In my office.”

  “Do you want me to come in?”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll call you back if anything happens.”

  He hung up and continued waiting. At 5:30 P.M. he drove back to Svartavägen and shone his flashlight on the door. The corner of the envelope was still sticking out underneath, so Ström had not been home. Wallander had his cell phone with him, and dialed Ström’s number at Glimmingehus. He let it ring for about a minute, but there was no answer. He was now convinced that something had happened, and decided to go back to the station and get in touch with Åkeson.

  He had just stopped at a red light on Österleden when his cell phone rang.

  “There’s a Sten Widén trying to get in touch with you,” said the operator at the police switchboard. “Do you have his number?”

  “Yes, I do,” Wallander said. “I’ll call him now.”

  The lights had changed and the driver of a car behind him sounded his horn impatiently. Wallander pulled onto the side of the road, then dialed Widén’s number. One of the stable girls answered.
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br />   “Is that Roger Lundin?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Wallander said, surprised. “That’s me.”

  “I’m supposed to tell you that Sten is on his way to your apartment in Ystad.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “A quarter of an hour ago.”

  Wallander made a racing start to beat the yellow light and drove back to town. Now he was certain something had happened. Ström had not returned home, and Sofia must have contacted Widén and had something so important to tell him that Widén had felt it was necessary to drive to his apartment. When he turned onto Mariagatan there was no sign of Widén’s old Volvo Duett. He waited in the street, wondering desperately what could have happened to Ström.

  When Widén’s Volvo appeared Wallander opened the door before Widén even had time to switch off the engine.

  “What happened?” he said, as Widén tried to extricate himself from the tattered seat belt.

  “Sofia phoned,” he said. “She sounded hysterical.”

  “What about?”

  “Do we really have to be out here in the street?” Widén said.

  “It’s just that I’m worried,” Wallander said.

  “On Sofia’s account?”

  “No, Kurt Ström’s.”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  “We’d better go inside,” Wallander said. “You’re right, we can’t stand out here in the cold.”

  As they went up the stairs Wallander noticed that Widén smelled of strong drink. He had better have a serious talk with him about that—one of these days after they had resolved who killed the two lawyers.

  They sat at the kitchen table, with Baiba’s letter still lying there between them.

  “Who’s this Ström?” Widén asked again.

  “Later,” Wallander said. “You first. Sofia?”

  “She phoned about an hour ago,” Widén said, making a face. “I couldn’t understand what she was saying at first. She was off her rocker.”

  “Where was she calling from?”

  “From her apartment at the stables.”

  “Oh, shit!”

  “I don’t think she had much choice,” Widén said, scratching his stubble. “If I understood her correctly, she had been out riding. Suddenly she comes across a dummy lying on the path ahead of her. Have you heard about the dummies? Life-size?”

  “She told me,” Wallander said. “Go on.”

  “The horse stopped and refused to go past. Sofia dismounted to pull the dummy out of the way. Only it wasn’t a dummy.”

  “Oh, hell!” said Wallander slowly.

  “You sound as if you already know about it,” Widén said.

  “I’ll explain later. Go on.”

  “It was a man lying there. Covered in blood.”

  “Was he dead?”

  “It didn’t occur to me to ask. I assumed so.”

  “What next?”

  “She rode away and phoned me.”

  “What did you tell her to do?”

  “I don’t know if it was the best advice, but I told her to do nothing, to sit tight.”

  “Good,” Wallander said. “You did exactly the right thing.”

  Widén excused himself and went to the bathroom. Wallander could hear the faint clinking of a bottle. When he came back Wallander told him about Ström.

  “So you think he was the one there on the path?” Widén said.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Widén suddenly boiled over, and smashed his fist down on the table. Baiba Liepa’s letter fluttered down to the floor.

  “The police had goddamn better get out there right away! What the hell’s going on at that castle? I’m not letting Sofia stay there a moment longer.”

  “That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Wallander said, getting to his feet.

  “I’m going home,” Widén said. “Call me as soon as you’ve got Sofia out of there.”

  “No,” Wallander said. “You’re staying here. You’ve been drinking the hard stuff. I’m not going to let you drive. You can sleep here.”

  Widén stared at Wallander as if he did not know what he was talking about. “Are you suggesting that I’m drunk?” he said.

  “Not drunk, but you’re over the limit. I don’t want you getting into trouble.”

  Widén had left his car keys on the table. Wallander put them in his pocket. “Just to be on the safe side,” he said. “I don’t want you changing your mind while I’m gone.”

  “You must be out of your mind,” Widén said. “I’m not drunk.”

  “We can argue about that when I get back,” Wallander said. “I’ve got to go this very minute.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your Kurt Ström,” Widén said, “but I don’t want anything to happen to her.”

