He thought about the painting in the flat in Helsingborg, and about all the other flats he had not seen but where nevertheless the grouse was portrayed against a landscape over which the sun never set.
For the first time he thought he had gained an insight. Throughout his life his father had prevented the sun from setting. That had been his livelihood, his message. He had painted pictures so that people who bought them to hang on their walls could see it was possible to hold the sun captive.
He came to Simrishamn, parked outside the police station and went in. Torsten Lundström was at his desk. He was due to retire and Wallander knew him for a kind man, a police officer of the old school who wanted nothing but good for his fellow men. He nodded at Wallander and put down the newspaper he was reading. Wallander sat on a chair in front of his desk and looked at him.
"Can you tell me what happened?" he said. "I know my father got mixed up in a fight at the off-licence, but that's about all I know."
"Well, it was like this," Lundström said with a friendly smile. "Your father drove up to the off-licence in a taxi at about 4.00 in the afternoon, went inside, took the ticket with his queue number from the machine and sat down to wait. It seems he didn't notice when his number came up. After a while he went up to the counter and demanded to be served even though he had missed his turn. The shop assistant handled the whole thing really badly, apparently insisting that your father get a new number and start at the back of the queue. Your father refused, another customer whose number had come up pushed his way past and told your father to get lost. To everybody's surprise your father was so angry he turned and thumped this man. The assistant intervened, so your father started fighting with him as well. You can imagine what happened next. But at least nobody got hurt. Your father might have some pain in his right hand, though. He seems to be pretty strong, despite his age."
"Where is he?"
Lundström pointed to a door in the background. "What'll happen now?" Wallander asked.
"You can take him home. I'm afraid he'll be charged with causing an affray. Unless you can sort it out with the man he punched and the shop assistant. I'll have a word with the prosecutor and do what I can."
He handed Wallander a piece of paper with two names and addresses on it.
"I don't think the fellow in the shop will give you any difficulty," he said. "I know him. The other man, Sten Wickberg, could be a bit of a problem. He owns a firm of haulage contractors. Lives in Kivik. He seems to have made up his mind to come down on your poor father from a great height. You could try calling him. The number's there. And Simrishamn Taxis are owed 230 kronor. In all the confusion, he never got round to paying. The driver's name is Waldemar Kåge. I've had a word with him. He knows he'll get his money."
Wallander took the sheet of paper and put it in his pocket. Then he motioned towards the door behind him. "How is he?"
"I think he's simmered down. But he still insists he had every right to defend himself."
"Defend himself?" Wallander said. "But he was the one who started it all."
"Well, he feels he had a right to defend his place in the queue," Lundström said. "For Christ's sake!"
Lundström stood up. "You can take him home now," he said. "By the way, what's this I hear about your car going up in flames?"
"There could have been something wrong with the electrics" Wallander said. "Anyway, it was an old banger."
"I'll disappear for a few minutes," Lundström said. "The door locks itself when you close it."
"Thanks for your help," Wallander said.
"What help?" Lundström said, putting on his cap and going out.
Wallander knocked and opened the door. His father was sitting on a bench in the bare room, cleaning his fingernails with a nail. When he saw who it was, he rose to his feet and was clearly annoyed.
"You took your time," he said. "How long did you intend making me wait here?"
"I came as quickly as I could," Wallander said. "Let's go home now." "Not until I've paid for the taxi," his father said. "I want to do the right thing."
"We'll sort that out later."
They left the police station and drove home in silence. Wallander could see that his father had already forgotten what had happened. It wasn't until they reached the turning to Glimmingehus that Wallander turned to him.
"What happened to Anton and the Pole?" he asked.
"Do you remember them?" his father asked in surprise.
"There was a fight on that occasion as well," Wallander said with a sigh.
"I thought you would have forgotten about that," his father said. "I don't know what became of the Pole. It's getting on for 20 years since I last heard of him. He had gone over to something he thought would be more profitable. Pornographic magazines. I don't know how he got on. But Anton's dead. Drank himself to death. That must be nearly 25 years ago."
"What were you doing at the off-licence?" Wallander asked. "What you normally do there," his father said. "I wanted to buy some brandy."
"I thought you didn't like brandy." "My wife enjoys a glass in the evening." "Gertrud drinks brandy?"
"Why shouldn't she? Don't start thinking you can tell her what to do and what not to do, like you've been trying to do to me."
Wallander could not believe his ears. "I've never tried to tell you what to do," he said angrily. "If anybody's been trying to tell somebody else what to do, it's been you telling me."
"If you'd listened to me you'd never have joined the police force," his father said. "And in view of what's happened these last few years, that would have been to your advantage, of course."
Wallander realised the best he could do was to change the subject. "It was a good job you weren't injured," he said.
"You have to preserve your dignity," his father said. "And your place in the queue. Otherwise they walk all over you."
"I am afraid you might be charged."
"I shall deny it."
"Deny what? Everybody knows it was you who started the fight. There's no way you can deny it."
