He started his search in the living room after turning on the desk lamp. Then he stood in the middle of the room and looked around. This is where Tynnes Falk lived, he thought. His story starts with a clean and well-ordered living room that is the very opposite of everyday chaos. There is leather furniture, a collection of maritime art on the walls. There’s a big bookcase along one wall.
He walked over to the desk. He saw an old brass compass laid out next to a green writing pad. Some pens lay neatly lined up next to an antique oil lamp made of clay.
Wallander continued out into the kitchen. There was a coffee cup on the counter and a small notepad on the kitchen table. Wallander turned on the light and looked at the pad. DOOR TO BALCONY, he read. Maybe Tynnes Falk and I have a lot in common, he thought. We both keep notepads in our kitchens. He walked back out into the living room and tried to open the balcony door. It was stiff. Falk hadn’t gotten around to fixing it. He continued into the bedroom. The double bed was made. Wallander knelt and looked underneath it. He saw a pair of slippers.
He opened the closet and pulled out all the dresser drawers. Everything he saw had been neatly arranged. He walked back out into the living room. Slipped in underneath the answering machine were its instructions. When he was sure he could listen to the messages without erasing anything, he put on a pair of rubber gloves and pressed the button.
First there was a message from someone called Jan who asked Tynnes Falk how he was doing. He sounded young — maybe a teenager. He didn’t say when he was calling. Then there were two calls from someone who only breathed on the other end. Wallander had the feeling it was the same person both times. The fourth call came from a tailor’s shop in Malmö to let Falk know his pants were ready. Wallander made a note of the name. Then came the most recent call from the person who only breathed. Wallander listened to the whole thing one more time and wondered if Nyberg could somehow determine if the mystery calls were from the same person.
He put the instruction manual back in its place. There were three photographs on the desk, two of them probably of Falk’s children. There were a boy and a girl. The boy was sitting on a rock in a tropical setting, smiling at the camera. He was probably around eighteen years old. Wallander turned it over. Jan 1996, the Amazon. That must have been the boy who’d left the message on the answering machine. The girl was a little younger. She sat on a bench surrounded by pigeons. Wallander turned that picture over and read Ina, Venice, 1995. The third photograph was of a group of men in front of a white stone wall. It was slightly out of focus. Wallander turned it over but found nothing written on it. He studied the men’s faces. They were of varying ages. To the far left there was a man who looked Asian. Could he be the man from the restaurant? Wallander put the photograph down and tried to think. He tucked the photo into his pocket.
Then he lifted the green writing pad and found a newspaper clipping. How to make fish fondue. He went through the drawers, which were characterized by the same meticulous order. He found a thick diary in the third drawer. Wallander opened it to the last entry. On Sunday, the fifth of October, Tynnes Falk had noted that the wind had died down and that it was three degrees Celsius. The sky was clear and he had cleaned the apartment. It had taken him three hours and twenty-five minutes, which was ten minutes faster than the last time.
Wallander frowned. The notes about the housecleaning perplexed him.
Then he read the last line: A short walk in the evening.
Did that mean he had already been on a walk, or was he about to head out?
Wallander glanced at the entry for the previous day:
“Saturday, the fourth of October, 1997. Gusty winds all day. According to the meteorological institute wind speed is 8 to 10 meters per second. Broken cloud formations. The temperature at six A.M. was 7 degrees Celsius. By two o’clock up to 8, but in the evening back down to 5. C-space has been quiet. No messages. C doesn’t answer. Everything calm.”
Wallander read the last lines without understanding what they meant. He flipped through the diary and saw that all the entries were similar, giving information about the weather as well as “c-space.” Sometimes all was quiet, sometimes there were messages, but what kind of messages they were Wallander never figured out. Finally he shut the book and put it back.
He thought it was strange that Falk had not written a single name anywhere, not even those of his children.
He wondered if Tynnes Falk had been crazy. The diary entries seemed consistent with those of a manic or confused person.
Wallander got up and walked over to the window again. The street was still empty. It was already past one o’clock.
He made one last search of the desk and found some business material. It seemed that Tynnes Falk was a consultant who helped corporate clients choose and install the right computer systems for their businesses. Wallander couldn’t tell exactly what that involved, but he noted that a number of prominent companies, including several banks and Sydkraft Power, had been among his clients.
There was nothing really surprising anywhere.
Wallander closed the last drawer.
Tynnes Falk is a person who doesn’t leave any traces, he thought. Everything is impersonal, well-ordered, and impenetrable. I can’t find him.
Somehow Sonja Hökberg’s murder was connected to Tynnes Falk’s death, and to the fact that his body had now disappeared.
There was also possibly a connection to Johan Lundberg.
Wallander took out the photograph that he had slipped in his pocket. Then he put it back. He wanted to make sure no one found out about his late-night visit. In case he later had Falk’s ex-wife let them in, he didn’t want anything to be missing.
Wallander walked around the apartment and turned out all the lights, then opened all the curtains. He listened carefully for sounds before opening the door. He checked the outside of the door, but the pass keys hadn’t left any marks.
Once he was back out on the street, he paused and looked around. No one was in sight, the town was quiet. He started walking home. It was twenty-five minutes past one o’clock.
He never saw the shadow quietly following him at a distance.
Chapter Thirteen
Wallander woke up when the phone rang.
He sprang out of bed as if he had been lying in wait for the call rather than deeply asleep. As he put the receiver to his ear, he glanced at the time. A quarter past five.
“Kurt Wallander?”
The voice on the other end was unfamiliar to him.
“Speaking.”
“I’m sorry for calling so early. I would like to ask you some questions regarding that alleged assault.”
Wallander was suddenly completely alert. He sat up. The man told him his name and the name of the paper he worked for. Wallander realized he should have foreseen the possibility that a reporter would try to get hold of him early in the morning. If one of his colleagues had wanted to reach him, they would have tried the cell phone. At least that number was still private.
But it was too late now. He had to say something.
“I’ve already explained that it wasn’t assault.”
“So do you mean that the photograph is a lie?”
“It doesn’t tell the whole truth.”
“Would you care to tell it now?”
“Not as long as I’m involved in the investigation.”
“But you must be able to say something?”