An Event in Autumn: A Kurt Wallander Mystery

by Henning Mankell

  “Have you any idea of how many of these refugees never actually registered?”

  “Somebody in Lund wrote a dissertation on that a few years ago. According to the data he uncovered, about seventy-five percent of them actually registered.”

  She stood up and left the room. Wallander sat down and looked out through the window. He was already wondering how they were going to get any further with this lead. He concluded that they were going to get nowhere.

  He was tempted to leave. Get into his car, leave Skåne and never come back. But it was too late for such a drastic move, he knew that. At best, he might one day find the house he was looking for and buy a dog. And perhaps also find a woman who could become the companion he so badly needed. Linda was right. He really was on the way to becoming a lifeless, bitter old codger.

  He dismissed all such thought in annoyance, then leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

  He was woken up by somebody saying his name. When he opened his eyes, the woman was standing there with a sheet of paper in her hand.

  “Sometimes it turns out that I’m too pessimistic,” she said. “I think I might have found what you’re looking for.”

  Wallander jumped up from his chair.

  “Is that really possible?”

  “It seems so.”

  The woman sat down at her desk, and Wallander sat opposite her. She read out from the paper she had in her hand. Wallander noticed that she was farsighted, but she did not use reading glasses.

  “Kaarin, Elmo and Ivar Pihlak came to Sweden from Denmark in February 1944,” she said. “They lived in Malmö at first. Then they had an apartment in Ludvig Hansson’s house, and they were listed as living there in the official national register. In November that same year they requested permission to leave Sweden and return to Denmark. And they duly left Sweden. It’s all recorded here.”

  “How can you be so certain of that?”

  “Various special notes were made during the war with regard to refugees. It’s their son who notified the authorities of their departure.”

  Wallander was confused.

  “I’m not completely with you. What son?”

  “Ivar. He reported that his parents had left Sweden in November 1944.”

  “What did he do then?”

  “He stayed on in Sweden and was granted a residence permit. Later on he became a Swedish citizen. In 1954, to be precise.”

  Wallander held his breath. He tried to think clearly. Three Estonians come to Sweden in 1944. Father, mother and son. In November that same year the parents go back to Denmark, but the son stays on here. And he’s the one who reports that his parents have left Sweden.

  “I take it it’s not possible to say if the son is still alive. Or if he is, where he might be living.”

  “I can tell you that, no problem. He’s been registered in Ystad for many years. His current address is recorded as Ekudden. That’s an old people’s home not far from the old prison.”

  Wallander knew where it was.

  “So he’s still alive, is he?”

  “Yes. He’s eighty-six years old, but he’s still alive.”

  Just for a moment Wallander stared out into space. Then he left the room.

  CHAPTER 23

  On the outskirts of Ystad Wallander stopped at a filling station and had a hot dog. He was still not sure what the information he had received from the tax authorities actually indicated. If, in fact, it indicated anything at all.

  He drank some coffee served in a plastic mug before continuing on his way.

  Ekudden was just off the main road to Trelleborg—a large, old building in extensive grounds, with views of the sea and the entrance to Ystad harbor. Wallander parked his car and went through the gate. A few elderly men were playing boules on one of the gravel paths. Wallander entered the building, gave a friendly nod to two old ladies who sat knitting, and knocked on a door with a sign saying “Office.” A woman in her thirties opened the door.

  “My name’s Wallander and I’m a police officer here in Ystad.”

  “I know your daughter, Linda,” said the woman with a smile. “We went to the same school a long time ago. I was in your flat in Mariagatan once when you came in through the door: I remember being scared to death!”

  “Of me?”

  “Of you, yes! You were so enormously big.”

  “I don’t think I’m all that big, am I? Do you know that Linda has come back to Ystad?”

  “Yes, I bumped into her in the street. I know she’s become a police officer.”

  “Do you think she seems frightening now?”

  The girl laughed. She had a name tag pinned to her blouse: she was evidently called Pia.

  “I have a question,” said Wallander. “I’ve been told that a man called Ivar Pihlak lives here.”

  “Yes, Ivar lives here. He has a room on the first floor, right at the end of the corridor.”

  “Is he at home?”

  Pia looked at him in surprise.

  “It’s very seldom that the old folks who live here are not at home.”

  “Do you know if he has any relatives?”

  “He’s never had any visitors. I don’t think he has a family. His parents live in Estonia. Or lived, rather. I seem to recall that he once said they were dead, and that he doesn’t have any relatives left.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s eighty-six years old. He can think clearly, but he’s a bit limited physically. Why do you want to meet him?”

  “It’s just a routine matter.”

  Wallander suspected Pia didn’t believe him. Not a hundred percent, at least. She ushered him to the staircase and accompanied him up to the first floor.

  The door to Ivar Pihlak’s room was ajar. She knocked.

  Sitting at a little table in front of a window was an elderly man with white hair, playing patience. He looked up and smiled.

  “You have a visitor,” said Pia.

