"It's screwed down," Nyberg said. "Notice also that it's perfectly airtight. There's a window on this side. I don't know what it's for, but I suspect there ought to be a thermometer mounted on the inside."
"You saw a similar one at the hospital in Lund," Wallander said, scrutinising the container. "Can you remember where? Which ward?"
"It was moving around," Nyberg said. "It was in a corridor outside the operating theatres. A nurse came with it. I seem to remember she was in a hurry."
"Anything else?"
"No, nothing."
"It reminds me of a cool box," Wallander said.
"I think that's what it is," Nyberg said. "For blood, possibly."
"I need you to find out," Wallander said. "I also want to know what that container was doing in Torstensson's car the night he died."
When they were back in Wallander's office, he remembered something Nyberg had said earlier in the evening.
"You said you thought it was made in France."
"It said 'Made in France' on the handle."
"I didn't notice that."
"The text on the one I saw in Lund was more obvious," Nyberg said. "I think we can excuse you."
"I may be wrong," Wallander said, "but I reckon the fact that this container was in Torstensson's car is remarkable. What was it doing there? Are you sure it was unused?"
"When I unscrewed the lid I could see that it was the first time it had been opened since it left the factory. Do you want me to explain how I knew?"
"It's enough to know that you're sure," Wallander said. "I wouldn't understand anyway."
"I can see you believe this container is important," Nyberg said, "but it's not unusual to find unexpected items in crashed cars."
"In this case we can't overlook a single detail," Wallander said.
"But we've never done that."
Wallander stood up. "Thank you for coming back," he said. "I'd like to know what the plastic container was used for sometime tomorrow."
They said goodnight outside the station. Wallander drove home and had a couple of sandwiches before going to bed. He couldn't sleep, and after tossing and turning for some time he got up again and went into the kitchen. He sat at the table without switching on the light. He felt uneasy and impatient. This investigation had too many loose ends. Even though they had decided on a way forward, he was still not convinced it was the right way. Had they overlooked something vital? He thought back to the day when Sten Torstensson came to see him on the Jutland coast. He could recall their conversation word for word. Even so, he wondered if he had missed the real message, whether there had been some other significance behind Sten's words.
It was gone 4.00 by the time he went back to bed. A wind had got up outside, and the temperature had plummeted. He shivered when he slid between the sheets. He did not think he had got anywhere. Nor had he succeeded in convincing himself that he would have to be patient. What he demanded of his colleagues was something he could not manage himself on this occasion.
When Wallander arrived at the station just before 8 a.m. there was a gale blowing. They told him in reception there were forecasts of hurricane-strength gusts before lunch. As he walked to his office he wondered if his father's house in Loderup would survive the winds. His conscience had been nagging him for some time over his failure to have the roof repaired, and there was a real risk that one violent storm would blow it right off. He sat at his desk thinking that he had better phone his father - he hadn't spoken to him since the fight at the off-licence. He was about to pick up the receiver when the phone rang.
"There's a call for you," Ebba said. "And have you noticed how strong the wind is?"
"I can console you with the news that it's going to get worse," Wallander said. "Who is it?"
"Farnholm Castle."
Wallander stretched out in his chair.
"Put them on," he said.
"It's a lady with a remarkable name," Ebba said. "She introduced herself as Jenny Lind."
"It sounds normal enough to me."
"I didn't say it was abnormal, I said it was remarkable. You must have heard of the Swedish Nightingale, the great singer Jenny Lind?"
"Put her through," Wallander said.
The voice he heard was that of a young woman. One more of all those secretaries, Wallander thought.
"Inspector Wallander?"
"Speaking."
"You were here the other day and expressed a wish to have an audience with Dr Harderberg."
"I don't do audiences," Wallander said in irritation. "I need to speak to him in connection with a murder investigation."
"I do realise that. We have received a telex this morning informing us that Dr Harderberg will be back home this afternoon and will be able to receive you tomorrow."
