Firewall

by Henning Mankell

  "And he never told you why he turned them down."

  "He just didn't want the work. He didn't need it."

  "He must have been very well off."

  "I don't think it was that. Sometimes he had to borrow from me."

  Wallander sensed that they were nearing a watershed.

  "He never went into any detail, for example, about the companies themselves?"

  "No, nothing. He just didn't need the extra work, he said. If I tried to keep asking, he cut me off. He could be quite aggressive. He set the limits, not me."

  What was the real motivation for saying no? Wallander wondered. It doesn't make sense.

  "What determined the kind of project you would work on together rather than separately?"

  Her answer surprised him. "The degree of tedium involved."

  "I don't understand."

  "Some parts of our work will always be rather tedious. Tynnes could be impatient and he often siphoned off the more mundane tasks to me so that he could give his full attention to the more challenging aspects of a project. Especially if it involved something on the cutting edge, something that hadn't been cracked before."

  "And you accepted this arrangement?"

  "You have to accept your limitations. It was never as boring for me as it would have been for him. I didn't have his extraordinary talents."

  "How did you first meet?"

  "Until the age of 30 I was a housewife. Then I got divorced and got myself an education. Tynnes gave a lecture in one of my classes. I was fascinated by him, and I asked him if he had any work for me. He said no, but a year later he called me. Our first project working together was designing a security system for a bank."

  "What did that involve?"

  "Today money is transferred between accounts at an astonishing speed, between private accounts and companies, between the banks of various countries, and so on. There are always people out there who want to disrupt these transfers for their own ends. The way to thwart them is to stay a step ahead. It's a constant battle."

  "That sounds difficult."

  "It is."

  "It also sounds like a task that would be too big for a lone computer consultant in Ystad, however gifted."

  "One of the advantages of the new technology is that you can be in the middle of things no matter where you are based. Tynnes was in constant contact with companies, computer manufacturers and other programmers all around the world."

  "From his office here?"

  "Yes."

  Wallander was unsure how to proceed. He didn't feel that he had any sort of grasp of Falk's work, and he also saw the futility in continuing this conversation without Martinsson being there. They should also get in touch with the IT division at the national crime investigation centre.

  Wallander changed tack and watched her face carefully while he asked the next question. "Did he have any enemies that you knew of?"

  "Not as far as I know," she said, showing no emotion, but surprise at his question.

  "Did you notice a change in him recently, in the last year, say?"

  She thought for a while before answering. "He was the same as always."

  "And how was that?"

  "Moody. He worked very long hours."

  "Where did you meet to discuss the work you did together?"

  "Always here. Never in his office."

  "Why not?"

  "I think Tynnes was something of a germophobe, to be honest. I think he didn't want anyone leaving dirt on his carpets. He was manic about cleanliness."

  "He seems to have been a very complicated man."

  "Not when you got to know him. He wasn't so different from other men."

  Wallander looked at her with interest. "And what is it that men are like?"

  She smiled. "Is that your personal question or are we still discussing Tynnes?"

  "I'm not here to ask personal questions."

  She sees right through me, Wallander thought. It can't be helped.

  "Men are often childish and vain, although they deny it."

  "That's a rather broad characterisation."

  "I mean it."

  "Falk was like that?"

  "Yes. But not always. He could be generous. For example, he always paid me more than he had to. But you could never predict his moods."

  "He had been married and had children."

  "We never talked about his family. It was only after about a year of working with him that I learned he had one."

  "Did he have any interests outside his work?"

  "None that I knew of."

  "Any friends?"

  "He had some friends that he corresponded with via e-mail. I never saw him get so much as a postcard through the post."

  "How can you know that if you were never at his office?"

  She made a little gesture of applause. "Good question. He used my address for his post, as it happens. But nothing was ever addressed to him."

  Wallander frowned.

  "This is a bit confusing. He used your address, but no post, no bills, no letters ever actually came for him?"

