Wallander's First Case Read online

  ‘Borneo?’

  ‘I’m interested in tropical plants.’

  Wallander nodded for him to continue.

  ‘I walked around the neighbourhood here last week and knocked on people’s doors. Artur Hålén showed some interest and asked me to come in. We sat here in the kitchen. I told him about the encyclopedia, what it cost, and showed him a copy of one of the volumes. After about half an hour he signed the contract. Then I called him today and he said that it would be all right for me to come by this evening.’

  ‘Which day were you here last week?’

  ‘Tuesday. Between around four and half past five.’

  Wallander recalled that he had been on duty at that time. But he saw no reason to tell the man that he lived in the building. Especially since he had claimed to be a detective.

  ‘Hålén was the only one who showed any interest,’ Holmberg continued. ‘A lady on one of the upper floors started to tell me off for disturbing people. These things happen, but not too often. Next door to here there was no one home, I remember.’

  ‘You said that Hålén made his first payment?’

  The man opened his briefcase where he kept the books and showed Wallander a receipt. It was dated the Friday from the week before.

  Wallander thought it over.

  ‘How long was he supposed to make payments for this encyclopedia?’

  ‘For two years. Until all twenty instalments were paid for.’

  This makes no sense, Wallander thought, no sense at all. A man who was planning to commit suicide doesn’t agree to sign a two-year contract.

  ‘What was your impression of Hålén?’ Wallander asked.

  ‘I don’t think I know what you mean.’

  ‘How was he? Calm? Happy? Did he appear worried?’

  ‘He didn’t say very much. But he was genuinely interested in the encyclopedia. I am sure of that much.’

  Wallander did not have anything else to ask. There was a pencil on the kitchen windowsill. He searched for a piece of paper in his pocket. The only thing he found was his grocery list. He turned it over and asked Holmberg to write down his number.

  ‘We will most likely not be in touch again,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to have your telephone number as a precaution.’

  ‘Hålén seemed perfectly healthy,’ Holmberg said. ‘What is it really that has happened? And what will now happen with the contract?’

  ‘Unless he has relatives that can take it over, I don’t think you’ll get paid. I can assure you that he is dead.’

  ‘But you can’t tell me what has happened?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘It sounds sinister to me.’

  Wallander stood up to indicate that their talk was over. Holmberg stood rooted to the spot with his briefcase.

  ‘Would I be able to interest you, Detective Inspector, in an encyclopedia?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant,’ Wallander said, ‘and I don’t need an encyclopedia right now. At least not at the moment.’

  Wallander showed Holmberg out to the street. Only when the man had turned the corner on his bike did Wallander go back in and return to Hålén’s apartment. Then he sat down at the kitchen table and in his mind walked back over everything that Holmberg had said. The only reasonable explanation he could come up with was that Hålén had arrived at his decision to kill himself very suddenly. If you could rule out the idea of him being so crazy that he wanted to play a mean trick on an innocent salesman.

  Somewhere in the distance a telephone rang. Far too late he realised it was his own. He ran into the apartment. It was Mona.

  ‘I thought you were going to meet me,’ she said angrily.

  Wallander looked at his watch and swore quietly. He should have been down by the boat at least a quarter of an hour ago.

  ‘I got caught up in a criminal investigation,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘I thought you were off today?’

  ‘Unfortunately they needed me.’

  ‘Are there really no other policemen except you? Is this how it’s going to be?’

  ‘It was an exception.’

  ‘Did you go grocery shopping?’

  ‘No, I ran out of time.’

  He heard how disappointed she was.

  ‘I’ll come get you now,’ he said, ‘I’ll try to hail a cab. Then we can go to a restaurant somewhere.’

  ‘How can I be sure? Maybe you’ll get called away again.’

  ‘I’ll be down there as soon as I can, I promise.’

  ‘I’ll be on a bench outside. But I’m only waiting for twenty minutes. Then I’m going home.’

