The Troubled Man (33 page)

‘Not really, no. If I remember correctly it was mostly about defence cuts that they claimed had begun during his time. He alone was responsible for the fact that Sweden was no longer capable of defending itself. Berntsius maintained it was a big mistake to believe that Russia would always be as peaceful as it is now.’

‘What were the political views of the von Enkes?’

‘They were both extremely conservative, of course. Louise always tried to give the impression that she was contemptuous about politics, but that wasn’t true.’

‘So she did have a mask, despite what you said earlier.’

‘Perhaps. Let us know if you find anything important.’

Wallander went out to feed Jussi. The dog was looking dishevelled and tired. Wallander wondered if it was true that dogs and their owners grew to look like each other. If so, old age really had got its claws into him. Was he already getting close to his devastating dotage, when he would become increasingly helpless? He shuddered at the thought and went back inside. But, about to sit down at the kitchen table again, he realised that it was pointless. There was nothing in either the guest lists or the photos that could throw light on the ones who went missing. There must be some other explanation for what had happened. He was wasting his time. He wasn’t looking for a needle, he was looking for a haystack.

Wallander picked up everything he’d spread out over the kitchen table and put it all on the table in the hall. He would give it back the next day and then try to stop thinking about the dead Louise and the missing Hakan. Soon enough they would all go to Kristberg Church, prettily located with a view over Lake Boren in Ostergotland. The von Enkes had a family grave there over a century old, and that is where Louise would be buried. Hans had told him that his parents had written a joint will in which they had stated that they did not wish to be cremated. Wallander sat in his armchair and closed his eyes. What did he want to happen to his own body? He didn’t have a family grave, no sepulchral rights. His mother was buried in a memorial grove in Malmo, his father in one of Ystad’s cemeteries. He didn’t know what his sister, Kristina, who lived in Stockholm, planned to do.

He fell asleep in the chair and woke up with a start. He had been dragged out of sleep by a dog barking. He stood up. His shirt was wet through; he must have been dreaming. Jussi didn’t usually bark for no reason. When he started moving, he discovered that his legs were numb. He shook them into life while continuing to listen for sounds out there in the darkness of the summer night. Jussi was quiet now. Wallander opened the door and stood on the threshold. Jussi immediately started jumping against the fence of his kennel, yelping. Wallander looked around. Perhaps there’s a fox on the prowl, he thought. He walked over to Jussi. There was a strong smell of grass. But no wind; everything was still. He tickled Jussi behind the ears. ‘What were you barking at?’ he asked quietly. ‘Can dogs also have nightmares?’ He gazed out over the field. Shadows everywhere, a faint hint of morning light in the east. He checked his watch. A quarter to two. He had been asleep for nearly four hours. His sweaty shirt was making him shiver. He went back inside and lay down in bed. But he couldn’t get to sleep. ‘Kurt Wallander is lying in his bed, thinking of death,’ he said aloud to himself. It was true. He really was thinking of death. But he often did that. Ever since he was a young police officer, death had always been present in his life. He saw it in the mirror every morning. But now, when he couldn’t sleep, it crept up very close to him. He was sixty years old, a diabetic, slightly overweight. He didn’t pay as much attention to his health as he should, didn’t exercise enough, drank too much, ate what he shouldn’t, and at irregular times. Sometimes he tried to discipline himself, but it never lasted long. He would lie there in the dark and become panic-stricken. There was no leeway left. Now he had no choice. Either he must change his lifestyle or die early. Either make an effort to reach at least seventy or assume that death would strike at any moment. Then Klara would be robbed of her maternal grandfather, just as she had been robbed of her paternal grandmother for reasons that were not yet clear.

He lay awake until four o’clock. Fear came and went in waves. When he finally fell asleep, his heart was full of sorrow at the thought that so much of his life was now over and could never be relived.

He had just woken up, shortly after seven, still feeling tired and with a headache, when the phone rang. At first he thought he would ignore it. Presumably it was Linda, who wanted to satisfy her curiosity. She could wait. If he didn’t answer, she would know that he was asleep. But after the fourth ring he got out of bed and reached for the receiver. It was Ytterberg, who sounded lively and full of energy.