  "He got junk mail, but that's all."

  "He must have had another postal address as well, then."

  "Probably, but in that case I don't know what it was."

  Wallander thought about Falk's two flats. There had been nothing in the office at Runnerströms Torg, but he also could not remember seeing any post at Apelbergsgatan.

  "We'll have to look into this," he said. "Falk comes across as strangely secretive."

  "Some people don't like getting mail, while others love the sound of another letter coming through the letter box."

  I'm going too fast, Wallander thought. First we have to see what's in his computer. If he had a life, that's surely where we'll find it.

  She poured herself more wine and asked him if he had changed his mind. Wallander shook his head.

  "You said you were close. Did you ever visit him at home?"

  "No."

  That answer came a little too quickly, Wallander thought. The question was whether there hadn't been something between Falk and his female assistant after all.

  It was 9 p.m. The fire had burned down to glowing embers.

  "I take it there's been no post for him in the past few days?"

  "No, nothing."

  "And how would you sum up everything that's happened?"

  "I always thought that Tynnes would become an old man. It can only have been an accident."

  "You don't think he could have had some illness you didn't know about?"

  "Yes, of course that's possible. But I don't think so."

  Wallander wondered if he should tell her about the disappearance of Falk's body. But he decided to wait. He switched tack again.

  "There was a blueprint of a power substation on his desk. Do you know anything about that?"

  "I don't think I would know what one is."

  "It's a structure just outside Ystad belonging to Sydkraft Power."

  She thought hard. "He did work for Sydkraft some years ago," she said. "But I wasn't involved."

  Wallander had a thought. "I'd like you to make a list of all the jobs he had over the past two years," he said. "Those he worked on alone and those you worked on together."

  "Tynnes may have had projects I didn't know about."

  "I'll talk to his accountant," Wallander said. "He must have given him the information. But I'd be grateful if I could see your list."

  "Straight away?"

  "Tomorrow is fine."

  She got up and stirred the embers. Wallander tried to compose a personal ad in his head that would tempt Siv Eriksson to reply. She returned to her chair.

  "Are you hungry?"

  "No. I should get going."

  "It doesn't seem as if my answers have helped you."

  "I know more about Tynnes Falk than I did before I came. Police work requires patience."

  He had no more questions and knew he should leave. Finally, he got to his feet.

>   "I'll get in touch tomorrow," he said. "Do you think you could fax me the list of clients to the police station?"

  "How about an e-mail attachment?"

  "That would be fine as well, though I have no idea how to download those or even what address I have."

  "Let me find out."

  Wallander put on his coat. "Did Falk ever discuss mink farming?" he said.

  "Why on earth would he?" she said.

  "Just wondering."

  She opened the front door. Wallander felt a strong urge to stay.

  "It was a great lecture," she said. "But you were very nervous."

  "That's par for the course when you're on your own talking to so many women."

  They said goodbye. Wallander walked down the stairs. Just before he opened the door to the street his phone rang. It was Nyberg.

  "How fast can you get here?"

  "Pretty fast," Wallander said. "Why do you ask?"

  "You'd better come now."

  Nyberg hung up. Wallander's heart was beating faster. Nyberg would only call if it really mattered.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It took Wallander less than five minutes to return to the building at Runnerströms Torg. At the top of the stairs, he saw Nyberg smoking on the landing outside the flat. He realised how extremely tired Nyberg was. He never smoked unless he was almost at the point of collapse. The last time that had happened was during the difficult homicide investigation that led to the capture of Stefan Fredman.

  Nyberg stubbed the cigarette out in his matchbox and nodded to Wallander to follow him in.

  "I started looking at the walls," Nyberg said. "There was a discrepancy. It happens sometimes in old buildings; renovations end up changing the original floor plan. But I started measuring the room anyway, and found this –" Nyberg led Wallander to the far end of the room. A part of the wall jutted into the room at a sharp angle.

