"What did they talk about that evening?"
"I can't answer that."
"But you said a moment ago that you were on duty."
"It was a conversation with no secretary present. No notes were taken."
"Who were the colleagues?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You said Mr Torstensson had a private conversation with Dr Harderberg and some of his closest colleagues."
"I can't answer that."
"Because you're not allowed to?"
"Because I don't know."
"Don't know what?"
"Who those colleagues were. I'd never seen them before. They had arrived that day and they left the following day."
Wallander didn't know what to ask next. It seemed as if all the answers he was getting were peripheral. He decided to approach matters from a different angle.
"You said a moment ago that Dr Harderberg has eleven secretaries. Might I ask how many solicitors he has?"
"Presumably at least as many."
"But you're not allowed to say exactly how many?"
"I don't know."
Wallander nodded. He could see he was entering another cul-de-sac.
"How long had Mr Torstensson been working for Dr Harderberg?"
"Ever since he bought Farnholm Castle and made it his headquarters. About five years ago."
"Mr Torstensson worked as a solicitor in Ystad all his life," said Wallander. "All of a sudden he's considered to be qualified to advise on international business matters. Doesn't that seem a little remarkable?"
"That's something you'll have to ask Dr Harderberg."
Wallander closed his notebook. "Absolutely right," he said. "I'd like you to send him a message, whether he's in Geneva or Dubai or wherever, and inform him that Inspector Wallander wants to talk to him as soon as possible. The day he gets back here, in other words."
He stood up and gingerly placed the cup and saucer on the desk.
"The Ystad police don't have eleven secretaries," he said, "but our receptionists are pretty efficient. You can leave a message with them saying when he can see me.
He followed her out into the hall. Next to the front door, lying on a marble table, was a thick leather-bound file.
"Here's the overview of Dr Harderberg's business affairs you asked for," Anita Karlen said.
Somebody's been listening in, Wallander thought. Somebody's overheard the whole of our conversation. Presumably a transcript is already on its way to Harderberg, wherever he is. In case he's interested. Which I doubt.
"Don't forget to stress that it's urgent," Wallander said. This time Anita Karlen did shake hands with him.
Wallander glanced at the big unlit staircase, but the shadows had gone.
The sky had cleared. He got into his car. Anita Karlen was standing on the steps, her hair fluttering in the wind. As he drove off he could see her in his rear-view mirror, still on the steps, watching him. This time he didn't need to stop at the gates, which started opening as he approached. There was no sign of Kurt Strom. The gates closed automatically behind him, and he drove slowly back to Ystad. It was only three days since he'd suddenly made up his mind to return to work, but even so, it seemed like a long time. As if he were on his way somewhere while his memories went dashing off at an enormous pace in an entirely different direction.
Just after the turning into the main highway there was a dead hare lying on the road. He drove round it, and thought how he was still no nearer to finding out what had happened to Gustaf Torstensson or his son. It seemed to him highly unlikely that he would find any connection between the dead solicitors and the people in the castle behind that double fence. Nevertheless, he would go through that leather file before the day was out, and try to get some idea of Alfred Harderberg's business empire.
His car phone started ringing. He picked it up and heard Svedberg's voice.
"Svedberg here," he shouted. "Where are you?"
"Forty minutes from Ystad."
"Martinsson said you were going to Farnholm Castle."
"I've been there. Drew a blank."
The conversation was cut off by interference for a few seconds. Then Svedberg's voice returned.
"Berta Duner phoned and asked for you," he said. "She was keen for you to get in touch with her right away."
"Why?"
"She didn't say."
"If you give me her number I'll give her a call."
"It would be better if you drove round there. She seemed very insistent."
Wallander glanced at the clock. It was 8.45 already.
"What happened at the meeting this morning?"
"Nothing special."
"I'll drive straight to her place when I get back to Ystad," Wallander said.
"Do that," Svedberg said.
Wallander wondered what Mrs Duner wanted that was so urgent. He could feel himself growing tense, and increased his speed.
At 9.25 he parked any old how opposite the pink house. He hurried across the street and rang her bell. The moment she opened the door he could see something was amiss. She looked to be in shock.
"You've been asking for me," he said.
She nodded and ushered him in. He was about to take off his shoes when she grasped his arm and dragged him into the living room that overlooked her little garden. She pointed.
"Somebody's been there during the night," she said.
She looked really frightened. Something of her anxiety rubbed off on Wallander. He stood at the French windows and examined the lawn: the flower beds, dug over ready for winter, the climbers on the whitewashed wall between Mrs Duner's garden and her neighbour's.
"I can't see anything," he said.
She had been hovering in the background, as if she did not dare go up to the window. Wallander began to wonder if she was suffering from some temporary mental aberration as a result of the violent events that had shaken her life to its foundations.
She came to his side, and pointed. "There," she said. "There. Somebody's been there during the night, digging."
"Did you see anybody?"
"No."
"Did you hear anything?"
"No. But I know somebody's been there during the night."
Wallander tried to follow where she was pointing. He had the vague impression he could see that a tiny piece of lawn had been trodden down.