  Wallander hung up and called the cab company. It was busy. It took almost ten minutes for him to get a cab. Between tries, he managed to lock up Hålén’s apartment and change his shirt.

  He arrived at the ferry terminal after thirty-three minutes. Mona had already left. She lived on Södra Förstadsgatan. Wallander walked up to Gustav Adolf’s Square and called from a payphone. There was no answer. Five minutes later he called again. By then she was home.

  ‘If I say twenty minutes, I mean twenty minutes,’ she said.

  ‘I couldn’t get a hold of a cab. The line to the damn cab company was busy.’

  ‘I’m tired anyway,’ she said. ‘Let’s get together another night.’

  Wallander tried to change her mind, but she was firm. The conversation turned into an argument. Then she hung up. Wallander slammed the receiver into the cradle. A couple of passing patrol officers gave him disapproving looks. They did not appear to recognise him.

  Wallander walked over to a hot-dog stand by the square. Then he sat down on a bench to eat and distractedly watched some seagulls fighting over a scrap of bread.

  He and Mona did not fight very often but each time it happened it worried him. Inside, he knew it would blow over the next day. Then she would be back to normal. But his reason had no influence on his anxiety. It was there anyway.

  When Wallander arrived home he sat down at the kitchen table and tried to concentrate on writing down a systematic account of everything that had happened in the apartment next door. But he didn’t feel he was getting anywhere. On top of this he felt unsure of himself. How do you go about conducting an investigation and an analysis of a crime scene? He realised he lacked too many fundamental skills, despite his time at the police academy. After half an hour he angrily threw the pen down. It was all in his imagination. Hålén had shot himself. The betting form and the salesman didn’t change anything. He would be better off bemoaning the fact that he had not got to know Hålén. Perhaps it was the man’s loneliness that at last became unbearable?

  Wallander walked to and fro in the apartment, restless, anxious. Mona had disappointed him. And it had been his fault.

  From the street he heard a car drive by. Music was streaming from the open car window. ‘The House of the Rising Sun’. The song had been extremely popular a few years earlier. But what was the name of the group? The Kinks? Wallander could not remember. Then it occurred to him that at this time he normally heard the faint sound of Hålén’s TV through the wall. Now everything was quiet.

  Wallander sat down on the sofa and put his feet on the coffee table. Thought about his father. The winter coat and hat, the shoes worn without socks. If it hadn’t been so late he might have driven out to play cards with him. But he was starting to get tired, even though it was not yet eleven. He turned on the television. As usual there was a public television talk show. It took a while before he understood that the participants were discussing the pros and cons of the approaching era. The age of computers. He turned it off. Stayed put for a while before he undressed and went to bed, yawning the whole time.

  Soon he had fallen asleep.

  Later he could never figure out what had woken him up. But all of a sudden he was wide awake, listening intently to the dim summer night. Something had awakened him, he was sure of it. Perhaps it was a car with a broken tailpipe driving by? The curtain moved gently in the op
en window. He closed his eyes again.

  Then he heard it, right next to his head.

  Someone was in Hålén’s apartment. He held his breath and continued to listen. There was a clang, as if someone had moved an object. Shortly thereafter he heard the sound of something dragging on the floor. Someone moving a piece of furniture. Wallander looked at the clock on his bedside table. A quarter to three. He pressed his ear against the wall. He had started to think it was his imagination when he heard another sound. There was no doubt that someone was in there.

  He sat up in bed and wondered what he should do. Call his colleagues? If Hålén didn’t have any relatives then surely no one had any reason to be in the apartment. But they weren’t sure of his family situation. And he may have given a spare key to someone they did not know about.

