The Troubled Man (53 page)

‘Was there anything your mother did only when your father wasn’t at home? Any routines that suddenly changed?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘You’re answering too quickly. Think about it.’

Hans stood up and gazed out the windows. Through the floor Wallander could see a street musician down below strumming away at a guitar with a hat in front of him on the pavement. No sound of music penetrated the glass. Hans returned to his chair.

‘What I’m about to say now is nothing I could swear to,’ he said. ‘It could be my imagination, my memory playing tricks. But now that I think about it, when Hakan was away she often talked on the phone, always with the door closed. She didn’t do that when he was at home.’

‘Didn’t talk on the phone or didn’t close the door?’

‘Neither.’

‘Go on.’

‘There were often papers lying around that she worked on. I have the feeling that when Hakan came home the papers were no longer there - there were flowers on the tables instead.’

‘What kind of papers?’

‘I don’t know. But sometimes there were drawings as well.’

Wallander gave a start.

‘Drawings of what?’

‘Divers. My mother was very good at drawing.’

‘Divers?’

‘Various dives, different phases of individual dives. “German leap with full twist” or whatever they say, that sort of thing.’

‘Can you remember any other kind of drawings?’

‘She sometimes drew me. I don’t know where those drawings are, but they were good.’

Wallander broke a Danish pastry in two and dunked one half in his coffee. He looked at his watch. The musician under his feet was still playing his silent music.

‘I’m not quite finished yet,’ said Wallander. ‘Let’s talk about your mother’s views. Political, social, economic. What did she think about Sweden?’

‘Politics were not a topic of conversation in my home.’

‘Never?’

‘One of them might say, “The Swedish armed forces are no longer capable of defending our country,” or something of the sort. The other might reply to the effect that it was the fault of the Communists. And that would be it. Either of them could have said either of those things. They were conservative, of course - we’ve spoken about that already. There was no question of voting for any party other than the Moderates. Taxes were too high. Sweden was allowing in too many immigrants who went on to cause chaos in the streets. I think you could say they thought exactly as you would expect them to.’

‘There was never any exception to that, then?’

‘Never, not that I can recall.’

Wallander nodded and ate the other half of the Danish.

‘Let’s talk about your parents’ relationship with each other,’ he said when he’d finished chewing. ‘What was that like?’

‘It was good.’

‘Did they ever argue?’

‘No. I think they really loved each other. That’s something I’ve thought about since - that as a child I never had the slightest fear that they would divorce. That thought never even occurred to me.’

‘But surely no couple ever lives together without the occasional conflict?’

‘They did. Unless they argued when I was asleep and I didn’t hear them. But I find that hard to believe.’

Wallander had no more questions. But he wasn’t ready to give up.

‘Is there anything else you could say about your mother? She was kind and she was secretive, perhaps mysterious, we know that now. But to be perfectly honest, you seem to know surprisingly little about her.’

‘I’ve come to see that,’ said Hans, with something that Wallander interpreted as painful honesty. ‘There were hardly ever any moments of real intimacy between us. She always kept me at a certain distance. She comforted me if I hurt myself, of course. But with hindsight I can see now that she found that almost troublesome.’

‘Was there any other man in her life?’

That was not a question Wallander had prepared in advance. But now that he’d asked it, it seemed an obvious one.

‘Never. I don’t think there was any disloyalty between my parents. On either side.’

‘What about before they got married? What do you know about that time?’

‘I have the feeling that because they met so early in their lives, neither of them ever had anybody else. Not anyone serious. But of course, I can’t be certain.’

Wallander put his notebook in his jacket pocket. He hadn’t written down a single word. There was nothing to write. He knew as little now as he had before he’d arrived.

He stood up. But Hans remained seated.

‘My father,’ he said. ‘I gather he’s called you. So he’s alive, but he doesn’t want to put in an appearance, is that it?’

Wallander sat down again. The guitar player under his feet had moved on.

‘There’s no doubt that he was the one who called. He said he was well. He gave no explanation of his behaviour. He just wanted you to know that he was alive.’

‘He really said nothing about where he was?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What impression did you get? Was he far away? Did he call from a landline or a mobile phone?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘Because you don’t want to, or because you can’t?’

‘Because I can’t.’

Wallander stood up again. They left the room made of glass. When they passed by the conference room, the door was closed but the people inside were still arguing loudly. They said their goodbyes in reception.

‘Did I help at all?’ Hans asked.

‘You were honest,’ Wallander said. ‘That’s the only thing I can ask for.’

‘A diplomatic answer. So I wasn’t able to give you what you were hoping for.’

Wallander made a resigned gesture. The glass door opened, and he waved as he left. The lift took him silently down to the lobby. He had parked his car in a side street off Kongens Nytorv. Since it was very hot, he took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt.

Suddenly he had the feeling he was being watched. He turned round. The street was full of people, but he didn’t recognise any of the faces. After a hundred yards he stopped in front of a shop window and contemplated some expensive ladies’ shoes. He sneaked a look back along the section of street he’d just come from.
A man was standing, looking at his wristwatch. Then he moved his overcoat from his right arm to his left
. Wallander thought he remembered him from the first time he’d looked round. He turned back to the ladies’ shoes. The man passed behind his back. Wallander recalled something Rydberg had said.
You don’t always need to be behind the person you’re shadowing. You can just as well be in front of him
. Wallander set off and counted a hundred steps. Then he stopped again and turned round. Now there was nobody who attracted his attention. The man with the overcoat had vanished. When Wallander reached his car he looked round one last time. The people he could see, coming and going, were totally new to him. He shook his head. He must have been imagining things.