"Where did the telex come from?"
"Does that matter?"
"I wouldn't have asked otherwise," Wallander lied.
"Dr Harderberg is at the moment in Barcelona."
"I don't want to wait until tomorrow," Wallander said. "I need to talk to him as soon as possible. If he gets back to Sweden this afternoon he should be able to see me this evening."
"He has nothing in his diary for this evening," Lind said. "But I shall need to contact him in Barcelona before I can give you an answer."
"Do that if you wish," Wallander said. "Tell him he'll be receiving a visit from the Ystad police at 7 p.m."
"I'm afraid I can't agree to that. Dr Harderberg always decides on the time of visits himself."
"Not in this case," Wallander said. "We'll be there at 7.00."
"There will be someone else with you?"
"Yes."
"Could I ask for that person's name?"
"You may ask, but you won't get it. There will be another police officer from Ystad."
"I'll contact Dr Harderberg," Lind said. "You should be aware that he sometimes changes his plans at very short notice. He could be forced to go somewhere else before coming home."
"I can't allow that," Wallander said, fearing that he was far exceeding his authority in saying so.
"I must say you surprise me," Lind said. "Can a police officer really decide what Dr Harderberg does or doesn't do?"
Wallander continued to exceed his authority. "I have only to speak to a prosecutor - he can issue demands," Wallander said.
He realised his mistake even as he spoke. They had decided to tread carefully. Harderberg would be asked some questions, but as important as his answers was convincing him that their interest in him was purely routine. He tried to tone down what he had said.
"Dr Harderberg is suspected of nothing illegal, let me make that clear," he said. "It's just that we need to speak to him at the earliest possible moment, for reasons to do with our investigation. No doubt a prominent citizen like Dr Harderberg will be anxious to help the police solve a serious crime."
"I'll contact him," Lind repeated.
"Thank you for ringing," Wallander said and replaced the receiver.
A thought had struck him. With Ebba's help he tracked down Martinsson and asked him to come to his office.
"Harderberg has been in touch," he said. "He's in Barcelona, but on his way home. I thought of taking Ann-Britt with me and going to see him this evening."
"She's at home. Her kid's not well," Martinsson said. "She's just phoned."
"You can come instead, in that case," Wallander said.
"That's fine by me," Martinsson said. "I want to see that aquarium with gold dust for sand."
"There's another matter," Wallander said. "What do you know about aeroplanes?"
"Not a lot."
"I had a thought," Wallander said. "Harderberg has a private jet. A Gulfstream, whatever that is. It must be registered somewhere. There must be flight logs showing when he's out on his travels, and where he goes to."
"If nothing else he must have a few pilots," Martinsson said. "I'll look into it."
"Give that job to somebody else," Wallander said. "You've got more
important things to do."
"Ann-Britt can do it from her phone at home," Martinsson said. "I think she'll be pleased to be doing something useful."
"She could develop into a good police officer."
"Let's hope so," Martinsson said. "But to tell you the truth, we have no way of knowing. All we know is that she did well at college."
"You're right," Wallander said. "It's awfully hard to imitate reality at a college."
After Martinsson had left, Wallander sat down to prepare for the meeting at 9.00. When he had woken that morning, all the thoughts he had had during the night about the loose ends of the investigation were still in the forefront of his mind. He had decided they would have to write off anything they judged to be of no immediate relevance to the investigation. If eventually they concluded that the route they had decided on was a cul-de-sac, they could always go back to the loose ends. But only then could the loose ends be allowed to occupy their attention.
Wallander pushed aside all the papers piled up on his desk and put an empty sheet in front of him. Many years ago Rydberg had taught him a way of approaching an investigation in a new light. We have to keep moving from one lookout tower to another, Rydberg had said. If we don't, our overviews become meaningless. No matter how complicated an investigation is, it has to be possible to describe it to a child. We have to see things simply, but without simplifying.
