He stayed in the shadows under the trees for several more minutes, then crouched and ran as fast as he could to the door of the annexe. He expected at any moment to be hit by a bullet. He knocked on the door, trying the handle at the same time. It was locked. Then he heard her voice, sounding very frightened, and he said who he was: Roger. Sten's friend Roger. He couldn't remember the surname he'd come up with. But she opened the door and he noted the expression of surprise mixed with relief on her face. The flat comprised a small kitchen and a living room with an alcove for a bedroom. He indicated with a finger to his lips that she should be quiet. They sat in the kitchen, facing each other across the table. He could hear the thuds from the stalls very clearly now.
Wallander said: "I don't have a lot of time and I can't explain why I'm here. So just answer my questions, please, nothing else."
He unfolded the map and laid it on the table.
"There was a man lying on a path," he said. "Can you point to where?"
She leaned across and drew a little circle with her index finger on a track marked to the south of the stables. "About there," she said.
"I have to ask you if you had seen the man before." "No."
"What was he wearing?" "I don't remember." "Was it a uniform?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. My mind's a blank." There was no point in his pressing her further. Her terror had affected her memory.
"Has anything else happened today, anything out of the ordinary?" "No."
"Nobody's been here to talk to you?" "No."
Wallander tried to work out what that meant. But the image of Ström lying there in the darkness forced all other thoughts from his mind.
"I'm going now," he said. "If anybody comes, don't tell them I've been."
"Will you come back?" she said.
"I don't know. But you don't need to worry, nothing's going to happen."
He peered out through a crack in the curtains, hoping the assurance he had just given her really would turn out to be true. Then he opened the door quickly and ran to the back of the building. He did not stop until he was in the shadows again. A slight breeze had started blowing. Beyond the trees he could see the powerful beams lighting up the dark red facade of the castle. He could also see lights in several of the windows on all floors.
He was shivering.
After thinking hard once more about the map he had lodged in his memory, he set off again, torch in hand. He passed the site of an artificial lake that had been drained of water. Then he turned left and began looking for the path. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had 40 minutes before he was due to contact Höglund again.
Just as he was beginning to think he was lost, he found the path. It was about a metre wide, and he could see the tracks of horses' hooves. He stood still, listening. But it was silent everywhere, although the wind seemed to be getting stronger. He continued along the path, expecting to be grabbed at any moment.
After about five minutes he stopped. If she had indicated correctly on the map, he had walked too far. Was he on the wrong path? He went on, more slowly. After another hundred metres he was sure he must have passed the point she had marked by now.
He stood still, feeling uneasy.
There was no sign of Ström. The body must have been taken away. He turned and began to retrace his steps, wondering what to do next. He stopped again, this time because he needed a pee. He stepped into the bushes by the side of the path. When he had finished he took the map from his pocket and checked again, just to be certain that he had not mistaken the spot Sofia had circled, or taken the wrong path.
As he switched on the torch he caught sight of a naked foot. He gave a start and dropped the torch, which went out as it landed on the ground. He must have imagined it. He bent down to retrieve the torch. He switched it on again and found himself looking straight at Kurt Ström's dead face. It was ashen, the lips tightly clenched. Blood had drained away and coagulated on his cheeks. He had an entry wound in the middle of his forehead. Wallander thought about what had happened to Sten Torstensson. He stood up and hurried away. Leaned against a tree and threw up. Then he ran. He got as far as the empty lake and sank to his knees at its edge. Somewhere in the background a bird flew, clattering, from the top of a tree. He jumped down into the lake bed and crept to a corner. It was like being in a burial vault. He thought he could hear footsteps approaching and drew his pistol, but nobody appeared. He took a few deep breaths and forced himself to think. He was close to panic and felt that he would lose his self-control at any moment. Another 14 minutes and he was due to contact Höglund. But he did not have to wait, he could call her now and ask her to phone Björk. Ström was dead, shot through the head, and nothing was going to bring him back to life. They should call a full-scale emergency, Wallander would be waiting for them at the gates, and what would happen after that he had no idea.
But he did not make the call. He waited for 14 minutes and then reached for the radio telephone. She answered at once. "What's happening?" she said.
"Nothing yet," he said. "I'll call again in an hour."
"Have you found Ström?"
He switched off. Once again he was alone in the darkness. He had committed himself to do something, but did not know what. He had given himself an hour to fill without knowing how. Slowly he rose to his feet. He was freezing. He clambered up out of the lake bed and walked towards the light glimmering through the trees. He stopped where the trees came to an end and he found himself at the edge of the big lawn sloping up to the castle.
It was an impenetrable fortress, but somehow Wallander would have to force his way in. Ström was dead, but he could not be blamed for that. Nor could he be held responsible for the murder of Sten Torstensson. Wallander's guilt was different in kind, a feeling that he was going to let the side down once again, and when he could well be on the brink of solving the case.
