"There are some pretty advanced programs here," Martinsson said once the computer had been switched on. "And it has an extremely fast processor. Some of this may be more than I can handle."
"I'd still like you to do what you can. If you get stuck, we'll call in the National Police Technology Division and get some of their computer whizzes on it."
Martinsson didn't answer. He was absorbed in his task, staring straight ahead at the screen. Then he got up and walked around to look at the computer from the back. As Wallander watched him he returned to the chair. The screen had come alive, with a number of symbols flitting by. Then the screen settled into an image of the night sky.
Cyberspace. At least Falk is consistent, Wallander thought.
"The computer seems automatically to connect with a server when you turn it on," Martinsson said. "Do you want me to talk you through what I'm doing?"
"I don't think I'd be able to follow you."
Wallander put on his glasses and leaned closer to the screen as Martinsson tried to open one of the files on the hard drive. After clicking on the file, Martinsson frowned.
"What happened?" Wallander asked.
Martinsson pointed to a corner of the screen where a cursor was blinking.
"I'm not 100 per cent sure about this," he said slowly. "But I think someone was just notified that we tried to open this file."
"How could that happen?"
"Well, this computer is connected to others."
"And someone at the other end of one of those could now have seen what we're trying to do?"
"Yes, something like that."
"Where is this person?"
"He could be anywhere," Martinsson said. "A ranch off the beaten track in California. An island off the coast of Australia. Or in another flat in this building."
Wallander shook his head in bafflement.
"When you're hooked up to the Internet you're in the middle of the world wherever you are," he quoted.
Martinsson had started working on the file again. After about 10 minutes he pushed back his chair.
"Everything's locked," he said. "There are complicated codes and barriers to everything. There's no way in."
"Is it time to give up?"
Martinsson smiled. "Not just yet," he said. He resumed his tapping on the keyboard, but stopped almost at once.
"What is it?"
Martinsson looked at the screen with surprise. "I'm not sure, but I think someone else used this computer only a few hours ago."
"Can you find out for sure?"
"I think so."
After about 10 minutes he got up. "I was right," he said. "Someone was using this computer yesterday. Or rather, last night."
"That means someone other than Falk has access to this material."
"And that someone didn't have to break into the flat to get to it," Martinsson said. "How does that change the picture?"
"We don't know yet," Wallander said. "It's too early."
Martinsson sat back down at the computer and kept working.
They took a break at 4.30 p.m. Martinsson invited Wallander to come home with him and have supper. They were back at the flat at 6.30. Wallander realised his presence was superfluous, but he didn't want to abandon Martinsson.
Martinsson kept working until 10 p.m. and then he finally gave up.
"I'm not getting through," he said. "I've never seen any security systems that looked like this. There's the electronic equivalent of miles and miles of barbed wire in here. That and impenetrable firewalls."
"Well, that's that then. We'll give the National Police a call."
"I suppose," Martinsson said.
"Do we have a choice?"
"We do, actually. There's a young man called Robert Modin who lives in Löderup. Not far from where your father used to live."
"Who is he?"
"He's a 19-year-old kid like any other, except he just got out of jail."
"And why is he an alternative?"
"Because he managed to break into the Pentagon supercomputer about a year ago. He's reckoned one of the best hackers in Europe."
There was something appealing about Martinsson's suggestion. Wallander didn't take long to make up his mind.
"Get him," he said. "Meanwhile, I'll check up on Hansson and the walkers of dogs."
Martinsson got into his car and drove towards Löderup.
Wallander looked around on the dark street. There was a car parked two blocks away. Wallander lifted his hand in greeting. Then he thought about what Höglund had said about being careful. He looked around again, before heading towards Missunnavägen.
The light rain had finally stopped.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hansson had parked outside the Tax Authority building. Wallander saw him from a distance, leaning against a street light reading the newspaper. You can tell from here he's a policeman, Wallander thought. No-one can fail to see he's on the job, though it's not clear what he's up to. But he's not warmly enough dressed. Apart from the golden rule of making it through the day alive, there's nothing more important in the policeman's rule book than dressing warmly when working outside.
