“‘Arne Carlman was in Langholmen during the spring of 1969 for fraud and fencing stolen goods. At that time Gustaf Wetterstedt was minister of justice. Carlman wrote letters to him. He bragged about it. When he got out he met with Wetterstedt. What did they talk about? What did they do? We don’t know. But things went well for Carlman. He never went to prison again. And now they’re dead. Both of them.’ Have I read this correctly?”
“I came up with the same thing,” she said.
“No signature,” said Wallander. “And what is he really getting at? Who is he? How does he know this stuff? Is any of it true?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I had a feeling that this man knew what he was talking about. Anyway, it’s not hard to check whether Carlman was really at Langholmen in the spring of 1969. We know that Wetterstedt was minister of justice then.”
“Wasn’t Langholmen closed by then?” Wallander asked.
“That was a few years later, in 1975, I think. I can check on exactly when.”
Wallander waved it off.
“Why did he only want to talk to me?” he asked. “Did he give any explanation?”
“I got a feeling he’d heard about you.”
“So he wasn’t claiming that he knew me?”
“No.”
Wallander thought for a moment.
“Let’s hope what he wrote is true,” he said. “Then we’ve established the connection.”
“It shouldn’t be too hard to verify,” said Hoglund. “Even if it is Sunday.”
“I’ll go out and talk to Carlman’s widow right now. She must know whether her husband was ever in prison,” said Wallander.
“Do you want me to come along?”
“No.”
Half an hour later Wallander parked his car outside the cordon in Bjaresjo. A bored-looking officer sat in a squad car reading the paper. He straightened up when he saw Wallander approaching.
“Is Nyberg still working here?” asked Wallander in surprise. “Isn’t the forensic investigation finished?”
“I haven’t seen any technicians around,” said the officer.
“Call Ystad and ask them why the cordons haven’t been removed,” said Wallander. “Is the family home?”
“The widow is probably there,” said the officer. “And the daughter. But the sons left in a car a few hours ago.”
Wallander entered the grounds of the farm. The bench and the table in the arbour were gone. In the beautiful summer weather the events of the last few days seemed unbelievable. He knocked on the door. Carlman’s widow opened it almost at once.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” said Wallander. “But I have a few questions that I need answered as soon as possible.”
She was very pale. As he stepped inside he smelled a faint whiff of alcohol. Somewhere inside, Carlman’s daughter shouted, asking who was at the door. Wallander tried to remember the name of the woman leading the way. Had he ever heard it? Yes — it was Anita. He’d heard Svedberg use it during the long investigative meeting. He sat down on the sofa facing her. She lit a cigarette. She was wearing a flimsy summer dress. Wallander felt vaguely disapproving. Even if she didn’t love her husband, he had been murdered. Didn’t people believe in showing respect for the dead any more? Couldn’t she have chosen more sombre attire? He had such conservative views sometimes that he surprised himself. Sorrow and respect didn’t follow a colour scheme.
“Would the inspector like something to drink?” she asked.
“No thank you,” said Wallander. “I’ll be as brief as I can.”
She shot a glance past his face. He turned around. Her daughter, Erika, had entered the room silently and was sitting in the background. She was smoking and seemed nervous.
“Do you mind if I listen?” she asked in a belligerent voice.
“Not at all,” he said. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“I’m fine here,” she said.
Her mother shook her head almost imperceptibly. She seemed resigned about her daughter’s behaviour.
“Actually I came here because it’s Sunday,” Wallander began. “Which means that it’s difficult to get information from archives. And since we need to have an answer as soon as possible, I came to you.”
“You don’t have to excuse yourself,” said the woman. “What is it you want to know?”
“Was your husband in prison in the spring of 1969?”
Her reply was swift and resolute.
“He was in Langholmen between the 9th of February and the 19th of June. I drove him there and I picked him up. He was convicted of fraud and fencing stolen goods.”
Her frankness made Wallander lose his train of thought. But what had he expected? That she would deny it?
“Was this the first time he was sentenced to a prison term?”
“The first and the last.”
“Can you tell me any more about the convictions?”
“He denied having either received stolen paintings or forged any cheques. Other people did it in his name.”
“So you think he was innocent?”
“It’s not a matter of what I think. He was innocent.”
Wallander decided to change tack.
“It has come to light that your husband knew Gustaf Wetterstedt, despite the fact that both you and your children claimed earlier that this was not the case.”
“If he knew Gustaf Wetterstedt then I would have known about it.”
“Could he have had contact with him without your knowledge?”
She thought for a moment before she replied.
“I would find that very difficult to believe,” she said.
Wallander knew at once that she was lying. But he couldn’t see why. Since he had no more questions he stood up.
“Perhaps you can find your own way out,” said the woman on the sofa. She seemed very tired suddenly.
Wallander walked to the door. As he approached the daughter, who had been watching him intently, she stood up and blocked his way, holding her cigarette in her left hand.
Out of nowhere came a slap that struck Wallander hard on his left cheek. He was so surprised that he took a step back, tripped, and fell to the floor.
“Why did you let it happen?” she shrieked.
Then she started pummelling Wallander, who managed to fend her off as he tried to get up. Mrs Carlman came to his rescue. She did the same thing as the girl had just done to Wallander. She slapped her daughter hard in the face. When the girl calmed down, her mother led her over to the sofa. Then she returned to Wallander, who was standing there with his burning cheek, torn between rage and astonishment.
“Erika’s been so depressed about what happened,” said Anita Carlman. “She’s lost control. The inspector must forgive her.”
“Maybe she should see a doctor,” said Wallander, noticing that his voice was shaking.
“She already has.”
Wallander nodded and went out of the door. He tried to remember the last time he had been struck. It was more than ten years ago. He was interrogating a man suspected of burglary. Suddenly the man had jumped up from the table and slugged him in the mouth. That time Wallander struck back. His rage was so fierce that he broke the man’s nose. Afterwards the man tried to sue Wallander for police brutality, but he was found innocent. The man later sent a complaint to the ombudsman about Wallander, but that too was dropped with no measures taken.
He had never been hit by a woman before. When his wife Mona had lost control, she had thrown things at him. But she had never tried to slap him. He often wondered what would have happened if she had. Would he have hit back? He knew there was a good chance he would.
He stood in the garden touching his stinging cheek. All the energy he had felt that morning had evaporated. He was so tired that he couldn’t even manage to hold on to the feeling the girls’ visit had given him.
He walked back to his car. The officer was slowly rolling up the yellow tape.