  Wallander got out of bed and pulled on his trousers and shirt. Then he walked barefoot out onto the landing. The door to Hålén’s apartment was closed. He had the keys in his hand. Suddenly he wasn’t sure what he should do. The most reasonable thing was to ring the doorbell. After all, Hemberg had given him the keys and thus conferred a certain responsibility on him. He pressed the buzzer. Waited. Now it was completely quiet in the apartment. He buzzed again. Still no reaction. At that moment he realised that a person inside the apartment could very easily escape through a window. It was barely two metres to the ground. He swore and ran out onto the street. Hålén had a corner apartment, and Wallander hurried round to the other side. The street was empty. But one of Hålén’s windows was wide open.

  Wallander went back into the building and unlocked Hålén’s door. Before he walked in he called out but received no answer. He turned on the hall light and walked into the main room. The chest drawers were pulled out. Wallander looked around. Someone had been in the apartment and looking for something. He walked over to a window and tried to see if it had been forced open. But he found no marks on it. That meant he could draw two conclusions. The unknown person who had been in the apartment had had access to keys. And he or she had not wanted to be found out.

  Wallander turned on the light in the room and started to look around to see if anything that had been there earlier in the day had gone missing. But he was unsure of his memory. The most noticeable things were still there. The beetle from Brazil, the sea logs and the old photograph. But the photograph had been removed from the envelope and was lying on the floor. Wallander crouched down and studied the envelope. Someone had taken the picture out. The only explanation he could think of was that someone had been looking for something that might be found in an envelope.

  He got up and continued to look around. The bedclothes were torn from the bed, the cupboard door was open. One of Hålén’s two suits had ended up on the floor.

  Someone has been searching, Wallander thought. The question is, for what? And did he or she find it before I rang the doorbell?

  He walked out to the kitchen. The cabinets were open. A pot had fallen to the floor. Maybe that was what had woken him up? Really, he thought, the answer is obvious. If the person who was in here had found what he was looking for, he would have left. And hardly through the window. Therefore whatever the person was looking for was still here. If it ever had been.

  Wallander returned to the room and looked at the dried blood on the floor.

  What happened? he thought. Was it really suicide?

  He continued to search the apartment. But at ten past four he gave up, returned to his apartment and got back into bed. He set his alarm for seven. He was going to talk to Hemberg first thing in the morning.

  A few hours later Wallander had to run to the bus stop in pouring rain. He had had a restless sleep and woken up long before the alarm went off. The thought that he might be able to impress Hemberg with his attentiveness had led him to lie there fantasising about how he would one day be a criminal investigator a cut above the rest. This thought also made him decide to stand his ground with Mona. You could not expect a policeman to be punctual.

  It was four minutes to seven when he arrived at the station. He had heard that Hemberg often showed up very early to work and an enquiry to reception revealed this to be correct. Hemberg had been there since six o’clock. Wallander walked up to the section where the crime squad was based. Most of the offices were still empty. He walked straight to Hemberg’s door and knocked. When he heard Hemberg’s voice he opened it and walked in. Hemberg was sitting in the visitor’s chair, cutting his nails. When he saw that it was Wallander he frowned.

  ‘Do we have a scheduled appointment? I don’t recall seeing anything like that.’

  ‘No. But I have something to report.’

  Hemberg put the nail scissors next to his pens and sat down at his desk.

  ‘If this is going to take more than five minutes, you can sit down,’ he said.

  Wallander remained standing. Then he told him what had happened. He started with the salesman and went on to the night’s events. He could not determine if Hemberg was listening with interest or not. His face revealed nothing.

  ‘That was it,’ Wallander finished. ‘I thought I should report this as soon as possible.’

  Hemberg gestured for Wallander to have a seat. Then he pulled over a pad of paper, chose a pen, and wrote down the name and number of the encyclopedia salesman, Holmberg. Wallander made a mental note to himself about the notepad. Hemberg did not favour loose papers or preformatted report forms.

  ‘The nightly visit appears strange,’ he then said. ‘But in the end it does not change anything. Hålén committed suicide. I am convinced of it. When the autopsy and weapons report come in we’ll have that confirmed.’

  ‘The question is who was there last night.’

  Hemberg shrugged.

