He told them what he’d heard from Björk. Martinsson reacted more or less as he had, but Svedberg simply shrugged.
“We’re not going to get any further today,” Wallander said, wrapping up the meeting. “I have to write a report on what’s happened so far. You’d better do the same. Then we can see what we make of the people from serious crime and narcotics tomorrow. Not to mention Mr. Törn from the foreign ministry.”
Wallander was early to the airport. He had coffee with the immigration control officers, and listened to the usual complaints about working hours and wages. At 5:15 p.m. he took a seat on a bench outside the passenger lounge and stared halfheartedly at the ads on a television suspended from the ceiling. The Stockholm flight was announced, and Wallander realized that the man from the foreign ministry might be expecting to be met by a police officer in uniform. If I stand with my hands behind my back and sway backwards and forwards, he thought, perhaps that will do.
He studied the passengers streaming past: none of them seemed to be looking around for someone. When the stragglers had gone by and the stream eventually dried up altogether, he realized he had missed his man. What do foreign ministry officials look like? he wondered. Like ordinary people, or like diplomats? But then, what does a diplomat look like?
“Kurt Wallander?” said a voice behind him.
He spun around and his eyes fell on a youngish woman.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m Kurt Wallander.”
The woman removed her glove and held out her hand. “Birgitta Törn,” she said. “Foreign ministry. Perhaps you were expecting a man?”
“I was, actually,” he said.
“There are still not all that many female career diplomats,” Birgitta Törn said, “but that doesn’t prevent a large proportion of the Swedish foreign ministry from being in the hands of women.”
“Well,” Wallander said. “Welcome to Skåne.”
As they waited at the baggage carousel, he watched her discreetly. She was not especially striking, but there was something about her eyes that caught his attention. When he picked up her suitcase and turned to look at her, he could see what it was. She wore contact lenses. Mona had worn them during the last few years of their marriage.
They went out to the car. Wallander asked about the weather in Stockholm, and if she’d had a pleasant flight. She answered him, but he sensed that she was holding him at arm’s length.
“I’m booked into a hotel called the Century,” she told him as they drove to Ystad. “I’d like to go through all the investigation reports so far. I take it you’ve been advised that all the material should be placed at my disposal?”
“No,” Wallander said. “Nobody’s said anything about that, but since none of it is secret, you can have it. There’s a folder on the backseat.”
“Good thinking,” she said.
“When all’s said and done, I have only one question,” Wallander said. “Why are you here?”
“The unstable situation in the East means that the foreign ministry is monitoring all abnormal incidents. In addition to this, we can help with the formal inquiries that may have to be made in countries that are not members of Interpol.”
She talks like a politician, thought Wallander. There’s no room for doubt in what she says.
“Abnormal incidents,” he said. “That’s one way of putting it. If you like I can show you the life raft at the police station.”
“No, thank you,” Törn said. “I don’t want to interfere in police work, but it would be useful if we could arrange a meeting for tomorrow morning. I’d appreciate a briefing on where things stand.”
“The best time would be 8 a.m.,” said Wallander. “Maybe you don’t know that we’re being sent some extra men by the police commissioner? I assume they’ll be here tomorrow.”
“I had been informed,” Törn answered.
The Century Hotel was in a street off the main square. Wallander parked outside and reached for the folder of reports. Then he took her suitcase out of the trunk.
“Have you been to Ystad before?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then perhaps I could suggest that the Ystad police should invite you to dinner.”
There was a faint trace of a smile as she answered.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said, “but I have a lot of work to do.”
Wallander could feel himself getting annoyed. Perhaps a police officer in a small provincial town wasn’t good enough company.
“The Continental Hotel would be the best place for a meal,” he said. “Turn right from the square. Would you like me to pick you up tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll find my own way,” she said. “Thank you all the same. And thank you for meeting me.”
Wallander drove home. It was 6:30 p.m. He felt thoroughly dissatisfied with every aspect of his life. It wasn’t just the emptiness of coming home to an apartment with nobody to welcome him. There was also the feeling that it was getting more and more difficult to cope with his working environment. And now his body had started acting up. He used to be secure in his work as a detective, but not anymore. His insecurity had developed when he was struggling to solve the brutal double murder in Lenarp the year before. He and Rydberg had often discussed how Sweden, a country that was changing rapidly, becoming unfamiliar and uncertain, needed a new kind of police officer. He felt more inadequate as the days passed. It wasn’t a kind of insecurity that any of the courses offered by the Swedish police board could help to cure.
He took a beer from the fridge, switched on the television and slumped down on the sofa. The screen was occupied by one of the endless streams of talk shows that seemed to be served up every day.
His mind wandered back to the job at the Trelleborg Rubber Company. Maybe that was the opportunity for change that he so needed? Maybe one should only be a police officer for a limited number of years, and then devote one’s life to something entirely different?
He made no move to go to bed until nearly midnight.
He’d just turned off the light when the phone rang. Oh no, not tonight as well, he thought. Not another murder. He picked up the receiver, and immediately recognized the voice of the man who’d called earlier in the afternoon.