‘Did I wake you up?’

‘Nearly,’ said Wallander. ‘I’m trying to be on holiday, but I’m not doing too well.’

‘I’ll keep it brief. But I suspect you’d like to know about what I’m holding in my hand. It’s a report from the pathologist - Dr Anahit Indoyan. She analysed the chemicals found in Louise von Enke’s body and discovered something she thinks is odd.’

Wallander held his breath and waited for what was coming next. He could hear Ytterberg sorting through his papers.

‘There’s no doubt that the pills Louise took could be classified as sleeping pills,’ said Ytterberg. ‘Dr Indoyan can identify some of the chemical ingredients. But there are some things she doesn’t recognise. Or rather, she’s not able to describe the substances in question. She has no intention of giving up, of course. She allows herself a very interesting comment at the end of her preliminary report. She thinks she has found similarities, more or less vague, with substances used during the DDR regime.’

‘DDR?’

‘Are you sure you’re awake?’

Wallander didn’t get the connection.

‘East Germany. All those athletic miracles - remember them? The outstanding swimmers and track athletes breaking all those records. We know now that they were drugged up to the eyeballs. There’s no doubt that everything was connected - what the Stasi did and what went on in the sports laboratories were two branches of the same tree. And so,’ concluded Ytterberg, ‘our friend Anahit suspects that she might have discovered substances that can be linked to the former East Germany.’

‘That no longer exists. And hasn’t existed for twenty years.’

‘Not quite. But almost. The Berlin Wall was smashed to pieces in 1989. I remember the date because I got married that autumn.’

Ytterberg had nothing more to say. Wallander tried to think.

‘It sounds very odd,’ he said eventually.

‘Yes, it does. But I thought you’d be interested. Shall I send a copy of the report to the police station in Ystad?’

‘I’m on holiday. But I can stop in and pick it up.’

‘There’ll be more to come,’ said Ytterberg. ‘But now I’m going for a walk through the woods with my wife.’

Wallander hung up and thought about what Ytterberg had said. Something had already occurred to him. He knew what he was going to do next.

Shortly after eight o’clock he was in his car, heading north-west. His destination was just outside Hoor, a little house that was long past its prime.

On the way to Hoor Wallander picked up the report from the reception desk at the police station. Then he did something he very rarely permitted: he pulled over just north of Ystad and picked up a hitchhiker. It was a woman in her thirties with long, dark hair and a small backpack over one shoulder. He didn’t really know why he stopped; perhaps it was just pure curiosity. Over the years he noticed that hitchhikers had largely disappeared from the roads. Cheap buses and flights had made that way of travelling almost obsolete.

As a young man, first when he was seventeen and then the following year, he had hitchhiked his way through Europe, despite his father’s stern opposition to such hazardous undertakings. On both trips he had succeeded in getting as far as Paris, and then back home again. He still recalled desperate roadside waits in the rain, his backpack far too heavy, and the drivers who picked him up but bored him stiff. But two occasions stood out from all the rest. The first time he had been standing in pouring rain just outside Ghent in Belgium - with hardly any money left and on his way home. A car had stopped and taken him all the way to Helsingborg. He had never forgotten that feeling of happiness, of getting back to Sweden with a single ride. The other memory was also from Belgium. One Saturday evening, this time on the way to Paris, he had been marooned in a tiny village off the beaten track. He had indulged in a bowl of soup in a cheap cafe, and then gone out in search of a viaduct he might be able to sleep under. He had noticed a man standing by the side of the road, in front of a war memorial. The man raised a trumpet to his lips and beat a mournful tattoo in memory of all the soldiers who had been killed during the two world wars. Wallander was deeply touched by the moment, and he’d never forgotten it.

But now, early in the morning, there was a woman standing at the side of the road, thumbing a lift. It was almost as if she had materialised from a different era. She ran to catch up with the car as he pulled over, jumped in and sat in the passenger seat beside him. She seemed to be pleased with the prospect of getting as far as Hoor - she would then continue her journey up towards Smaland. She smelled strongly of perfume and seemed very tired. She kept pulling her skirt down over her knees, and he thought he could see traces of stains on it. Even as he pulled over he regretted stopping. Why on earth should he pick up somebody he had never met before? What could he talk to her about? She said nothing, and neither did Wallander. There was a ringing noise inside her backpack. She dug out a mobile phone and read the display, but didn’t answer it.