He drove back over the long bridge, paused at the Father’s Hat roadside cafe, then headed for home.

When he got out of the car, his mind suddenly went blank. He stood there with the keys in his hand, totally confused. The bonnet was warm. Once again he was panic-stricken.
Where had he been?
Jussi was barking and jumping up and down in his kennel. Wallander stared at the dog and tried hard to remember. He looked at the car keys, then at the car, hoping they would give him a clue. Almost ten horrifying minutes passed before the blockage crumbled and he remembered what he had been doing. He was drenched in sweat. It’s getting worse, he thought. I have to find out what’s happening to me.

He collected the post and sat down at the garden table. He was still shaken by the attack of forgetfulness.

It was only later, after he had fed Jussi, that he discovered the letter lying among the newspapers he had collected from the mailbox. There was no return address, and he didn’t recognise the handwriting.

When he opened the letter he saw that it was handwritten, and from Hakan von Enke.

The letter had been posted in Norrkoping.

There is a man in Berlin by the name of George Talboth. He’s an American, and used to work at their embassy in Stockholm. He speaks fluent Swedish and is regarded as an expert on the relationship between Scandinavia and the Soviet Union and, nowadays, Russia. I got to know him as early as the end of the 1960s when he first came to Stockholm and on several occasions accompanied the then military attache at various receptions and on various visits, including one to Berga. George and I got along well - both he and his wife played bridge - and we started meeting socially. I eventually realised that he was attached to the CIA, but he never tried to elicit secret information from me that I wasn’t authorised to pass on. In about 1974, a year or two later, his wife, Marilyn, was diagnosed with cancer, and died shortly afterwards. That was a catastrophe for George. He and his wife had enjoyed an even closer relationship than Louise and I, if that was possible. He started visiting us more frequently, nearly every Sunday, and often during the week as well. In 1979 he was transferred to the legation in Bonn, and he stayed in Germany after he retired, although he moved to Berlin. It’s possible of course that in his ‘spare time’ he still serves his country, as you might say. But I know nothing about that
.

I spoke to him on the phone as recently as last December. Although he is now seventy-two, he is still lively intellectually. I’m sure he thinks the Cold War is very much alive. When the Russian empire collapsed, a revolution took place that was every bit as shattering as the events of 1917. But according to George it was only a temporary setback. He thinks the current situation confirms that view: Russia is growing stronger and stronger and making ever greater demands on the world around it. I have taken the liberty of writing to him and asking him to contact you. If there is anybody who might be able to help you in your efforts to find out what happened to Louise, he’s your man. I hope you are not put out by my attempts to make a positive contribution to what I’m sure are your honest efforts to solve this riddle
.

With respectful greetings
,

Hakan von Enke

Wallander put the letter down on the kitchen table. It was good, of course, that von Enke had put Wallander in touch with a potentially useful contact. But even so, he didn’t like the letter. Once again he had the impression that there was something going on he hadn’t detected. He read the letter one more time, slowly, as if he were picking his way gingerly through a minefield.
Letters need to be deciphered
, Rydberg once said. You have to know what you’re doing, especially if the letter might be of significance for a crime investigation. But what was there to decipher? The contents were plain enough.

He measured his blood sugar and this time was less pleased with the result: 184. That was too high. He had forgotten to take his Metformin pills and his insulin. He checked in the fridge and saw that within the next few days he would need to replenish his insulin.

Every day he took no fewer than seven different pills, for his diabetes, his blood pressure and his cholesterol. He didn’t like doing so; it felt like a sort of defeat. Many of his colleagues didn’t take a single pill - or at least, they said they didn’t. In the old days, Rydberg had been scornful of all chemical preparations. He didn’t even take anything for the headaches that plagued him. Every day my body is filled with goodness knows how many chemicals that I don’t really know anything about, Wallander thought. I trust my doctors and the pharmaceutical companies, without questioning the things they prescribe.

He hadn’t even told Linda about all the pills. Nor did she know that he was now injecting himself with insulin. To be on the safe side, he had hidden it behind some jars of mango chutney that he knew she wouldn’t touch.

He read the letter a few more times without discovering anything between the lines. Hakan von Enke was not sending him any hidden messages. He was looking in vain for something that wasn’t there.

That night he dreamed about his father.

*

He had just woken up, shortly after seven, when the phone rang. He assumed it was Linda at this hour, especially since she knew he was on holiday. He picked up the receiver.

‘Is that Knut Wallander?’

It was a man’s voice. His Swedish was perfect, although Wallander could hear a slight foreign accent.

‘I take it I’m talking to Mr Talboth,’ he said. ‘I’ve been expecting to hear from you.’

‘Call me George. I’ll call you Knut.’

‘Not Knut. Kurt.’

‘Kurt. Kurt Wallander. I’m always getting names wrong. When are you coming to visit?’

Wallander was surprised by the question. What had Hakan von Enke written to Talboth?

‘I wasn’t planning on going to Berlin. I didn’t even know you existed until I received a letter yesterday.’

‘Hakan wrote in a letter to me that you would definitely want to come here and talk to me.’