“Could be I know something about that life raft,” the man said.
“We’re interested in any information that might be of assistance to us.”
“I can only tell you what I know if I have a guarantee that the police will never tell anybody that I phoned.”
“You can be as anonymous as you like.”
“That’s not enough. I must have a guarantee that nothing will be said about this call.”
Wallander thought for a moment, then gave the man his word. He still seemed hesitant. He’s scared of something, Wallander thought.
“You have my word as a police officer.”
“I don’t put much faith in that.”
“You should,” Wallander said. “There’s not a credit institution in the world that can come up with anything negative about me.”
There was a pause, and Wallander could hear the man’s breathing.
“Do you know where Industry Road is?” the man asked suddenly.
Wallander did know. It was on an industrial estate on the eastern edge of the town.
“Drive there now,” the man said. “It’s one-way, but that doesn’t matter, there’s no traffic at this time of night. Switch off your engine and turn off your lights.”
“Where do you want me to stop? It’s a long road.”
“Just go there. I’ll find you. And be alone. Otherwise, forget it.”
He hung up.
Wallander felt worried. He knew he ought to phone Martinsson or Svedberg and ask for backup. But he forced himself to ignore his anxiety. What could happen, anyway?
He flung back the duvet and got up. The temperature had fallen below freezing, and he shuddered as he got into the car in the deserted street.
When he turned
into Industry Road, which was lined with car showrooms and small business premises, there was no sign of any lights. He drove halfway down the road, then switched off his lights and engine and settled down in the darkness to wait. The fluorescent clock on his dashboard showed just past midnight.
At 12:30, nothing had happened. He made up his mind to go back home if nobody had appeared by 1 a.m.
He didn’t notice the man until he was standing next to the car. He quickly rolled down the window. The man’s face was in darkness, and Wallander couldn’t make out his features. He did recognize the voice, though.
“Drive after me,” the man said, and disappeared.
A few minutes later a car approached from the opposite direction and flashed its lights. Wallander followed, and they drove out of town to the east.
Suddenly, he realized he was scared.
CHAPTER 5
The harbor at Brantevik was deserted. Only a few, isolated lights were reflected in the dark, stagnant waters of the basin. Wallander wondered whether the lights had been broken, or if, as part of its cuts, the local government wasn’t replacing burned-out bulbs. The future of our society gets gloomier and gloomier, he thought. A symbolic image is becoming more and more real.
The lights of the car ahead of him went out. Wallander switched off his own and sat there in the darkness. The clock on the dashboard marked off time in a series of electronic jerks—1:25 a.m. A flashlight suddenly illuminated the darkness, dancing around like a glowworm. Wallander opened his car door and clambered out, shivering as the cold night air struck him. The man with the flashlight stopped a few yards short of him. Wallander still couldn’t make out his features.
“Let’s go out onto the quay,” the man said.
He spoke in a broad Scanian dialect. It was impossible to sound threatening with an accent like that, Wallander thought. He knew of no other dialect with so much gentleness built into it. Even so, he was hesitant.
“Why?” he asked. “Why do we have to go out onto the quay?”
“Are you scared?” the man said. “We’re going out onto the quay because there’s a boat moored there.”
He turned around and set off, with Wallander following him. A gust of wind clawed at his face. They stopped beside the dark silhouette of a fishing boat. The smell of sea and oil was very strong. The man handed Wallander the flashlight.
“Aim it at the mooring ropes,” he said.
Wallander caught sight of him for the first time. A man in his 40s, possibly slightly older. A weather-beaten face with the rough skin of somebody who leads an outdoor life. He was dressed in dark blue overalls and a gray jacket, with a black knitted cap pulled down over his eyes. The man took hold of a mooring rope and clambered onboard. He melted into the darkness in the direction of the wheelhouse, and Wallander waited. A gas lantern was lit, and the man returned over the creaking deck to the prow.
“Welcome aboard,” he said.
Wallander fumbled for the frozen rail and heaved himself aboard. He followed the man across the sloping deck, stumbling over a coiled hawser.
“Don’t fall in,” the man said. “The water’s cold.”
Wallander followed him into the cramped wheelhouse and then down into the engine room. The place stank of diesel and lubricating oil. The man hung the lantern on a hook in the ceiling and turned down the light.
Wallander realized that the man was scared to death. He was all fingers and thumbs, and in a hurry. Wallander sat down on the uncomfortable bunk covered with a dirty blanket.
“You keep your promises, I trust,” the man said.
“I always keep my promises,” Wallander replied.
“Nobody does that,” the man said. “I’m thinking about what will happen to me.”
“What is your name?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“But you did see the life raft with two dead bodies?”
“Could be.”
“You wouldn’t have phoned us otherwise.”
The man reached for a grimy chart beside him on the bunk.
“Here,” he said, pointing. “That’s where I saw it. It was just before 2 p.m. when I noticed it, the twelfth. Last Tuesday, that is. I’ve been trying to guess where on earth it could have come from.”
