Firewall

by Henning Mankell

  "Who knows," Wallander said. "Perhaps the key player in all of this isn't Falk but the cash machine where he died."

  Martinsson laughed. Wallander suggested that they meet at around 3 p.m.

  After the conversation ended, Wallander thought about Elvira Lindfeldt. He tried to imagine what she could look like, but he kept finding himself thinking of Baiba. And Mona. And a glimpse of a woman he had met once at a roadside café outside Västervik.

  He was interrupted in his thoughts by Hansson, who appeared in the doorway. Wallander felt guilty, as if his thoughts were written on his face.

  "All the keys are accounted for," Hansson said.

  Wallander couldn't think what he was talking about, but he didn't say anything because he felt sure that he should know.

  "I have a fax from Sydkraft," he said. "All people who had keys to the substation can account for them."

  "Good," Wallander said. "It's always a help to be able to strike something off our list."

  "Unfortunately, I haven't been able to trace the Mercedes van."

  Wallander leaned back in his chair. "You can put that aside for now. We'll get to it eventually, but there are more important tasks."

  Hansson nodded and wrote something in his notebook. Wallander told him about the 3 p.m. meeting.

  Putting aside his thoughts of Elvira and her appearance, he got back to his paperwork and also thought about what Martinsson had said. The phone rang. It was Viktorsson, asking how the case was going.

  "I thought Hansson was keeping you abreast of all developments."

  "But you are in charge."

  Viktorsson's comment surprised Wallander. He had been sure that Holgersson had arrived at her decision to suspend him in consultation with Viktorsson, but he was pretty sure that Viktorsson was not being disingenuous when he said that Wallander was in charge. Wallander instantly warmed towards him.

  "I can see you tomorrow morning."

  "I'm free at 8.30 p.m."

  Wallander made a note of it. Then he spent another half-hour preparing for the meeting. At 2.40 p.m. he went to get more coffee, but the machine was broken. Wallander thought once more about Erik Hökberg's observation about the vulnerability of society. That gave him a new idea. He went back to his office to give Hökberg a call. He answered at once. Wallander gave him what details he could about the latest developments and asked him if the name Jonas Landahl meant anything to him. Hökberg said no, definitely no. Wallander was surprised.

  "Are you absolutely sure?"

  "The name is unusual enough that I would have remembered it. Was he the one who killed Sonja?"

  "We only know that they knew each other and we have some information which indicates that they may even have been more than just friends."

  Wallander wondered if he ought to raise the subject of rape, but decided that it wasn't something they should discuss over the phone. Instead, he moved on to the question he had been wanting to ask.

  "When I was out to see you last, you told me about your computer transactions. I came away with the impression then that there were no limits really to what you could do."

  "That's right. If you connect to the large databases around the world then you're at the centre of things, wherever you are yourself."

  "You could do business with a stockbroker in Seoul if you felt like it."

  "Yes, indeed."

  "What would I need to know in order to do that?"

  "First, you would need his e-mail address. Then the security systems have to match up. He has to be able to see who I am, and vice versa. Otherwise there are no real problems. None of a technical nature, at any rate."

  "What would those be?"

  "Each country has its own set of laws and regulations governing trade. You would have to know what those are, unless you are operating illegally."

  "Since there is so much money involved, the security measures must be damned stringent. Could they, do you think, be cracked?"

  "I'm not the right man to answer those questions. But as a police officer you should know that anyone with a strong enough desire can do almost anything. What is it people say? If you really wanted to kill the President of the USA, you could do it. But I'm getting curious as to why you're asking me these questions."

  "You impressed me as having a great deal of technical expertise."

  "Only on the surface. The electronic world is so complicated and is changing so fast that I doubt there's anyone out there who understands it completely. Or who has control over it."

  Wallander said he would be in touch with him soon. Then he went to the conference room. Hansson and Nyberg were there already. They were complaining about the coffee machine breaking down more and more often these days. Wallander nodded to them and sat down just as Höglund and Martinsson arrived. Wallander had not yet decided whether to begin or to end by describing his meeting with Holgersson. He decided to wait. His hard-working colleagues were involved in a tough enough investigation as it was, and he shouldn't burden them more than was absolutely necessary.

  They began by discussing the events surrounding Landahl's death. There were no eyewitness accounts. No-one had seen him on the ferry, no-one had seen him make his way to the engine room.