"All I did was preserve my dignity," his father said. "Do they put you in prison for that nowadays?"
"You won't go to prison," Wallander said. "You might have to pay damages, though."
"I shall refuse," his father said.
"I'll pay them," Wallander said. "You punched another customer on the nose. That sort of thing gets punished." "You have to preserve your dignity."
Wallander gave up. Shortly afterwards they turned into his father's drive.
"Don't mention this to Gertrud," his father said as he got out of the car. Wallander was surprised by his insistent tone. "I won't say a word."
Gertrud and his father had married the year before. She had started to work for him when he had begun to show signs of senility. She introduced a new dimension into his solitary life - she had visited him three days a week - and there had been a big change in his father, who no longer seemed to be senile. She was 30 years his junior, but that apparently did not matter to either of them. Wallander was aghast at the thought of their marrying, but he had discovered that she was good-hearted and determined to go through with it. He did not know much about her, beyond the fact that she was local, had two grownup children and had been divorced for years. They seemed to have found happiness together, and Wallander had often felt a degree of jealousy. His own life seemed to be so miserable and was getting worse all the time so that what he needed was a home help for himself.
Gertrud was preparing the evening meal when they went in. As always, she was delighted to welcome him. He apologised for not being able to join them for supper, blaming pressure of work. Instead, he went with his father to the studio, where they drank a cup of coffee which they made on the filthy hotplate.
"I saw one of your pictures on a wall in Helsingborg the other night," Wallander said.
"There've been quite a few over the years," his father said.
"How many have you made?"
"I could work it out if I want
ed to," his father said. "But I don't." "It must be thousands."
"I'd rather not think about it. It would be inviting the Reaper into the parlour."
The comment surprised Wallander. He had never heard him refer to his age, never mind his death. It struck him that he had no idea how frightened his father might be of dying. After all these years, I know nothing at all about my father, he thought. And he probably knows equally little about me.
His father was peering at him short-sightedly.
"So, you're fit again, are you?" he said. "You've started work again. The last time you were here, before you went to that guest house at Skagen, you said you were going to pack it in as a police officer. You've changed your mind, have you?"
"Something happened," Wallander said. He would rather not get involved in a discussion about his job. They always ended up quarrelling.
"I gather you're a pretty good police officer," his father said suddenly.
"Who told you that?" Wallander said.
"Gertrud. They've been writing about you in the newspapers. I don't read them, but she claims they say you're a good police officer." "Newspapers say all kinds of things." "I'm only repeating what she says." "What do you say?"
"That I tried to put you off joining, and I still think you should be doing something else."
"I don't suppose I'll ever stop," Wallander said. "I'm coming up to 50. I'll be a police officer as long as I work."
They heard Gertrud shouting that the food was on the table.
"I'd never have thought you'd have remembered Anton and the Pole," said his father as they walked over to the house.
"It's one of the most vivid memories I have of my childhood," Wallander said. "Do you know what I used to call all those strange people who came to buy your paintings?"
"They were art dealers," his father said.
"I know," Wallander said. "But to me they were the Silk Knights." His father stopped in his tracks and stared at him. He burst out laughing.
"That's an excellent name," he said. "That's exactly what they were. Knights in silk suits."
They said goodbye at the bottom of the steps.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay?" Gertrud asked. "There's plenty of food."
"I've got work to do," Wallander said.
He drove back to Ystad through the dark autumn countryside. He tried to think what it was about his father that reminded him of himself. But he could not find the answer.
On Friday, November 5, Wallander arrived at the station shortly after 7.00, feeling that he had caught up on his sleep and was raring to go. He made himself coffee, then spent the next hour preparing for the meeting of the investigation team that was due to start at 8.00. He drew up a schematic and chronological presentation of all the facts and tried to work out where they should go from there. He was bearing in mind that one or more of his colleagues might have come up with something the previous day that would throw new light on existing facts.
He had the feeling still that there was no time to spare, that the shadows behind the two dead solicitors were growing and becoming more frightening.
He put down his pen, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was at once back at Skagen, the beach stretching away in front of him, shrouded in fog. Sten Torstensson was there somewhere. Wallander tried to see past him to catch a glimpse of the people who must have followed him and were watching his meeting with the police officer on sick leave. They must have been close, for all that they were invisible, hidden among the dunes.
He thought of the woman walking her dog. Could it have been her? Or the girl working in the Art Museum cafe? That seemed impossible. There must have been somebody else there in the fog, somebody neither Sten nor he had seen.
He glanced at the clock. Time for the meeting. He gathered up his papers.
The meeting went on for more than four hours, but by the end of it Wallander felt that they had made a breakthrough, that a pattern was now beginning to appear, although there was much that was still obscure and the evidence of the involvement of any particular individuals was as yet inconclusive. Nevertheless, they had agreed that there could hardly be any doubt that what they were dealing with was not a string of unassociated events, but a deliberate chain of acts, even if at this stage they could not be clear about the links. By the time Wallander was able to summarise their conclusions, the atmosphere was stuffy and Svedberg had started to complain of a headache, and they were all exhausted.