  ‘You have given a possible answer yourself. Someone with keys. Someone looking for something he or she did not want to let slip out of their hands. Rumours spread quickly. People saw the police cars and ambulance. Many people must have known that Hålén was dead after only a couple of hours.’

  ‘But it’s strange that this person jumped out of the window.’

  Hemberg smiled.

  ‘He may have thought you were a burglar,’ he said.

  ‘Who rang the bell?’

  ‘A standard way of seeing if anyone’s home.’

  ‘At three o’clock in the morning?’

  Hemberg threw down the pen and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘You don’t seem convinced,’ he said, without masking the fact that Wallander was beginning to get on his nerves.

  Wallander immediately realised that he had gone too far and started his retreat.

  ‘Of course I am,’ he said. ‘It’s definitely suicide and nothing more.’

  ‘Good,’ Hemberg said. ‘Then that’s settled. It was good of you to report this. I’ll send over a couple of guys to deal with the mess. Then we’ll wait for the medical examiners and forensic lab. After that we can put Hålén in a folder and forget about him.’

  Hemberg put his hand on the phone as a signal that the conversation was over and Wallander left the room. He felt like an idiot. An idiot who had run away with himself. What was it he had imagined? That he had tracked down a murder? He walked back to his office and decided that Hemberg was right. Once and for all, forget all thoughts of Hålén. And be a diligent patrolman a little longer.

  That evening Mona came out to Rosengård. They had dinner and Wallander said none of his prepared speech. Instead he apologised for being late. Mona accepted this and then spent the night. They lay awake for a long time, talking about July, when they were going on holiday together for two weeks. They had still not decided what they were going to do. Mona worked in a hair salon and did not make much money. Her dream was to be able to open her own place sometime in the future. Wallander also did not have a high salary. To be exact, 1,896 kronor a month. They had no car and they would have to plan carefully to get the money to last.

  Wallander had suggested they travel north and hike in the mountains. He
had never been further than Stockholm. But Mona wanted to go somewhere where you could swim. They had done the calculation to see if they could afford to go to Mallorca. But that was too expensive. Instead Mona suggested they go to Skagen in Denmark. She had been there a few times with her parents as a child and had never forgotten it. She had also already found out that there were many inexpensive bed and breakfasts that were not yet fully booked. Before they fell asleep they had managed to reach an agreement. They would go to Skagen. The next day Mona would book a room, while Wallander would check the train schedule from Copenhagen.

  The following evening, 5 June, Mona went to visit her parents in Staffanstorp. Wallander played poker with his father for several hours. For once his father was in a good mood and did not start criticising Wallander for his choice of profession. When he went on to win almost fifty kronor from his son he became so jolly that he took out a bottle of cognac.

  ‘Sometime I want to go to Italy,’ he said after they had said cheers. ‘And once in my life I also want to see the pyramids in Egypt.’

  ‘Why?’

  His father looked at him for a long time.

  ‘That is an extraordinarily stupid question,’ he said. ‘Of course you should see Rome before you die. And the pyramids. It is part of a well-rounded person’s general education.’

  ‘How many Swedes do you think can afford to go to Egypt?’

  His father pretended not to hear his objection.

  ‘But I am not about to die,’ he added instead. ‘What I will do is move to Löderup.’

  ‘How’s the property deal coming along?’

  ‘It’s already done.’

  Wallander stared at him with surprise.

  ‘What do you mean by “done”?’

  ‘I’ve already bought and paid for the house. Svindala 12:24 is the address.’

  ‘But I haven’t even seen it.’

  ‘You’re not the one who’s going to live there. I am.’

  ‘Have you even been out there?’

  ‘I’ve seen a picture of it. That’s enough. I make no unnecessary trips. It encroaches on my work.’

  Wallander groaned inside. He was convinced his father had been duped. Taken advantage of, as he so often had been when he sold his paintings to the dubious characters in their large American cars who had been his clients all these years.