  "I find it very strange," Wallander said. "No-one saw him, either when he paid for his cabin or anywhere on the ship. No-one saw him enter the restricted area leading to the engine room. It makes no sense."

  "He must have travelled with someone," Höglund said. "I spoke to one of the engineers before I got here and he said it would have been impossible for Landahl to squeeze himself into the propeller shaft on his own."

  "So he must have been forced into that position," Wallander said. "Which means that now we have two people who managed to find their way into the engine room without being seen. And one who made his way back. We can draw a conclusion from this, which is that Landahl must have gone willingly with this person. If he had been dragged there someone would be bound to have noticed, and it would have been hard for the killer to force Landahl down those ladders."

  They talked through various aspects of the case until 6 p.m., at which time Wallander decided that they were no longer being productive. Everyone was worn out. Wallander decided not to mention his conversation with Holgersson. He simply didn't have the energy.

  Martinsson went back to Runnerströms Torg. Hansson brought up the point that Modin should probably be compensated in some way. Nyberg yawned. He still had oil under his fingernails. Wallander talked for a few more minutes with Hansson and Höglund in the corridor. They assigned some of the tasks that remained. Then Wallander went to his office and closed his door.

  He stared at the phone for a long time without understanding his hesitation. Finally he dialled Elvira's number.

  She answered after the seventh ring. "Lindfeldt."

  Wallander put the phone down, waited a few minutes, and then dialled her number again. This time she answered immediately. He liked the sound of her voice.

  Wallander said who he was and they chatted for a few minutes. It was apparently quite windy in Malmö, more so than in Ystad. Elvira also complained that many of her colleagues at work were coming down with colds. Wallander agreed. Autumn was always a difficult time that way. He was recovering from a sore throat himself.

  "It would be nice to get together sometime," she said.

  "I'm not a big believer in dating agencies," he said, regretting it as soon as the words left his mouth.

  "It's really no better or worse than any other way to meet people," she said. "We're both adults, after all."

  Then she said another thing that surprised him. She asked him what he was doing that evening. She suggested that they meet in Malmö. I can't, Wallander thought. This is far too fast and I have work to do, but then he said yes. They agreed to meet at 8.30 p.m. in the Savoy bar.

  "We'll skip the carnations," she said. "I am sure we'll be able to pick each other out."

  Wallander wondered what he was getting himself into, b
ut he was also excited. It was 6.30 p.m. He had to get ready.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Wallander parked outside the Savoy at exactly 8.27 p.m. He had driven much too fast from Ystad because he thought he would be late. He had taken so long deciding what he was going to wear. He picked a clean but unironed shirt from a pile of washed clothes and then couldn't settle on which tie. Finally, he decided against wearing one at all. And his shoes needed polishing. The result was that he left the flat later than he had planned.

  Hansson had also called him as he was cleaning his shoes, and asked him if he knew where Nyberg was. Wallander had not discovered why he needed to know so badly. He had kept his answers so brisk that Hansson had asked him if he was pressed for time. Wallander had been so cold that Hansson had asked no further questions. When he was about to leave, the phone rang again. This time it was Linda. There was a lull at the restaurant and her boss was on holiday, so she thought she would come and stay with him. Wallander nearly told her where he was going. Linda was the one, after all, who had encouraged him to get into this in the first place. She gathered straight away that he was in a hurry. Wallander could never put anything past her, but nevertheless he tried to convince her that he was on his way to attend to police business. They arranged that she would call the next evening.

  Once on the road, Wallander realised that he was almost out of petrol. He might make it to Malmö, but he didn't want to take a chance on it. He stopped at a petrol station outside Skurup and was worried that he might not be there on time. He still bore the scar of the time he had been 10 minutes late for a date with Mona and she had simply left.

  But he did make it in time. He sat in the car for a moment and looked at his face in the mirror. He was thinner now than a few years ago and his features were more sharply defined. She wouldn't know that he had his father's face. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He forced all his expectations away. He wasn't likely to be disappointed, but she probably would be. They would meet in the bar, have a drink and that would be it. He would be in his bed by midnight. When he woke up the next day he would have forgotten her already and also be confirmed in his suspicions that this dating agency business was not for him.

  He sat in the car until almost 8.40 p.m., then got out and walked across the street to the Savoy.