Hansson was absorbed in his newspaper. He didn't notice Wallander until he was right beside him. He was reading the racing section.
"I didn't hear you," Hansson said. "I wonder if my hearing is going."
"How are the horses today?"
"I suppose I'm living in cloud cuckoo land, like most people. I think that one day I'll sit there with all the right numbers. But it's funny, the horses don't run the way they're supposed to. They never do."
"And the dogs?"
"I only just got here. I haven't seen anyone yet."
Wallander looked around. "When I first came to Ystad, this part of town was an empty field," he said. "None of this was here."
They started along the street. Wallander told him about Martinsson's valiant efforts to break the code of Falk's computer. They got to the cash machine and stopped.
"It's funny how quickly you get used to things," Hansson said. "I can hardly remember life before these machines. Not that I have a clue how they actually work. Sometimes I imagine a little man sitting inside, someone who counts out all the notes and sends it through to you."
Wallander thought again about what Erik Hökberg had said, about how vulnerable society had become. The blackout a few days ago had proved him right.
They walked back to Hansson's car. Still they saw no-one out walking their dogs.
"I'm off now. How was the dinner?"
"I never went. What's the point of eating if you can't have a glass or two?"
Wallander was about to leave when Hansson mentioned having had a conversation earlier in the day with the prosecutor.
"Did Viktorsson have anything to say?"
"Not really."
"He must have said something."
"He said he couldn't see any reason to narrow the investigation at this point. The case should still be attacked on all fronts. Without fixed ideas."
"Policemen never work without fixed ideas," Wallander said. "He should know that by now."
"Well, that was what he said."
"Nothing else?"
"Not really."
Wallander had the feeling that he was holding something back. He waited, but Hansson didn't add anything.
"I think 12.30 a.m. should do it," Wallander told him. "I'll see you in the morning."
"I should have worn warmer clothes. It's a chilly night."
"Soon enough it'll be winter," Wallander said.
He walked back into town. He was convinced that Hansson hadn't told him everything. By the time he got to Runnerströms Torg he realised it had to mean that Viktorsson had made some comment about him, about the Persson girl and the internal investigation. He was irritated that Hansson hadn't told him what he had said, but it didn't surprise him. Hansson made a career of trying to be everyone's friend. Wallander suddenly felt how tired he was. Or perhaps he was simply demoral
ised.
He looked around. The undercover police car was still parked in its spot. Apart from that the street was deserted. He unlocked his car and got in. Just as he was about to start the engine his mobile phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket. It was Martinsson.
"Where are you?" Wallander said.
"I went home."
"Why? Couldn't you get hold of Molin?"
"Modin. Robert Modin. No, I began to wonder if it was such a good idea after all."
"Why?"
"You know how it is, regulations. We can't simply bring in whoever we want on a case from outside the force. And remember, Modin has been convicted of a crime – even if his sentence was only for a month or so."
Martinsson was getting cold feet. That had happened before. At times it had even led to conflict between them. Sometimes Wallander thought Martinsson was too careful. He never used the word "pusillanimous", but that was what he meant.
"Strictly speaking we should first get approval from the prosecutor," Martinsson said. "At the very least we should talk to Lisa."
"I'll take full responsibility," Wallander said.
"Even so."
Martinsson had clearly made up his mind.
"Give me Modin's address," Wallander said. "That way you'll be absolved of all responsibility."
"You don't think we should wait?"
"No. Time is running out and I want to know what's in that computer."
"What you really need to do is sleep, you know. Have you looked in the mirror recently?"
"Yes, I know," Wallander said. "Now give me the address."
He found a pen in the glove compartment which was stuffed full of papers and folded-up paper plates from burger bars. Wallander wrote down what Martinsson said on the back of a petrol receipt.
"It's almost midnight," Martinsson said.
