“I doubt it. They didn’t have that much contact with him. They lived with me, and Tynnes wasn’t always that eager to have them over. I don’t say these things in order to be mean. I think both Jan and Ina would agree with me.”
“He must have had some friends.”
“They were very few. I realized after our wedding that I had married a hermit.”
“Who knew him besides you?”
“I know he used to have regular contact with a woman who was also a computer consultant. Her name is Siv Eriksson. I don’t have her number, but she has an office in Skansgrand, next to Sjömansgatan. They worked on some assignments together.”
Wallander made a note of the name. Marianne Falk put out her cigarette.
“One last question,” Wallander said. “At least for now. A couple of years ago Tynnes was caught by the police as he was letting minks out of their cages on a mink farm. He was later charged and fined for this.”
She looked at him with genuine surprise.
“I’ve never heard a word about that.”
“Does it make sense to you?”
“That he was letting minks out of their cages? Why on earth would he do that?”
“So you don’t know if he was in contact with organizations who specialize in this kind of thing?”
“What kind of organizations would that be?”
“Militant environmental groups. Animal-rights activists.”
“I’m having trouble taking this all in.”
Wallander nodded. He knew she was telling the truth. She got up.
“I’ll need to speak to you again,” Wallander said.
He walked her out. She stopped by the hole in the wall.
“Do you carry a weapon in self-defense?”
“No.”
She shook her head, stretched out her hand and said good-bye.
“One more thing,” Wallander said. “Did Tynnes show any interest in outer space?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Spaceships, astronomy, that kind of thing.”
“You’ve already asked me that, and I’ll give you the same answer. We did look at the night sky together a couple of times when we were young, but Tynnes was not the kind of person who usually lifted his head up just to look at the stars. If he ever did, it was probably just to make sure they were still there. He was pragmatic rather than romantic by nature.”
She turned and went down the stairs. Wallander returned to the apartment and sat down on a chair in the kitchen. That was the same place where he had first had the feeling he was overlooking something. It was Rydberg who had taught him to listen to his inner alarm system. Even in the highly technical and rational world of police work, intuition was of crucial importance.
He sat without moving for a few minutes. Then he finally caught hold of it. Marianne Falk had not been able to find anything that was missing. Could that mean that the man who first broke into the apartment and later fired the shot at Wallander was in fact coming to return something? Wallander shook his head at the idea. He was about to get up when he jumped. Someone was knocking on the door. Wallander’s heart was racing. It was only when the knocking stopped that he realized it could hardly be someone announcing his intention to kill him. He went out into the hall and opened the door. There was an elderly man holding a cane on the landing.
“I’m looking for Mr. Falk,” he said in a stern voice. “I have a complaint.”
“May I ask who you are?” Wallander asked.
“My name is Carl-Anders Setterkvist and I own this building. There have been a number of complaints from the other residents lately about excessive noise and loud visits by military men. I would prefer to speak to Mr. Falk about it personally, if possible.”
“Mr. Falk is dead,” Wallander said brutally.
Setterkvist looked at him with surprise.
“Dead? Whatever do you mean?”
“I’m a police officer,” Wallander said, “Homicide division. There’s been a burglary here. But Tynnes Falk is dead. He died last Monday. There are no military personnel running up and down these stairs, they’re police.”
Setterkvist seemed to be trying to judge if Wallander was telling the truth or not.
“I would like to see your identification badge, please,” he said finally.
“Our badges disappeared a long time ago,” Wallander answered, “but you can see my identification card.”
He took it out of his pocket, and Setterkvist studied it carefully.
Wallander told him briefly what had happened.
“How unfortunate,” Setterkvist said. “What will happen to the apartments?”
Wallander frowned.
“The apartments?”
“I simply mean that it’s difficult when new people move in. One wants to know what kind of people they are before renting out the place, especially in this kind of building with a number of elderly tenants.”
“Do you live here yourself?”
Setterkvist was clearly insulted.
“I live in a house outside of town.”
“You said ‘apartments.’”
“What else would I have said?”
“Do you mean that Falk rented more than one apartment?”
Setterkvist made a gesture indicating that he wanted to be let in to the apartment. Wallander stepped aside.
“I’d just like to remind you that it’s so messy in here because there’s been a burglary.”
“I’ve been the victim of a burglary myself,” Setterkvist answered calmly. “I know how it is.”
Wallander ushered him into the kitchen.
“Mr. Falk was an excellent tenant,” Setterkvist said. “He was never late with the rent. At my age one is never surprised by anything, but I must admit I was a little shaken by the complaints that have come pouring in these past few days. That is why I had to come in person.”
“He rents more than one apartment from you?” Wallander asked again.
“I have a wonderful old building by Runnerström Square,” Setterkvist said. “Falk had a small apartment in the attic there. He said he needed it for his work.”
That would explain the absence of computers, Wallander thought. There certainly isn’t anything in this apartment to suggest he worked here.
“I need to see that office,” Wallander said.
Setterkvist thought for a moment and then pulled out the largest set of keys Wallander had ever seen. But Setterkvist knew exactly which keys he needed. He removed them from the key chain.
“I’ll write out a receipt,” Wallander said.
Setterkvist shook his head.
“One has to be able to trust people,” he said. “Or rather, one has to be able to rely on one’s own judgment.”
Setterkvist marched off, while Wallander called the station and arranged for someone to come out and help him seal the apartment. Then he walked straight down to Runnerström Square. It was close to seven o’clock. The wind was still gusty. Wallander was cold. Martinsson had lent him a spare coat, but it was thin. He thought about the bullet. It still seemed unreal. He wondered what his reaction would be in a couple of days, when the realization of how close to death he had been finally sunk in.
The building at Runnerström Square was a three-story, turn-of-thecentury building. Wallander walked to the other side of the street and stared up at the attic windows. No lights were on. Before he walked to the front door, he looked around. A man cycled past, and then Wallander was alone. He walked across the street and let himself in. He heard music coming from one apartment. He turned on the light in the stairwell. When he had climbed the stairs all the way to the attic floor he found only one apartment door on the landing. It was a security door without a name or mail slot. Wallander listened, but he heard nothing. Then he unlocked the door. He paused in the doorway and listened again. For a split second he thought he heard someone breathing in the darkness and he almost jumped out before he realized it was his imagination. He turned on the light and let the door close behind him.