"It could be a cat," he said. "Or a mole. Even a mouse."
She shook her head. "No, somebody's been there during the night," she said.
Wallander opened the French windows and stepped out into the garden. He walked on to the lawn. From close up it looked as if a square of turf had been lifted and then put back. He squatted down and ran his hand over the grass. His fingers touched something hard, something plastic or iron, a little spike sticking up out of the turf. Very carefully, he bent back the blades of grass. A greyish-brown object was buried just under the surface.
Wallander stiffened. He pulled his hand back and rose gingerly to his feet. For a moment he thought he had gone mad - it could not possibly be what he thought it was. That was too unlikely, too far-fetched even to be considered.
He walked backwards to the French windows, placing his feet exactly where they had been before. When he got to the house he turned round. He still could not believe it was true.
"What is it?" she said.
"Please go and fetch the telephone directory," Wallander said, and he could hear his voice was tense.
"What do you want the directory for?"
"Do as I say," he said.
She went out into the hall and returned with the directory for Ystad and District. Wallander took it and weighed it in his hand.
"Please go into the kitchen and stay there," he said.
She did as she was told.
Wallander tried to tell himself that this was all in his imagination. If there'd been the slightest possibility that the improbability was in fact true, he ought to have reacted quite differently. He went in through the French windo
ws and positioned himself as far back in the room as he could. Then he aimed the phone book and threw it at the spike sticking up out of the grass.
The explosion deafened him.
Afterwards, he was amazed to find the windows hadn't shattered.
He eyed the crater that had formed in the lawn. Then he hurried into the kitchen where he'd heard Mrs Duner scream. She was standing as if petrified in the middle of the floor, her hands over her ears. He took hold of her and sat her down on one of the kitchen chairs.
"There's no danger," he said. "I'll be back in a second. I must just make a phone call."
He dialled the number to the police station. To his relief it was Ebba who answered.
"Kurt here," he said. "I have to speak to Martinsson or Svedberg. Failing that, anybody will do."
Ebba recognised his voice, he could tell. That's why she asked no questions, just did as he had asked. She had grasped how serious he was.
Martinsson answered.
"It's Kurt," Wallander said. "Any minute now the police are going to get an emergency call about a violent explosion behind the Continental Hotel. Make sure there's no emergency call-out. I don't want fire engines and ambulances rushing here. Get here quick and bring somebody with you. I'm with Mrs Duner, Torstensson's secretary. The address is Stickgatan 26. A pink house."
"What's happened?" Martinsson said.
"You'll see when you get here," Wallander said. "You wouldn't believe me if I tried to explain."
"Try me," Martinsson said.
"If I told you that somebody had planted a landmine in Mrs Duner's back garden, would you believe me?"
"No," Martinsson said.
"I thought not."
Wallander hung up and went back to the French windows.
The crater was still there.
Chapter 6
Kurt Wallander would remember Wednesday, November 3 as a day that he was never entirely convinced had existed. How could he ever have dreamed that he would one day come across a landmine buried in a garden in the middle of Ystad?
When Martinsson arrived at Mrs Duner's house with Hoglund, Wallander still had difficulty in believing it was a mine that had exploded. Martinsson, however, had greater faith in what Wallander had said on the telephone, and on the way out from the police station he had already sent a message to Nyberg, their technical expert. He arrived at the pink house only a few minutes after Martinsson and Hoglund had stood transfixed before the crater in the lawn. As they couldn't be sure there weren't any more mines hidden in the grass, they all stayed close to the house wall. Off her own bat Hoglund then went to the kitchen with Mrs Duner, who was a little calmer by now, to question her.
"What's going on?" Martinsson said, indignantly.
"Are you asking me?" Wallander replied. "I have no idea."
No more was said. They continued contemplating the hole in the ground. Shortly afterwards the forensic team arrived, led by the skilful but irritable Sven Nyberg. He stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of Wallander.
"What are you doing here?" he said, making Wallander feel that he had committed an indecent act by returning to duty.
"Working," he said, going on the defensive.
"I thought you were packing it in?"
"So did I. But then I realised you couldn't manage without me."
Nyberg was about to say something, but Wallander raised a hand to stop him.
"More important is this hole in the lawn," he said, remembering that Nyberg had served several times with Swedish troops for the UN. "From your years of duty in Cyprus and the Middle East you can verify if this was in fact a mine. But first can you tell us if there are any more of them?"
"I'm not a dog," Nyberg said, squatting by the house wall. Wallander told him about the spike he had found with his fingers, and then the telephone book that had triggered the explosion.
Nyberg nodded. "There are very few explosive substances or compounds that are detonated on impact - apart from mines. That's the whole point of them. People or vehicles are supposed to be blown up if they put a foot or a wheel on a landmine. For an anti-personnel mine a pressure of just a few kilos can be enough - a kiddie's foot or a telephone directory will do. If the target's a vehicle, 200 kilos would be the pressure required." He stood up and looked questioningly at Wallander and Martinsson. "But what the hell kind of person lays a mine in somebody's garden? They had better be caught in very short order."