Wallander searched through his pockets for a pencil and something to write on, but of course he found nothing.
“Let’s take it slowly,” Wallander said. “Start at the beginning. Where were you when you noticed the raft?”
“I’ve written it down,” the man answered. “Just over six nautical miles off Ystad, in a straight line to the south. The raft was drifting towards the northwest. I’ve written down the exact position.”
He handed Wallander a crumpled scrap of paper. Wallander had the impression the location was exact, even though the figures meant nothing to him.
“The life raft was drifting,” he said. “I wouldn’t have noticed it if it had been snowing.”
We’d never have noticed it, thought Wallander. Every time he says I, he hesitates almost imperceptibly, as if he had to keep reminding himself to tell only part of the truth.
“It was drifting to port,” the man continued. “I towed it towards the Swedish coast and let it go when I could see land.”
That explains the severed rope, Wallander thought. They were in a hurry and they were nervous. They didn’t hesitate to sacrifice a bit of rope.
“Are you a fisherman?” he asked.
“Yes.”
No, thought Wallander. You lied again, you’re a bad liar, and I wonder what you’re afraid of.
“I was coming home,” the man said.
“You must have a radio onboard,” Wallander said. “Why didn’t you alert the coastguard?”
“I have my reasons.”
Wallander could see that he would have to break down the man’s fear or he would never get anywhere. Confidence, he thought. He must feel he really can trust me.
“I have to know more,” Wallander said. “Obviously I’ll be making use of whatever is said here in the investigation, but nobody will know it was you who said it.”
“Nobody has said anything. Nobody has telephoned.”
It dawned on Wallander that there was a perfectly simple explanation for the man’s anxious determination to be anonymous. He’d realized before, during his conversation with Martinsson, that the man he was talking to had not been alone on the boat; but now he knew exactly how many crewmen there had been. Two. Not three, not more, just two. And it was this second man that he was afraid of.
“Nobody’s telephoned,” Wallander said. “Is it your boat?”
“What difference does that make?”
Wallander started all over again. He was certain now that the man had nothing to do with the men’s death but had only been onboard the vessel that discovered the life raft and towed it towards the shore. That made things simpler, although he couldn’t understand why the witness was quite so scared. Who was the other man?
Then it came to him. Smugglers. Trafficking in refugees or booze. This boat is being used for smuggling. That’s why there’s no smell of fish.
“Did you notice any other vessels nearby when you saw the life raft?”
“No.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“I only say what I know.”
“But you said you’d been guessing?”
The answer Wallander received was definite.
“The raft had been in the water for a long time. It couldn’t have been cast off recently.”
“Why not?”
“It had already started to collect algae.”
Wallander couldn’t remember seeing any algae when he’d inspected the raft himself.
“There was no sign of any algae when we found it.”
The man thought for a moment.
“It must have been washed off when I towed it towards the shore. The raft was bobbing up and down in my wash.”
“How long do you think it had been in t
he water?”
“Maybe a week. Hard to say.”
Wallander sat watching the man. He was restless and seemed to be straining to hear any sound as they spoke.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” Wallander asked him. “Every little thing could be significant.”
“I think the raft had drifted from one of the Baltic countries.”
“Why do you think that? Why not Germany?”
“I know these waters. I think that raft had come from the Baltic states.”
Wallander tried to picture a map of the region.
“That’s a long way,” he said. “Past the whole of the Polish coast, and right into German waters. I find that hard to believe.”
“During the Second World War mines could drift a very long way in a short time. The winds we’ve had lately would make it quite possible.”
The light from the lantern suddenly started to die down.
“I’ve got nothing more to say,” the man said, folding up the chart. “You remember what you promised?”
“I know exactly what I promised. I have one more question, though. What are you frightened of? Why did we have to meet in the middle of the night?”
“I’m not frightened,” the man said, as he put the chart away. “And if I was, that would be my business.”
Wallander tried to think of any other questions he should ask before it was too late.
Neither of them noticed the slight movement of the boat. It was a gentle dip, so gentle it was no wonder that it passed unnoticed, like a faint swell that only just reached land.
Wallander climbed up from the engine room and shone his flashlight quickly over the walls of the wheelhouse. He couldn’t see anything that would make it easy to identify the boat again later.
“Where can I get in touch with you if I need to?” he asked when they were back on the quay.
“You can’t,” the man said. “And in any case, you won’t need to. There’s nothing more I can tell you.”
Wallander counted his paces as he walked along the quay. When he put his foot down for the 73rd time he felt the gravel of the harbor square. The man had been swallowed up by the shadows: he’d taken his flashlight and disappeared without another word. Wallander sat in his car without switching on the engine. For a moment he thought he saw a shadow moving in the darkness, but then decided he’d imagined it. It dawned on him that he was meant to drive away first. When he came out onto the main road he slowed down, but no headlights appeared in his rearview mirror.
The Dogs of Riga: A Kurt Wallendar Mystery Page 6