  “What a nice surprise!” said the man.

  Wallander could hear no trace of a foreign accent in his voice.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” said Pia.

  She went back along the corridor. The old man had stood up. They shook hands. He smiled: his eyes were blue and his grip was firm.

  It seemed to Wallander that everything was wrong. The man standing in front of him would never be able to supply him with a solution to the riddle of the two skeletons.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” said Ivar Pihlak.

  “My name’s Kurt Wallander and I’m a police officer. For a while during the war, many years ago, you and your parents lived on a farm just outside Löderup that belonged to a man called Ludvig Hansson. You lived there for just over six months, and then your parents went back to Denmark but you stayed on here in Sweden. Is that right?”

  “How amazing that you should come here and talk about that now! After so many years.”

  Ivar Pihlak looked at him with his blue eyes. It was as if Wallander’s words had both surprised him and awoken melancholic memories.

  “So it’s true, is it?”

  “My parents went back to Denmark in the beginning of December 1944. The war was coming to an end. They had a lot of friends—there were lots of other Estonians in Denmark. I suppose they didn’t really feel at home in Sweden.”

  “Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

  “Might I ask why you’re so interested?”

  Wallander thought it over and decided not to mention the skeletons.

  “It’s just a routine matter. Nothing special. What happened?”

  “My parents returned to Estonia in June 1945. To their home in Tallinn. It was partially ruined, but they began to rebuild it.”

  “But you stayed here in Sweden, is that right?”

  “I didn’t want to go back. I stayed on here. I’ve never regretted it. I was able to train to become an engineer.”

  “Do you have any family?”

  “It never happened, I’m afraid. Th
at’s something I regret, now that I’m an old man.”

  “Did your parents come to visit you here?”

  “It was usually a case of me going to Estonia. Things were very difficult there after the war, as you know.”

  “When did your parents die?”

  “My mother died as early as 1965, my father in the eighties.”

  “What happened to their home?”

  “An uncle on my father’s side took care of everything. I was there for their funerals. I brought some of their belongings back here to Sweden with me. But I got rid of everything when I moved in here. There’s not a lot of room for stuff here as you can see.”

  Wallander felt he had no more questions to ask. The whole situation was pointless. The man with the blue eyes looked directly at him all the time, and spoke in a calm, soft voice.

  “I won’t disturb you anymore,” said Wallander. “Good-bye, and many thanks.”

  Wallander walked back through the garden. The men were still playing boules. Wallander paused and watched them. Something had begun to worry him. At first he couldn’t pin it down, apart from being aware that it had to do with the conversation he had had with the old man a few minutes earlier.

  Then the penny dropped. It was as if the man’s responses had been rehearsed. No matter what he had asked, he received an answer—a little too fast, a little too precisely.

  I’m imagining things, Wallander thought. I’m seeing ghosts where there aren’t any ghosts.

  He drove back to the police station. Linda was sitting in the canteen, drinking coffee. He sat down at her table. There were a few ginger biscuits on a plate, and he ate them all.

  “How’s it going?” she asked.

  “It’s not going at all,” he said. “We’re standing still.”

  “Will you be at home for dinner this evening?”

  “I think so.”

  She stood up and returned to her duties. Wallander finished his coffee and then went to his office.

  The afternoon slid slowly past.

  Just as he was about to go home, the telephone rang.

  CHAPTER 24

  He recognized her voice, even before she had a chance to give her name. It was the girl called Pia on the telephone.

  “I didn’t know where I should ring to reach you,” she said.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Ivar has disappeared.”

  “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “He’s disappeared. He’s run away.”

  Wallander sat down at his desk. He noticed that his heart was beating faster.

  “Calm down,” he said. “Tell me bit by bit. What’s happened?”

  “He didn’t come down for dinner an hour ago. So I went up to his room. It was empty. His jacket was missing. We looked for him in the building and in the garden and down on the beach. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. Then Miriam came and said that her car was missing.”

  “Who’s Miriam?”

  “She works here, her job is identical to mine. She thought Ivar might have taken her car.”

  “Why should Ivar have taken it?”

  “She doesn’t usually lock her car. And Ivar often talked about how much he used to like driving.”

  “What make of car does she have?”

  “A dark blue Fiat.”

  Wallander noted that down. Then he thought for a moment.

  “Are you certain that Ivar isn’t in the house or the garden?”

  “We’ve looked everywhere.”

  “Why do you think he’s run away?”

  “I thought you would be able to explain that.”

  “I know where he might be. I’m not sure, but I might be right. If I find him I’ll be in touch within an hour or so. If I don’t find him I’ll have to make it an official police matter. Then we shall have to work out the best way of starting some kind of organized search.”

  Wallander hung up. He sat motionless on his chair. Was he right? Had that uneasiness he had felt earlier been founded on fact?

  He stood up. It was 5:35. It was dark outside. The wind came and went in gusts.

  CHAPTER 25

  Even from a distance Wallander could see that there was a faint light in one of the windows. There was no longer any doubt. His suspicion had been correct. Ivar Pihlak had come to the house where he had once lived with his parents.