Wallander wrote: "Once upon a time there was an old solicitor who paid a visit to a rich man in his castle. On the way back home somebody killed him and tried to make us believe it had been a car accident. Soon afterwards his son was shot dead in his office. He had begun to suspect there hadn't been a car accident after all, and so he had been to see me to ask for help. He had made a secret trip to Denmark although his secretary was told he had gone to Finland. She had also had a postcard from there. A few days later somebody planted a mine in the garden of the secretary. A wide-awake officer from Ystad noticed that I was being followed by a car as we drove to Helsingborg. The solicitors had received threatening letters from an accountant working for a county council. The accountant later committed suicide by hanging himself in a tree near Malmo, although the probability is that he, too, was murdered. Just as with the car accident, the suicide was contrived. All these incidents are linked, but there is no obvious thread. Nothing has been stolen and there is no sign of passions such as hatred or jealousy running high. All that was left behind was a strange plastic container. And now we start all over again. Once upon a time there was an old solicitor who paid a visit to a rich man in his castle."
Wallander put down his pen.
Alfred Harderberg, he thought. A modern-day Silk Knight. Lurking in the background, everybody's background. Flying all over the world and doing his business deals that are so difficult to penetrate, as if it were all a kind of ritual for which only the initiated know the rules.
He read through what he had written. The words were transparent, but there was nothing in them to put the investigation in a new light. Least of all was there anything to suggest that Harderberg might be involved.
This must be something very big, Wallander thought. If my suspicions are right and he really is behind all this, then Gustaf Torstensson - and Borman too - must have discovered something that threatened his whole empire. Presumably Sten did not know what it was or he would have told me. But he came to visit me and he suspected he was being watched, and that turned out to be true. They could not take the risk of him passing on what he knew. Nor could they risk Mrs Duner knowing anything.
This must be something very big, he thought again. Something so big that might nevertheless fit into a plastic container that reminds you of a cool box.
Wallander went to fetch another cup of coffee. Then he phoned his father.
"It's blowing a gale," Wallander said. "There's a risk your roof might get blown off."
"I'm looking forward to that," his father said.
"Looking forward to what?"
"Seeing my roof flying off over the fields like a bird. I've never seen anything like that before."
"I ought to have had it repaired ages ago," Wallander said, "but I'll make sure it's done before winter sets in."
"I'll believe that when I see it," his father said. "It would mean you'd have to come here."
"I'll make time. Have you thought over what happened in Simrishamn?"
"What is there to think over?" his father said. "I just did what was right."
"You can't just attack people at the drop of a hat," Wallander said.
"I'm not going to pay any fines," his father said. "I'm not going to prison either."
"There's no question of that," Wallander said. "I'll phone you tonight to find out what's happened to the roof. There might be hurricane-strength gusts."
"Maybe I ought to climb up on the chimney."
"What on earth for?"
"So that I can go flying myself."
"You'll kill yourself. Isn't Gertrud there?"
"I'll take her with me," said his father, and put the receiver down.
Wallander was left sitting there with the telephone in his hand. Bjork came in at that very moment.
"I can wait if you're going to make a call," Bjork said.
Wallander put the receiver down.
"I heard from Martinsson that Dr Harderberg has shown signs of life," Bjork said.
"Was that a question?" he said. "If so, I can confirm that what Martinsson says is correct. Except that it wasn't Harderberg who phoned. He's in Barcelona and is expected back later today. I asked for a meeting this evening."
Wallander could see Bjork was put out.
"Martinsson said that he would be going with you," Bjork said. "I wonder if that's appropriate."
"Why shouldn't it be?" Wallander said, surprised.
"I don't mean that Martinsson isn't suitable," Bjork said. "I just thought perhaps I ought to go."
"Why?"
"Well, after all, Harderberg isn't just anybody."
"You're not as familiar with the case as Martinsson is. We're not going on a social call."