"You're quite certain it was a mine?" Wallander said.
"I'm never certain of anything," Nyberg said, "but I'll send for a mine detector from the regiment. Until it gets here nobody should set foot in this garden."
While they were waiting for the mine detector Martinsson made a few calls. Wallander sat on the sofa, trying to come to terms with what had happened. From the kitchen he could hear Hoglund patiently asking Mrs Duner questions that Mrs Duner answered even more slowly.
Two dead lawyers, Wallander thought. Then somebody lays a mine in their secretary's garden. Even if everything else is still obscure, we can be sure of one thing: the solution must lie somewhere in the activities of the firm of solicitors. It's hardly credible any more that the private or social lives of these three individuals is relevant.
Wallander was interrupted in his train of thought by Martinsson finishing his calls.
"Bjork asked me if I'd taken leave of my senses," he said, pulling a face. "I must admit that I wasn't quite sure at first how I should answer that. He says it's inconceivable that it could be a landmine. Even so, he wants one of us to update him as soon as possible."
"When we've got something to say," Wallander said. "Where's Nyberg disappeared to?"
"He's gone to the barracks himself to fetch a mine detector," Martinsson said.
Wallander looked at the time. 10.15. He thought about his visit to Farnholm Castle, but didn't really know what conclusion to draw.
Martinsson was standing in the doorway, studying the hole in the lawn. "There was an incident about 20 years ago in Soderhamn," he said. "In the municipal law courts. Do you remember?''
"Vaguely," Wallander said.
"There was an old farmer who'd spent countless years bringing just as countless a series of lawsuits against his neighbours, his relatives, anybody and everybody. It ended up by becoming a clinical obsession that nobody diagnosed as such soon enough. He thought he was being persecuted by all his imagined opponents, not least by the judge and his own solicitor. In the end he snapped. He drew a revolver in the middle of a case and shot both the judge and his solicitor. When the police tried to get into his house afterwards, it turned out he'd booby-trapped all the doors and windows. It was sheer luck that nobody was injured once the fireworks started."
Wallander remembered the incident.
"A prosecutor in Stockholm has his house blown up," Martinsson went on. "Lawyers are threatened and attacked. Not to mention police officers."
Wallander nodded without replying. Hoglund emerged from the kitchen, notebook in hand. Somewhat to his surprise, Wallander noticed that she was an attractive woman. It had not occurred to him before. She sat on a chair opposite him.
"Nothing," she said. "She hadn't heard a thing during the night, but she is certain the lawn hadn't been messed with by nightfall. She's an early riser and as soon as it got light she saw that somebody had been in her garden. She says she has no idea why anybody would want to kill her. Or at the very least blow her legs off."
"Is she telling the truth?" Martinsson said.
"It's not easy to tell if a person in shock is telling the truth," Hoglund said, "but I am positive she thinks the mine was put in her lawn during last night. And that she doesn't have a clue why."
"Something about it worries me," Wallander said. "I'm not sure if I can get a handle on it."
"Try," Martinsson said.
"She looks out of the window this morning and sees that somebody has been digging up her lawn. So what does she do?"
"What doesn't she do?" Hoglund said.
"Precisely," Wallander said. "The natural thing for her to do would have been to open the French windows and go out and investigate. But what does she do instead?"
"She phones the police," Martinsson said.
"As if she'd suspected there was something dangerous out there," said Hoglund.
"Or known," Wallander said.
"An anti-personnel mine, for instance," Martinsson said. "She was in quite a state when she phoned the police station."
"She was in a state when I got here," Wallander said. "In fact, I've had the impression that she was nervous every time I've spoken to her. Which could be explained by all that's happened over the last week or two, of course, but I'm not convinced."
The front doorbell rang and in marched Nyberg ahead of two men in uniform carrying an implement that reminded Wallander of a vacuum cleaner. It took the soldiers a quarter of an hour to go over the little garden with the mine detector. The police officers stood at the window watching intently as the men worked. Then they announced that it was all clear, and prepared to leave. Wallander accompanied them out into the street where their car was waiting for them.
"What can you say about the mine?" he asked them. "Size, explosive power? Can you guess where it might have been made? Anything at all could be of use to us."
LUNDQVIST, CAPTAIN, it said on the identity disc attached to the tunic of the older of the two soldiers. He was also the one who replied to Wallander's question.
"Not a particularly powerful mine," he said. "A few hundred grams of explosive at most. Enough to kill a man, though. We usually call this kind of mine a Four."
"Meaning what?" Wallander said.
"Somebody treads on a mine," Captain Lundqvist said. "You need three men to carry him out of battle. Four people removed from active duty."
"And the origin?"
"Mines aren't made the same way as other weapons," Lundqvist said. "Bofors makes them, as do all the other major arms manufacturers. But nearly every industrialised country has a factory making mines. Either they're manufactured openly under licence, or they're pirated. Terrorist groups have their own models. Before you can say anything about where the mine comes from, you have to have a fragment of the explosive and preferably also a bit of the material the casing was made from. It could be iron or plastic. Even wood."
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