Here is a connection, he thought. Though I have no idea what to make of it. Falk has taken a picture of a man outside a power substation, not unlike the one where Sonja Hökberg was found dead. Wallander kept turning the pages in the hopes of finding more clues, but there was nothing of interest. There were several pages of animal pictures, clearly taken on tourist safaris in other parts of Africa.
But in the last picture, he was back in familiar territory. LUANDA, JUNE 1976. There was the thin man again with his cropped hair. He was sitting on a bench overlooking the ocean. For once Falk had managed to compose a pleasing arrangement. It was a good picture. Then the album ended. There were several empty pages remaining, but it didn’t look as if anything had been taken out. The album just stopped there, with the picture of the man staring out over the sea. In the background Wallander saw the same city as in the postcard.
Wallander leaned back in his chair. Marianne Falk gave him a searching look.
“I don’t know what these pictures tell us, but I’d like to borrow the album for a while,” he said. “We may need to make some enlargements of individual shots.”
She followed him out into the hall.
“Why do you think what he did back then was so important? It was such a long time ago.”
“Something happened out there,” Wallander said. “I don’t know what. But I think it’s something that followed him for the rest of his life.”
He put on his coat and shook her hand.
“If you like, we can send a receipt for the loan of the album.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Wallander opened the door.
“There’s one more thing,” she said.
Wallander looked at her and waited. She looked suddenly unsure of herself.
“Maybe policemen only want facts,” she said slowly. “The thing I’ve been thinking about is still very unclear even to me.”
“Right now anything may be of help.”
“I lived with Tynnes for a long time,” she said. “And I thought I knew him. What he did during those years he was gone, I don’t know. But I always knew there was something else in his life. Since he was so good-natured and treated me and the children so well, I never bothered pursuing it.”
She stopped abruptly. Wallander waited.
“Sometimes I had the feeling I had married a fanatic, a person with two lives.”
“A fanatic?”
“Sometimes he had such strange ideas about things.”
“About what, for example?”
“About life. About people. About the world. About almost anything. He could suddenly come out with the most violent accusations, not directed at any individual, as if he were sending messages into space almost.”
“He never explained himself?”
“It scared me. I didn’t dare ask him about it. He would become so filled with hate. And besides, his rages would leave him as quickly as they had come. I always had the feeling they were something he wanted to hide, something that embarrassed him.”
Wallander thought carefully.
“Do you maintain that he never got involved politically?”
“He despised politicians. I don’t even think he used to vote.”
“And, as far as you know, he had no ties to any political organizations?”
“No.”
Wallander had nothing else to ask.
“If you think of anything else, let us know.”
She promised to do so. The door closed behind him.
Wallander got in his car and placed the photo album on the passenger seat. He wondered about the man in the picture, the one in front of the power substation. The one Falk had met in a faraway land some twenty years ago.
Was he the one who had sent the postcard, the one who called himself “C”?
Wallander shook his head. He didn’t understand it.
Suddenly he felt cold. It was a chilly day. He turned up the heat and drove back to the station. As he pulled into the parking lot, the phone rang. It was Martinsson.
“Trying to crack this code is like scaling a wall,” he complained.
“Modin is doing his best to get over it, but I couldn’t tell you what he’s actually up to.”
“We just have to be patient.”
“I take it we pay for his lunch?”
“Keep the receipt,” Wallander said. “Give it to me later.”
“I’m also wondering if now would be a good time to get in touch with the National Police computer experts. There’s not really any reason to put it off, is there?”
Martinsson is right, Wallander thought. But he wanted to give Modin a little more time.
“We’ll get in touch with them in due course,” he said. “But let’s just hold off for now.”
Wallander walked into the police station. Irene told him that Gertrud had called. Wallander went into his office and called her back. Sometimes he drove out there on the weekend to visit, but it didn’t happen very often. He felt guilty about it. Gertrud, after all, was the one who had taken pity on his father in those last few difficult years. Without her, he would never have made it as long as he had. But now that his father was gone, they didn’t really have anything to talk about.
Gertrud’s sister answered the phone. She was talkative and had strong opinions on most subjects. Wallander tried to get right to the point. She went to get Gertrud. It took a long time.
When Gertrud finally picked up, it turned out that nothing was wrong. There was no reason for Wallander to have been worried.
“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” she said.
“I’m busy, but otherwise I’m doing fine.”
“It’s been a while since you were here.”
“I know. I’ll come by as soon as I have more time.”
“One day it may be too late,” she said. “At my age you never know how much more time you have.”
Gertrud was just a little over sixty. A little too young for this brand of emotional blackmail. She was taking after his father in this respect.
“I’ll be there,” he said in a friendly tone. “Just as soon as I have more time.”
Then he excused himself and said that people were waiting to talk to him. But when the conversation was over, he went out to the lunchroom to get some coffee. He bumped into Nyberg, who was drinking an unusual kind of herbal tea that was hard to find. For once he seemed well rested. He had even combed his hair, which normally stood on end.
“We have no fingerprints,” Nyberg said. “The dogs have searched everywhere. But we did do a check on the ones we found in his apartment — that is, the ones we’re assuming belong to Falk. They don’t turn up anywhere in our registers.”
“Then send them on to Interpol. By the way, do you know if that covers Angola?”
“How would I know that?”
“I was just wondering.”
Nyberg left. Wallander stole a couple of rusks from Martinsson’s private stash and returned to his room. It was already twelve o’clock. The morning had gone by quickly. The photo album lay in front of him, and he was momentarily unsure of how to proceed. He knew more about Falk now than he had a couple of hours ago, but nothing that could satisfactorily clarify a connection to Sonja Hökberg.