  Wallander drove onto the shoulder and switched off the engine. Apart from that faint light in the window, everything around him was dark. He picked up the flashlight that he always kept under the driver’s seat, and started walking. The wind was lashing at his face. When he reached the house he saw that two lamps in the living room were lit. A kitchen window was broken, and the hasps unfastened. Pihlak had placed a garden chair so that he could climb in. Wallander looked in through the window but could see no sign of him. He decided to enter the house the same way as Pihlak, through the broken kitchen window. He didn’t think he needed to be worried. The man inside the house was old—an old man whose fate had caught up with him.

  Wallander climbed in. He stood motionless on the kitchen floor and listened. He regretted that he had driven out to the farm alone. He felt in his jacket pocket for his cell phone, then remembered that he had put it down on the car seat when he had been feeling for the flashlight. He tried to make a decision. Should he stay where he was, or climb out through the window again and ring for Martinson? He opted for the latter, squeezed out through the window and started walking toward the car.

  Whether it was an instinctive reaction or if he had heard a noise behind him was something he could never work out afterward, but something hit him on the back of his head before he had time to turn around. Everything went black before he hit the ground.

  When he came around he was sitting on a chair. His trousers and shoes were covered in mud. A dull pain was nagging away inside his head.

  Standing in front of him was Ivar Pihlak. He had a gun in his hand. An old German army–issue pistol, Wallander could see. Pihlak’s eyes were still blue, but the smile had disappeared. He simply looked tired. Tired, and very old.

  Wallander started thinking. Pihlak had been out there in the darkness and had knocked him out. Then the old man had dragged him into the house. Wallander glanced at his watch: half past six. So he hadn’t been unconscious for very long.

  He tried to assess the situation. The gun aimed at him was dangerous, despite the fact that the man holding it was eighty-six years old. Wallander must not underestimate Ivar Pihlak. He had knocked him out, and earlier in the day he had stolen a car and driven out to Löderup.

  Wallander felt scared. Speak calmly, he told himself quietly. Speak perfectly calmly, listen, don’t complain; simply speak and listen very calmly.

  “Why did you come?” asked Pihlak.

  His voice sounded sorrowful again, as Wallander had thought it sounded at Ekudden. But he was also tense.

  “Why did I come here, or why did I go to where you live?”

  “Why did you come? I’m an old man and I shall soon be dead. I don’t want to feel anxious. I’ve been anxious all my life.”

  “All I want is to understand what happened,” said Wallander slowly. “A few weeks ago I came out here to look at this house. Possibly to buy it. And then, purely by chance, I stumbled upon a piece of a skeleton, a hand, in the garden.”

  “It’s not true,” said Pihlak.

  He suddenly sounded irascible and impatient; his voice had become falsetto. Wallander held his breath.

  “You lot have always been after me,” said Pihlak. “You’ve been chasing after me for sixty years. Why can’t I be left in peace? I mean, all that’s left is the epilogue: the fact that I shall die.”

  “It was pure coincidence. We’re just trying to find out who it was that died.”

  “That’s not true. You want to put me in prison. You want me to die in a prison cell.”

  “In Sweden all crimes are statute-barred after twenty-five years. Nothing will happen to you, no ma
tter what you say.”

  Pihlak pulled a chair toward him and sat down. All the time the pistol was pointed at Wallander.

  “I promise not to do anything,” said Wallander. “You’re welcome to tie me up if you want. But put that pistol away.”

  Pihlak said nothing. He kept the gun pointing steadily at Wallander’s head.

  “I was afraid all those years, of course—afraid that you would find me,” he said after awhile.

  “Have you ever been back here? During all those years?”

  “Never.”

  “Never?”

  “Not a single time. I studied to become an engineer at the Chalmers technical university in Gothenburg. Then I worked for an engineering company in Örnsköldsvik until the mid-sixties. Then I moved back to Gothenburg and worked at the Eriksberg shipyard for a few years. Then I went to Malmö—but never here. Never ever. Until I moved into Ekudden.”

  Wallander could hear that the man was beginning to hold forth. It was the beginning of the tale he wanted to tell. Wallander tried to surreptitiously change his posture so that the pistol was no longer pointing straight at his face.

  “Why couldn’t you leave me in peace?”

  “We have to find out who those dead people are. That’s what the police do.”

  Ivar Pihlak suddenly burst out laughing.

  “I never thought they would be discovered. Not during my lifetime, at least. But they were. Earlier today you stood there in the doorway and started asking me questions. Tell me what you know.”

  “We found two skeletons, a man and a woman. Both in their fifties. They’ve been lying there for at least fifty years. Both had been killed. That’s all.”

  “That’s not much.”

  “There’s one more thing I know. The woman had a lot of fillings in her teeth, but the man’s teeth were quite different.”

  Pihlak nodded slowly. “He was tightfisted. Not with himself, but with everybody else.”