"If I went with you it might have a calming effect on the whole thing. We agreed we should be careful - Dr Harderberg mustn't be upset."
Although Wallander was annoyed that Bjork wanted to go with him to make sure he did not behave in a way that Bjork considered inappropriate, anything that might damage the force's reputation, nevertheless Bjork had a point: they did not want Harderberg worrying about the interest the police were showing in him.
"I take your point," Wallander said, "but it could also have the opposite effect. It could raise eyebrows if the Chief of Police is there for what's supposed to be a routine inquiry."
"I merely wanted to put the idea to you," Bjork said.
"It'll be best if Martinsson goes," Wallander said, getting to his feet. "I think our meeting is due to start."
On the way to the conference room Wallander told himself that one of these days he really would have to learn to be honest. He should have told Bjork the truth, that he did not want him to come because he could not abide his subservient attitude towards Harderberg. There was something in Bjork's behaviour that was typical of the peasant's awe of those in power. He had barely thought about it before, even though he knew it to be true of society at large. There was always somebody at the top who dictated the terms, specifically or by implication, that those below had to accept. As a child he remembered seeing workers doffing their caps whenever one of those who decided their fate went by. He thought about how his father used to bow to the Silk Knights. Caps were still being doffed even today, albeit invisible ones.
I, too, have a cap in my hand, Wallander thought. Sometimes I don't notice it's there.
They gathered around the conference-room table. Svedberg glumly produced a proposal for a new police uniform that had been sent out to all police stations.
"Do you want to see what we'll look like in future?" he said.
"We never wear uniform," Wallander s
aid as he sat down.
"Ann-Britt's not as negative as the rest of us," Svedberg said. "She thinks it could look rather smart."
Bjork had sat down and dropped his hands on the table as a signal for the meeting to start.
"Per isn't here this morning," he said. "He has to try to make sure those twins who robbed the bank last year are convicted."
"What twins?" Wallander said.
"Can anybody have failed to be aware that Handelsbanken was robbed by two men who turned out to be twins?"
"I was away last year," Wallander said. "I haven't heard a thing about it."
"We got them in the end," Martinsson said. "They'd got themselves a basic university qualification in economics and then needed some capital so that they could put their ideas into practice. They had visions of a floating pleasure palace called Summerland that would travel back and forth along the south coast."
"Not such a bad idea in fact," Svedberg said, scratching his head ruminatively.
Wallander looked round the room.
"Alfred Harderberg has phoned," he said. "I'm going to Farnholm Castle this evening and taking Martinsson with me. There's a slight possibility that his travel plans may change, but I've made it clear that he cannot count on our unlimited patience."
"Mightn't that make him suspicious?" Svedberg said.
"I've stressed that it's a routine inquiry," Wallander said. "He was the one Gustaf Torstensson had been to see the night he died."
"It's about time," Martinsson said. "But we'd better think pretty carefully about what we're going to say to him."
"We've got all day to do that," Wallander said.
"Where has he been this time?" Svedberg wanted to know.
"Barcelona."
"He owns a lot of property in Barcelona," Svedberg said. "He also has an interest in a holiday village under construction near Marbella. All through a company called Casaco. I've seen the share brochures somewhere. I rather think the whole thing's run by a bank in Macao. Wherever that is."
"I don't know," Wallander said, "but it's not important just now."
"It's south of Hong Kong," Martinsson said. "Didn't anybody do geography at school?"
Wallander poured himself a glass of water and the meeting proceeded on its usual course. They took it in turns to report on what they had been doing since the last time they had met, each one concentrating on their allocated field. Martinsson passed on some messages he had received from Hoglund. The most important of which was that she was going the following day to meet Borman's children, and also his widow who was over from Spain on a visit. Wallander started by reporting on the plastic container. He soon saw that his colleagues could not make out why that particular detail should be so significant. Perhaps that's no bad thing, he thought. It might help me scale down my own expectations.
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