  "I started tapping on the walls. Here it sounded hollow. Then I saw this." He pointed to the floor.

  Wallander crouched down. If you looked closely you could see that the skirtingboard had been sawn loose from the floor. There was also a thin crack in the wall from which Nyberg had removed part of a tape which had been painted over.

  "Have you looked to see what's behind?"

  "I wanted to wait for you."

  Wallander nodded. Nyberg carefully pulled away the rest of the tape, revealing a low door, about 1.5 metres high. Then he stepped aside. Wallander pushed the door open, which gave way without a sound. Nyberg shone his flashlight into the opening.

  The hidden space was bigger than Wallander had imagined. He wondered if Setterkvist knew about this. He took Nyberg's flashlight and looked around for the light switch.

  The room was perhaps 8 metres square with no window but one small air vent. The room was empty save for a table that looked like an altar. There were two candles on it. There was a photograph of Falk on the wall. Wallander had the feeling that the picture had been taken in this very room. He asked Nyberg to hold the flashlight while he went closer to study the photograph. Falk was staring straight into the camera. His expression was serious.

  "What's that in his hand?" Nyberg said.

  Wallander took out his glasses and then peered at the photograph again.

  "I don't know what you think," he said, finally straightening up, "but it looks to me as if he has a remote control in his hand."

  Nyberg came to the same conclusion.

  "Tell me what I'm looking at," said Wallander. "I'm at a loss."

  "Did he worship himself?" Nyberg said in a confounded tone of voice. "Was the man a lunatic?"

  "I don't know yet," Wallander said.

  They turned their attention to the rest of the room, but there was nothing else to look at. Wallander put on a pair of rubber gloves and carefully removed the picture. He looked on the back, but there was no writing. He handed the picture to Nyberg.

  "You'll have to look it over."

  "Maybe this room is part of a series of rooms," Nyberg said, doubtfully. "Like a series of Chinese boxes. Maybe there's another secret space further along."

  Together they searched the room but found nothing. The walls were all solid.

  They returned to the living room.

  "You haven't found anything else?" Wallander said.

  "No. It seems as if the room was cleaned recently."

  "Falk was a clean freak," Wallander said. He recalled both the diary entries and what Eriksson had told him.

  "I don't think I can do much more tonight," Nyberg said. "But I'll come back tomorrow to finish up."

  "We'll also bring in Martinsson," Wallander said. "I want to know what's in that computer."

  Wallander helped Nyberg collect his things.

  "How the hell can someone worship himself?" Nyberg asked when they had finished and were ready to leave.

  "I can show you countless examples," Wallander said.

  "I won't have to deal with any more of this in a couple of years," Nyberg said. "Lunatics praying before their own image."

  They loaded the bags into Nyberg's car. Wallander saluted him and watched him drive off. The wind had picked up. It was close to 10.30 p.m. He was hungry, but the thought of going home and cooking something was not appealing. He got into the car and drove to a fast-food place that was open. When his meal came some boys had started playing a noisy video game. He decided to take his hot dogs and mashed potatoes out to the car. With the very first bite he managed to spill something on Martinsson's coat. His first reaction was to open the door and throw everything on the ground, but he managed to calm himself down.

  Once he had finished eating he wasn't sure if he should go home or go back to the station. He needed to sleep, but his anxiety wasn't letting up. He drove to the station. There was no-one in the canteen, but the coffee machine had been fixed. Someone had written an angry note about not pulling too hard on the levers.

  What levers? Wallander thought helplessly. I put my cup down and push a button. I've never seen a lever. He took his coffee back to his office. The corridor was deserted. He didn't know how many late nights he had spent there alone.

  Once, when he was still married to Mona and Linda was a young child, Mona had turned up at his office, seriously cross, and told him he had to make a choice between his family and his work. That time he had immediately gone home with her. But there had been many times when he had chosen to stay on and work.