‘They’re disruptive,’ said Wallander. ‘Mobile phones.’

‘You don’t need to answer if you don’t want to.’

She spoke with a broad Scanian accent. Wallander guessed that she was from Malmo, from a working-class family. He tried to imagine her work, her life. She wasn’t wearing a ring on her left hand, and he noticed that she had bitten her nails down to the quick. Wallander rejected the idea that she was some kind of carer, or a hairdresser. She could hardly be a waitress either. She also seemed restless. She was biting her lower lip, almost chewing it.

‘Were you standing there long?’ he asked.

‘Fifteen minutes or so. I had to get out of the previous car. The driver was making a nuisance of himself.’

She sounded preoccupied, unwilling to talk. Wallander decided not to disturb her any more. He would drop her off in Hoor and they would never meet again. He toyed with the idea of giving her a name: Carola, who came from nowhere.

He asked where she would like to be dropped.

‘I’m hungry,’ she said. ‘Somewhere near a cafe.’

He stopped at a roadside restaurant. She smiled rather shyly, thanked him and headed for the entrance. Wallander reversed - then suddenly had no idea what to do next. Where was he going? His mind was a blank. He was in Hoor, he’d just dropped off a hitchhiker - but why was he here? He became increasingly panic-stricken. He tried to calm himself down, closed his eyes and waited for normality to return.

It was more than a minute before he remembered where he was going. Where did it come from, this sudden emptiness that overcame him? What was wiping his mind clean? Why couldn’t his doctors tell him what was happening to him?

Although it was five or six years since he had last visited the man he was on his way to see, he remembered how to get there. The road meandered through some woods, passed a few paddocks with Iceland ponies, then sank down into a hollow. The red-brick house was still standing, just as tumbledown as he remembered it from the last time. The only thing that seemed to have changed was that there was a shiny new mailbox beside the open gate, with space for post office vans and refuse trucks to turn round. The name ‘Eber’ was written in large red letters on the box. Wallander switched off the engine but remained sitting at the wheel. He recalled the first time he had met Hermann Eber. It was more than twenty years ago, 1985 or 1986, on police business; Eber had entered Sweden illegally from East Germany. He had requested political asylum, and it had eventually been granted. Wallander was the first to interview him when he turned up at the police station in Ystad and claimed to be a refugee. Wallander could still recall their faltering conversation in English, and his suspicions when Hermann Eber said he was a member of the Stasi, the East German secret police, and feared for his life. Somebody else had taken over the case, and it was only later, when Eber had been granted a residence permit, that he contacted Wallander on his own initiative. He had become almost fluent in Swedish in an astonishingly short time, and he came to see Wallander in order to thank him. Thank me for what? Wallander had asked. Eber had explained how surprised he had been to discover that a police officer could be as friendly as Wallander was to a man from a foreign country. He had slowly realised that the malicious propaganda directed by East Germany towards neighbouring countries was not reciprocated in those lands. He felt he had to thank somebody, he said. And Wallander was the person he had chosen for his symbolic gratitude. They started meeting socially now and then, because Hermann Eber’s great passion was Italian opera. When the Berlin Wall came down, Eber sat in Wallander’s apartment in Mariagatan, his eyes overflowing with tears, and watched the historical events unfolding on television. He had confessed to Wallander in a series of long conversations that he was no longer a passionate enthusiast of the political system in East Germany. He had begun to hate himself. He had been one of the men who had bugged, persecuted and pestered his fellow citizens. He himself had been privileged, and had even shaken the hand of Erich Honecker at one of the sumptuous banquets put on by the state. He had felt so proud to have shaken the hand of the great leader. But afterwards he wished he had never done it. In the end, his doubts about what he had been doing and an increasing conviction that East Germany was a political project condemned to death had become so great that he decided to defect. He chose Sweden merely because he felt his chances of fleeing there were good. He could easily acquire false ID papers and board one of the ferries to Trelleborg.