  They saw each other at the same time. She was at a table in the far corner. Apart from a few men at the bar there were not many guests, and she was the only woman alone. Wallander caught her gaze and she smiled. When she stood up to greet him he saw that she was very tall. She was wearing a dark blue suit. Her skirt came to just above her knees and he saw that she had beautiful legs.

  "Am I right?" he said, as he stretched out his hand.

  "If you are Kurt Wallander, I am Elvira."

  He sat down across the table from her.

  "I don't smoke," she said. "But I do drink."

  "So do I," Wallander said. "But not tonight. I'm driving, so I'll have to stick to mineral water."

  He craved a glass of wine. Or better still, several glasses. But since that time many years ago when he had been stopped by his colleagues Peters and Norén after having had one or two too many he had been very careful. They had said nothing, but Wallander knew he had been so drunk that it would have meant immediate dismissal if they had. It was one of the ugliest memories of his career. He couldn't risk anything like that again.

  The waiter came to the table and took their order. Elvira ordered another glass of white wine.

  Wallander felt self-conscious. Since he was a teenager he had had the idea that he looked best in profile. Now he turned his chair sideways to the table.

  "Do you not have room for your legs?" she asked. "I can pull the table over if you like."

  "Not at all," Wallander said. "I'm fine." What the hell do I say now? he wondered. Do I tell her I fell in love with her from the moment I stepped in the room? Or rather when I first read her letter?

  "Have you ever done this before?" she said.

  "Never."

  "I have," she said, cheerfully. "But it's never led to anything."

  Wallander noticed that she was very direct, in contrast to himself. He was still chiefly concerned about the angle at which he was sitting.

  "Why didn't it work out before?"

  "Wrong person, wrong sense of humour, wrong attitude, wrong expectations. Some have been pompous or had too many drinks. A lot can go wrong."

  "Perhaps I've already done something wrong too?"

  "You look nice enough," she said.

  "That's a word only rarely applied to me," he said. "But I suppose I'm no ogre."

  At that moment he thought of the picture of Persson that had appeared in the papers. Had she seen it? Did she know he was accused of assaulting a juvenile? But it never came up in their conversation. Wallander began to believe that she hadn't seen it. Perhaps she didn't read the evening papers. Wallander sat nursing his mineral water and longed for something stronger. She went on drinking wine. She asked him what it was like to be a policeman and Wallander tried to answer her questions truthfully. But he noticed that he kept touching on the tougher aspects of his work, as if he were trying to elicit her sympathy.

  Her questions were well considered, sometimes unexpected. He had to keep his wits about him to give her meaningful answers.

  She told him about her own work. The shipping company she worked for did a lot of moving of household goods for Swedish missionaries who were either setting off abroad or coming home. He began to realise that she held a position of some responsibility since her boss was often away on business. She obviously enjoyed her work.

  The time flew by. Shortly after 11 p.m. Wallander was in the middle of telling her about his failed marriage with Mona. She listened attentively, seriously but also supportively.

  "And afterwards?" she said, when his story trailed off. "You have been divorced for some time now. There must have been someone else."

  "I've been alone for long periods of time," he said. "For a while I was seeing a woman from Latvia, from Riga. Her name was Baiba. I had high hopes of the relationship and I thought she shared those hopes. But it didn't work out."

  "Why not?"

  "She wanted to stay in Riga, and I wanted to stay here. I had made all kinds of plans. We were going to live in the country, start over."

  "Perhaps your dreams were too ambitious," she said. "You got burned."

  Wallander had the feeling that he had talked too much, that he had said too much about himself and perhaps about Mona and Baiba. But the woman was easy to confide in.

  She told him her own history. It was much the same as his, except that in her case it was two failed marriages rather than one. She had one child from each of them. She said nothing explicit, but Wallander had the impression that her first husband had been physically abusive. Her second husband had been Argentinian and she told him with equal measures of insight and irony how his passionate nature which at first had been a breath of fresh air had finally become stifling.

  "He vanished two years ago," she said. "The last I heard he was in Barcelona, penniless. I helped him with his ticket back to Argentina. I haven't heard from him for a year. His daughter, of course, is distraught."

  "How old are the children?"

  "Alexandra is 17, Tobias 21."

  They paid their bill at 11.30 p.m. Wallander wanted to treat her, but she insisted on splitting it.

  "It's Friday tomorrow," Wallander said once they were out on the street.