Martinsson pointed to a corner of the screen where a cursor was blinking.
“I’m not one-hundred-percent sure about this,” he said slowly. “But I think someone was just notified that we tried to open this file.”
“How could that happen?”
“Well, this computer is connected to others.”
“And someone at the other end of one of those could now have seen what we’re trying to do?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Where is this person?”
“He could be anywhere,” Martinsson said. “A remote ranch in California. An island off the coast of Australia. Or in an apartment in this building.”
Wallander shook his head in bafflement.
“When you’re hooked up to the Internet, you’re in the middle of the world wherever you are,” he quoted.
Martinsson had started working on the file again. After about ten minutes he pushed back his chair.
“Everything’s locked,” he said. “There are complicated codes and barriers to everything. There’s no way in.”
“So you give up?”
Martinsson smiled.
“Not just yet,” he said.
Martinsson resumed his tapping on the keyboard but stopped almost at once.
“What is it?”
Martinsson looked at the screen with surprise.
“I’m not sure, but I think someone else used this computer only a few hours ago.”
“Can you find out for sure?”
“I think so.”
Wallander waited while Martinsson kept working. After about ten minutes, he got up.
“I was right,” he said. “Someone was using this computer yesterday. Or rather, last night.”
They looked at each other.
“That means someone other than Falk has access to the material on this computer.”
“And that someone didn’t have to break in to the apartment to get to it,” Martinsson said.
Wallander nodded.
“How does that change the picture?” Martinsson asked.
“We don’t know yet,” Wallander said. “It’s too early.”
Martinsson sat back down at the computer and kept working.
They took a break at half past four. Martinsson invited Wallander to come home with him and have dinner. They were back at the apartment at half past six. Wallander realized that his presence was superfluous, but he didn’t want to leave Martinsson totally alone.
Martinsson kept working until ten o’clock. Then he finally gave up. “I’m not getting through,” he said. “I’ve never seen any security systems that looked like this. There’s the electronic equivalent of miles and miles of barbed wire in here. That and impenetrable firewalls.”
“Well, that’s that then. We’ll give the National Police a call.”
“I guess,” Martinsson said hesitantly.
“Do we have a choice?”
“We do, actually,” Martinsson said. “There’s a young man called Robert Modin who lives in Löderup. Not so far from where your father used to live.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s a nineteen-year-old kid like any other, except he just got out of jail a couple of weeks ago.”
“And why is he an interesting alternative?”
“Because he managed to break into the Pentagon supercomputer about a year ago. He’s considered one of the best hackers in Europe.”
Wallander thought it over. There was something appealing about Martinsson’s suggestion. He didn’t take long to make up his mind.
“Get him,” he said. “Meanwhile I’ll check up on Hansson and the dog-walkers.”
Martinsson got in his car and drove toward Löderup.
Wallander looked around on the dark street. A car was parked a few blocks away. Wallander lifted his hand in greeting.
Then he thought about what Höglund had said about being careful.
He looked around again, then headed up toward Missunnavagen.
The light rain had finally stopped.
Chapter Nineteen
Hansson had parked his car outside the tax authority building.
Wallander saw him from a distance. He was leaning against streetlight reading the newspaper. You can tell from here he’s a cop, Wallander thought. No one can fail to see he’s on the job, though it’s not clear what he’s up to. But he’s not dressed warmly enough. Apart from the golden rule of making it through the day alive, there’s nothing more important in the policeman’s codebook than dressing warmly when working outside.
Hansson was completely absorbed in his newspaper. He didn’t notice Wallander until he was right next to him. Wallander saw he was reading the racing section.
“I didn’t hear you,” Hansson said. “I wonder if my hearing is going.”
“How are the horses today?”
“I suppose I’m living in a fantasy land, like most people. I think one day I’ll sit there with all the right numbers. But see, the horses don’t run the way they’re supposed to. They never do.”
“And how are the dogs?”
“I only just got here. I haven’t seen anyone yet.”
Wallander looked around.
“When I first got here, this part of town was still an empty field,” he said. “None of this was here.”
They started walking along the street. Wallander told him about Martinsson’s valiant efforts to break the code of Falk’s computer. They got to the cash machine and stopped.
“It’s funny how quickly you get used to things,” Hansson said. “I can hardly remember life before these machines. Not that I have any idea how they actually work. Sometimes I imagine a little man sitting inside, someone who counts out all the cash and sends it through to you.”
Wallander thought again about what Erik Hökberg had said, about how vulnerable society had become. The blackout a few days ago had proved him right.
They walked back to Hansson’s car. They still didn’t see any people out walking their dogs.
“I’m going now. How was the dinner?”
“I never went. What’s the point of eating if you can’t have a glass or two?”
Wallander was about to leave when Hansson brought up a conversation he had had earlier in the day with the district attorney.
“Did Viktorsson have anything to say?” Wallander asked.
“Not really.”
“But he must have said something.”
“He just said he couldn’t see any reason to narrow the investigation at this point. The case should still be attacked on all fronts. Without preconceived ideas.”
“Policemen never work without preconceived ideas,” Wallander answered. “He should know that by now.”
“Well, that was what he said.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
Wallander had the feeling that Hansson was holding something back. He waited, but Hansson didn’t add anything.
“I think half past twelve should do it,” Wallander told him. “I’m leaving now. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“I should have worn warmer clothes. It’s a chilly night.”
“It’s fall,” Wallander said. “And soon enough it’ll be winter.”
He walked back into town. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced of the fact that Hansson hadn’t told him everything. By the time he got back to Runnerström Square he realized it could only mean that Viktorsson had made a comment about him, about the alleged assault and the ongoing internal investigation.
It irritated Wallander that Hansson hadn’t told him what he had said, but it didn’t surprise him. Hansson spent his life trying to be everyone’s friend. Wallander suddenly felt how tired he was. Or perhaps he was simply despondent.
He looked around. The undercover police car was still parked in its spot. Apart from that, the street was deserted. He unlocked his car and got in. Just as he was about to start the engine his cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket. It was Martinsson.