There had to be a limit to what they were capable of doing, in spite of everything. They could not simply shoot him, an Ystad detective who was only doing his job. Then again, perhaps these people did not recognise any limits at all. He tried to unravel that conundrum, but he could not. Instead, he started making his way round to the back of the castle, a side of the building he had never seen. It took him all of ten minutes, despite walking briskly - not only because he was afraid, but also because he was so cold. He could not stop shivering. At the back of the castle was a half-moon-shaped terrace jutting out into the grounds. The left side of the terrace was in shadow: some of the hidden spotlights must have stopped working. There were stone steps from the terrace down on to the lawn. He ran as fast as he could until he was in the shadows again. He crept up the steps, his torch in one hand and his radio telephone in the other. The pistol was in his trouser pocket.
Suddenly he stopped dead and listened. What had he heard? It was one of his internal alarms going off. Something's wrong, he thought. But what? He pricked up his ears, but he could hear nothing apart from the wind coming and going. It's something to do with the light, he thought. I'm being drawn towards the shadows, and they are lying in wait for me.
When the penny dropped and he realised he had been tricked, it was too late. He turned to go back down the steps, but was blinded by a dazzling white light shining straight into his face. He had been lured into the shadowy trap, and now it had sprung. He held the hand holding the radio telephone over his eyes to keep out the light, but at the same time he felt himself being grabbed from behind. He tried to fight his way free, but it was too late. His head exploded and everything went black.
A part of his mind was conscious of what was happening all the time. Arms lifted him up and carried him, he could hear a voice speaking, somebody laughed. A door opened and the sound of footsteps on the stone terrace ceased. He was indoors, perhaps being carried up a staircase, and then he was set down on something soft. Whether it was the pain in the back of his head or the feeling of being in a room with the lights out, or at least dimmed, he did not know; but he came round, opened
his eyes and found himself lying on a sofa in a very large room. The floor was tiled, possibly with marble. Several computers with flickering screens stood on an oblong table. He could hear the sound of air-conditioning fans and somewhere, out of his field of vision, a telex machine was clicking away. He tried not to move his head, the pain behind his right ear was too great. Then somebody started speaking to him, a voice he recognised, close by his side.
"A moment of madness," Harderberg said. "When a man does something that can only end with him being injured, or killed."
Wallander turned gingerly and looked at him. He was smiling. Further back, where the light barely penetrated, he could just make out the outlines of two men, motionless.
Harderberg walked round the sofa and handed him the radio telephone. His suit was immaculate, his shoes highly polished.
"It's three minutes past midnight," Harderberg said. "A few minutes ago somebody tried to contact you. I've no idea who it was, of course, and I don't care. But I assume somebody is waiting for you to get in touch. You'd better do that. I don't need to tell you, I am sure, that you shouldn't attempt to raise the alarm. We've had enough madness for one day."
Wallander called her up and she answered immediately. "Everything's OK," he said. "I'll report again an hour from now." "Have you found Ström?" she said.
He hesitated, unsure of what to say. Then he noticed that Harderberg was nodding at him encouragingly.
"Yes, I've found him," Wallander said. "I'll call again at 1.00."
Wallander put the radio on the sofa beside him.
"The woman police officer," Harderberg said. "I take it that she's in the vicinity. We could find her if we wanted to, of course. But we don't."
Wallander gritted his teeth and stood up.
"I have come in order to inform you," he said, "that you are suspected of being an accessory to a number of serious crimes."
Harderberg observed him thoughtfully. "I waive my right to have a solicitor present. Please go on, Inspector Wallander."
"You are suspected of being an accessory to the deaths of Gustaf Torstensson and his son Sten Torstensson. Furthermore, you are now also suspected of being implicated in the death of your own chief of security, Kurt Ström. In addition, there is the attempted murder of the solicitors' secretary, Mrs Dunér, and of myself and Police Officer Höglund. There are a number of other possible charges, including ones connected to the fate of the accountant Borman. The Public Prosecutor will have to sort out the details."
Harderberg sat down slowly in an armchair. "Are you saying that I am under arrest, Inspector Wallander?" he said.
Wallander felt on the point of fainting, and sat again on the sofa. "I don't have the necessary papers," he said. "But that doesn't affect the basic circumstances."
Harderberg leaned forward in his armchair, chin resting on one hand. Then he leaned back again and nodded. "I'll make things easy for you," he said. "I confess."
Wallander stared at him, unable to believe his ears.
"You're absolutely right," Harderberg said. "I admit to being guilty on all counts."
"Including Borman?" "Including Borman, of course."
Wallander could feel his fear creeping up on him again, but this time colder, more threatening than before. The whole situation was out of kilter. He was going to have to get out of the castle.
Harderberg watched him attentively, as if trying to read Wallander's thoughts. To give himself time to work out how he could get an SOS to Höglund without Harderberg realising, Wallander started asking questions, as if they'd been in an interrogation room. But still he could not tell what Harderberg was up to. Had he known Wallander was in the grounds from the moment he passed through the gate? What had Ström given away before he was killed?
"The truth," Harderberg said, interrupting Wallander's train of thought. "Does it exist for a Swedish police officer?"
"Establishing the line between a lie and a fact, the real truth, is the basis of all police work," Wallander said.