"It's possible, even probable, that this investigation will take a long time, but we'll get all the bits of the jigsaw sooner or later. And that will lead to the solution. We must exercise the greatest care: we've already met with one booby trap, a mine. There may be more, metaphorically speaking. But now is the time to start ferreting away."
They had spent the morning going over their material - point by point - discussing it, evaluating it. They had scrutinised every detail from all possible points of view, tested various interpretations, and then agreed on how to proceed. They had reached a crucial moment in the investigation, one of the most critical stages at which it could so easily go wrong if any one of them had a lapse of concentration. All contradictory evidence had to be taken as the starting point of a positive and constructive re-examination, not as grounds for automatic oversimplification or too-swift judgments. It's like being at the exploratory stage of designing a house, Wallander thought. We're constructing many of different models, and we must not dismantle any one of them too hastily. All the models are built on the same foundation.
It was almost a month since Gustaf Torstensson had died in the muddy field near Brosarp Hills. It was ten days since his son had been in Skagen and then murdered in his office. They kept coming back to those starting points.
The first to give their report that morning was Martinsson, supported by Nyberg.
"We've received the forensic analysis on the weapon and ammunition used to kill Sten Torstensson," Martinsson said, holding up the documents. "There's at least one point which we need to pay attention to."
Nyberg took over. "Sten Torstensson was hit by three 9 mm rounds. Standard ammunition. But the most interesting thing is that the experts believe the weapon used was an Italian pistol known as a Bernadelli Practical. I won't go into technical details as to why they think so. It could have been a Smith & Wesson 3914 or 5904, but it's more likely to have been a Bernadelli. That is a rather rare pistol in Sweden. There are no more than 50 or so registered. Of course, nobody knows how many illegal ones there might be floating about, but an informed guess would be about 30."
"Who would want to use that Italian pistol?" Wallander said.
"Somebody who knows a lot about guns," Nyberg said. "Somebody who chose it for specific reasons."
"Are you saying it could be a foreign professional hit man?"
"We shouldn't disregard that possibility," Nyberg said.
"We're going to go through the list of Bernadelli owners," Martinsson said. "From first checks, no registered owner of a Bernadelli pistol has reported it missing."
They moved to the next point.
"The number plate on one of the cars that followed you was stolen," Svedberg said. "From a Nissan in Malmö. Malmö are looking into it. They've found lots of fingerprints, but we shouldn't set our hopes very high."
Wallander agreed. "Anything else?" he said.
"You asked me to dig out some facts about Kurt Ström," Svedberg said.
Wallander gave a brief account of his visit to Farnholm Castle and his meeting with the former policeman at the castle gates.
"Kurt Ström was not a good advertisement for the police force," Svedberg said. "He had dealings with several fences. What they never managed to prove but was almost certainly the case was that he tipped them off about police raids. He was kicked out, but there was no publicity."
Björk spoke for the first time. "This sort of thing is deplorable. We can't afford to have people like Ström in the force. What's worrying is that they then turn up i
n one of these security firms, no problem. The checks made on them are obviously nowhere near thorough enough."
Wallander refrained from commenting on Björk's outburst. He knew from experience the risk of being sidetracked into a discussion that had no direct bearing on the case.
"As to the explosion in your car," Nyberg said, "we can be sure that the device was planted in your petrol tank. I gather that this method of using the petrol to eat its way through a fuse and delay the explosion is common in Asia."
"An Italian pistol," Wallander said, "and an Asian car bomb. Where does that leave us?"
"With a false conclusion, if we're not careful," Björk said firmly. "It needn't be people from the other end of the world behind all this. Nowadays Sweden is a crossroads and a meeting place for everything you can think of."
"What did you find at the solicitors' offices, Ann-Britt?"
"Nothing as yet that could be considered significant," Höglund said. "It will take us ages to take stock of all the material. The only thing that's already definite is that Gustaf Torstensson's clients diminished in number drastically over the last years. And that he seemed to spend all his time setting up companies, on financial advice, and drawing up contracts. I wonder whether we might need some help from the national CID, a specialist on financial crime. Even if no crime has been committed it's probably beyond us to make out what may be behind all the various transactions."
"Make use of Åkeson," Björk said. "He knows a lot about financial matters and crime. Then he can decide if he's sufficiently well up, or whether we need to send for reinforcements."
Wallander agreed and returned to his checklist.
"What about the cleaner?" he said.
"I'm going to meet her," Höglund said. "I've spoken to her on the phone. She speaks Swedish well enough for an interpreter to be unnecessary."
Then it was Wallander's turn. He told the meeting of his visit to Martin Oscarsson and the drive to Klagshamn and the birch woods where Borman was supposed to have hanged himself. As so often before, Wallander felt he had discovered new details when he reported to his colleagues on what had happened. Retelling the story sharpened his concentration.
The Man Who Smiled - Wallander 04 Page 18