  “I take it she’s more than just a stablehand to you,” Wallander said.

  “Yes,” Widén said. “But that’s not why I don’t want anything to happen.”

  “That has nothing to do with me,” Wallander said.

  “Exactly right. It doesn’t.”

  Wallander found a pair of unused sneakers in his closet. Many times he had vowed to start jogging, but had never gotten around to it. He put on a thick sweater and a woollen cap, and was ready to leave.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said to Widén, who had openly planted his whiskey bottle on the kitchen table.

  “You worry about Sofia, not about me,” Widén said.

  Wallander closed the door behind him, then paused on the dark staircase, wondering what to do. If Ström was dead, everything had failed. He felt as if he was back to where he had been the previous year, when death was waiting in the fog. The men at Farnholm Castle were dangerous, whether they smiled like Harderberg or skulked in the shadows like Tolpin and Obadia.

  I’ve got to get Sofia out of there, he thought. I must call Björk and organize an emergency team. We’ll bring in every police district in Skåne if we have to.

  He switched on the light and ran down the stairs. He called Björk from his car, but as soon as Björk answered he turned off the phone.

  I have to figure this out myself, he thought. I don’t want any more dead bodies.

  He drove to the police station and got his handgun and a flashlight. He went to Svedberg’s deserted office and turned on the light, then trawled through papers until he found the map of the Farnholm Castle grounds. He folded it and put it in his pocket. When he left the station it was 7:45. He drove to Malmövägen and stopped at Höglund’s house. He rang the bell, and her husband opened the door. He declined the offer to go inside, saying that he only wanted to leave her a message. When she came to the door she was in a robe.

  “Listen carefully,” he said. “I’m going to break into Farnholm Castle.”

  “Ström?” she said.

  “I think he’s dead.”

  She turned pale and Wallander wondered if she was going to faint.

  “You can’t go to the castle on your own,” she said, when she had recovered her composure.

  “I have to.”

  “Why do you have to?”

  “I have to figure this out myself,” he said, annoyed. “Please stop asking questions. Just listen.”

  “I’m going with you,” she said. “You can’t go there by yourself.”

  She had made up her mind. There was no point in arguing with her.

  “All right, you can come,” he said, “but you’ll wait outside. I could use somebody I can be in radio contact with.”

  She ran up the stairs. Her husband ushered Wallander in and closed the door.

  “This is what she warned me would happen,” he said with a smile. “When I get back home, she’s the one who’ll be going out on business.”

  “This probably won’t take very long,” Wallander said, though he could hear how lame the words sounded.

  A couple of minutes later she came back down wearing a tracksuit.

  “Don’t wait up for me,” she said to her husband.


  Nobody to wait up for me, Wallander thought. Nobody. Not even a dozing cat among the plant pots on a window ledge.

  They drove to the police station and got two radios.

  “Maybe I should get a gun,” she said.

  “No,” Wallander said. “You’ll wait outside the perimeter. And you’d better do exactly as I say.”

  They left Ystad behind. It was a clear, cold night. Wallander was driving fast.

  “What are you going to do?” she said.

  “I’m going to find out what happened.”

  She can see through me, he thought. She knows I don’t have a clue what I’m going to do.

  They continued in silence and reached the turnoff to Farnholm Castle at about 9:30. Wallander drove into a parking place reserved for tractors and switched off his engine and also the lights. They sat there in the dark.

  “I’ll be in touch every hour,” Wallander said. “If you hear nothing for more than two hours, call Björk and tell him to organize a full emergency team.”

  “You shouldn’t be doing this, you know,” she said.

  “All my life I’ve been doing things I shouldn’t be doing,” Wallander said. “Why stop now?”

  They tuned their radios.

  “Why did you become a police officer and not a vicar?” he said, looking into her eyes reflected in the dim light of the radios.

  “I was raped,” she said. “That changed my whole life. All I wanted to do after that was join the police force.”

  Wallander sat for a while in silence. Then he opened the door, got out, and closed it quietly behind him. It was like entering another world. Höglund was nowhere to be found any longer.

  The night was very calm. For some reason he was struck by the thought that in two days it would be Lucia, and all of Sweden would be occupied with blond girls wearing a crown of burning candles on their heads, singing “Santa Lucia” and celebrating what used to be thought of as the winter solstice. He positioned himself behind a tree trunk and unfolded his map. He shone his flashlight on it and tried to memorize the key elements. Then he switched off the flashlight, put the map into his pocket, and ran down the road leading to the castle gates. It would be impossible to climb the double fence of barbed wire. There was only one way in, and that was through the gates.