"A correct answer," Harderberg said approvingly. "But it's wrong all the same. Because there's no such thing as an absolute truth or an absolute lie. There are just agreements. Agreements that can be entered into, kept or broken."
"If somebody uses a gun to kill another human being, that can hardly be anything but a factual happening," Wallander said.
He could hear a faint note of irritation in Harderberg's voice when he answered. "We don't need to discuss what's self-evident," he said. "I'm looking for a truth that goes deeper than that."
"Death is deep enough for me," Wallander said. "Gustaf Torstensson was your solicitor. You had him killed. The attempt to disguise the murder as a car accident failed."
"I'd be interested to know how you reached that conclusion."
"A chair leg was left lying in the mud. The rest of the chair was in the car boot. The boot was locked."
"So simple! Pure carelessness."
Harderberg made no attempt to conceal the look he gave the two men skulking in the shadows.
"What happened?" Wallander said.
"Torstensson's loyalty began to waver. He saw things he shouldn't have seen. We were forced to ensure his loyalty, once and for all. Occasionally we amuse ourselves here at the castle with shooting practice. We use mannequins, tailors' dummies, as targets. We put a dummy in the road. He stopped. He died."
"And thus his loyalty was ensured."
Harderberg nodded, but seemed to be miles away. He jumped to his feet and stared at rows of figures that had appeared on one of the flickering computer screens. Wallander guessed they were share prices from some part of the world where it was already daytime. But then, did stock exchanges open on Sundays? Perhaps the figures he was checking were to do with quite different financial activities.
Harderberg returned to his armchair.
"We couldn't be sure how much his son knew," he said, as if he had never paused. "We kept him under observation. He went to visit you in Jutland. We couldn't be sure how much he had told you. Or Mrs Dunér, come to that. I think you have analysed the circumstances very skilfully, Inspector Wallander. But of course, we saw right away that you wanted us to think you had another lead you were following. I'm hurt to think that you underestimated us."
Wallander was beginning to feel sick. The cold-blooded indifference that oozed from the man in the armchair was something he had never encountered before. Nevertheless, his curiosity led him to ask more questions.
"We found a plastic container in the car," he said. "I suspect it was substituted for another one when you killed him." "Why would we want to substitute it?"
"Our technicians could prove that it had never contained anything. We assumed that the container itself was of no significance: what was important was what it was meant to be used for."
"And what was that, pray?"
"Now you're asking the questions," Wallander said. "And I'm expected to answer them."
"It's getting late," Harderberg said. "Why can't we give this conversation a touch of playfulness? It's quite meaningless, after all."
"We're talking about murder," Wallander said. "I suspect that plastic container was used to preserve and carry transplant organs, cut out of murdered people."
Just for a moment Harderberg stiffened. It was gone in a flash, but Wallander noticed it even so. That clinched it. He was right.
"I look for business deals wherever I can find them," Harderberg said. "If there's a market for kidneys, I buy and sell kidneys, just to give one example."
"Where do they come from?"
"From deceased persons."
"People you've killed."
"All I have ever done is buy and sell," Harderberg said patiently. "What happens before the goods come into my hands is no concern of mine. I don't even know about it."
Wallander was appalled. "I didn't know people like you existed," he said in the end.
Harderberg leaned quickly forward in his armchair. "That was a lie," he said. "You know perfectly well
such people exist. I'd go as far as to say that, deep down, you envy me."
"You're mad," Wallander said, making no attempt to conceal his disgust.
"Mad with happiness, mad with rage, yes, OK. But not plain mad, Inspector. You have to understand that I'm a passionate human being. I love doing business, conquering a rival competitor, increasing my fortune and never needing to deny myself anything. It's possible that I'm a restless Flying Dutchman, always seeking something new. But more than anything else I'm a heathen in the correct sense of the word. Perhaps Inspector Wallander is familiar with the works of Machiavelli?"
Wallander shook his head.
"Christians, according to this Italian thinker, say the highest level of happiness is to be attained through humility, self-denial and contempt for everything human. Heathens, on the other hand, see the highest level of goodness in mental greatness, bodily strength and all the qualities that make human beings frightening. Wise words that I always do my best to live up to."
Wallander said nothing. Harderberg looked at the two-way radio and then at his watch. It was 1 a.m. Wallander called Höglund, thinking that now he really had to work out how to convey to her his SOS. But yet again he told her that all was well, everything under control. She could expect him to be in touch again at 2 a.m.
Wallander made calls each hour through the night, but he could not get her to see that what he really wanted was for her to sound the alarm and send as many officers as possible to Farnholm. He had realised that they were alone in the castle, and that Harderberg was only waiting until dawn before leaving not just his castle but also his country, along with the still shadows in the background, the men who did his bidding and killed whoever he pointed a finger at. The only staff left were Sofia and the woman at the entrance gate. The secretaries had gone, all the ones Wallander had never seen. Perhaps they were already in another castle elsewhere, waiting for Harderberg?
The Man Who Smiled - Wallander 04 Page 34