"I know," Wallander said. "See you tomorrow."
He hung up and put his phone on the passenger seat. But before he started the engine he thought about what Martinsson had said. He was right about one thing. They needed to sleep. What was the point of going out to Löderup in the middle of the night? Modin was probably sleeping. I'll let it go until tomorrow, he thought.
He started the engine and drove in the direction of Löderup. He drove fast to try to wake himself up. He wasn't even acting on his own decisions any more.
He didn't need to consult the scrap of paper with the address. He knew exactly where it was even as he had been writing it down. It was in an area only a few kilometres from where his father's house had been. Wallander had the feeling, too, that he had met Modin's father. He wound down the window and let the cold air wash over his face. He was annoyed with both Hansson and Martinsson. They're bending to pressure, he thought. Kowtowing to Chief Holgersson.
He turned off the main road at 12.15 a.m. There was a good chance that he was going to arrive at a house where everyone was sleeping. But his anger had chased the tiredness away. He wanted to see Robert Modin, and he wanted to take him to Runnerströms Torg.
He drove up to the house, which was in deep country. There was a large garden and a paddock to one side with a lone horse. The house was whitewashed. There was a jeep and a smaller car parked in front. There were still lights on in several of the downstairs windows.
Wallander turned off his engine and got out. The porch light came on and a man walked out of the house. Wallander had been right. They had met before somewhere. He walked over and greeted the man. He was around sixty, thin and slightly bowed. His hands didn't feel like a farmer's.
"I recognise you," Modin said. "Your father lived not too far from here."
"I know we've met before," Wallander said. "But I can't remember the context."
"Your father was out walking in one of the fields around here," Modin said. "He was carrying a suitcase."
Wallander remembered that time. His father had had one of his episodes of confusion and had decided to go to Italy. He packed his suitcase and started walking. Modin had seen him tramping through the mud and had called the police.
"I haven't seen you since he passed away," Modin said. "The house is sold of course."
"Gertrud moved to be close to her sister in Svarte. I don't even know who ended up buying the place."
"It's someone from up north who claims to be a businessman," Modin said. "I suspect he's actually a booze smuggler."
Wallander had an image of his father's studio converted into a still.
"I suppose you've come on account of Robert," Modin said. "I thought he had paid for his sins?"
"I'm sure he has," Wallander said. "Though you're right that I'm here to see him."
"What's he done now?"
Wallander heard the dread in the father's voice.
"Nothing, nothing. In fact, it seems he may be able to help us with something."
Modin looked surprised, but also relieved. He nodded at the door and Wallander followed him inside.
"The wife's sleeping," Modin said. "She wears earplugs."
Wallander remembered that Modin was a surveyor. He didn't know how he knew this.
"Is Robert here?"
"He's at a party with some friends. But he has his phone with him."
Modin showed him into the living room.
Wallander was startled to see one of his father's paintings hanging above the sofa. It was the landscape motif without the woodgrouse.
"He gave it to me," Modin said. "Whenever it snowed heavily I would go over and shovel his driveway for him. Sometimes I stayed and we talked. He was an unusual man, in his own way."
"That's an understatement," Wallander said.
"I liked him. There aren't too many of his kind any more."
"He wasn't always easy to deal with," Wallander said. "But I miss him. And it's true, old men like him are getting more rare. One day there won't be any left."
"Who is easy to deal with anyway?" Modin said. "Are you? I don't think I could say that about myself. Just ask my wife."
Wallander sat down on the sofa. Modin was cleaning out his pipe.
"Robert is a good boy," he said. "I thought he was treated harshly, even if it was only a month. It was all just a game to him."
"I don't know the whole story," Wallander said, "other than that he broke into the Pentagon's computer network."
"He's very good with computers," Modin said. "He bought his first one when he was 9 years old, with money he had saved up picking strawberries. Then he was engulfed by it. But as long as he continued to do all right in school, it was fine with me. Of course my wife was against it from the start, and now she feels justified by what happened."
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