I've lost my touch, he thought. The whole investigation's gone to pot. I ought to pass it on to somebody else. I can't handle this.
He sat there in his chair, inert. His mind went back to Riga and Baiba. When he could no longer cope with doing nothing he penned her a letter, inviting her to Ystad for Christmas and New Year. To make sure that the letter would not just lie there or get torn to pieces, he put it in an envelope and without more ado handed it to Ebba in reception.
"Could you post that for me today?" he said. "It's really urgent."
"I'll take care of it myself," she said, with a smile. "Incidentally, you look shattered. Are you getting enough sleep?"
"Not as much as I need," Wallander said.
"Who's going to thank you if you work yourself to death?" she said. "Not me, for sure."
Wallander went back to his office.
A month, he thought. A month in which to wipe the smile off Harderberg's face. He doubted if it would be possible.
He forced himself to work, despite everything.
Then he phoned Widen.
He also made up his mind to buy some cassettes of opera recordings. He missed his music.
Chapter 13
At around noon on Monday, November 22, Kurt Wallander got into the police car that was still doing service as a temporary replacement for his own burned-out wreck and set off west from Ystad. He was heading for the stables next to the ruins of Stjarnsund Castle where Sten Widen ran his business. When he reached the top of the hill outside Ystad he turned off into the lay-by, cut the engine and stared out to sea. On the far horizon he could just dimly see the outline of a cargo vessel sailing out into the Baltic. All of a sudden he was overcome by a fit of dizziness. He was terrified that it was his heart, but then he realised it was something else, that he seemed to be about to faint. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back and tried not to think. After a minute or so he opened his eyes. The sea was still there and the cargo vessel was still sailing out to the east.
I'm tired, he thought. Despite having rested all weekend. The feeling of exhaustion goes deep, deep down, I'm only half aware of the causes, and there is probably nothing I can do about it. Not now that I've made up my mind to return to work. The beach on Jutland no longer exists as far as I'm concerned. I renounced it of my own free will.
He did not know how long he sat there, but when he began to feel cold he started the engine and drove on. He would have preferred to go home and disappear into the security of his flat, but he forced himself to continue. He turned off towards Stjarnsund. After about a kilometre the road deteriorated badly. As always when he visited Widen, he wondered how big horseboxes could negotiate such a wretchedly maintained track.
The path sloped steeply towards the extensive farm with row upon row of stable blocks. He drove down into the yard and switched off the engine. A flock of crows were screeching in a nearby tree.
He got out of the car and made for the red-brick building Widen used as a combined home and office. The door was ajar, and he could hear Widen talking on the phone. He knocked and went in. As usual it was untidy and smelled strongly of horses. Two cats were lying asleep on the unmade bed. Wallander wondered how his friend could put up with living like this year after year.
The man who nodded to him as he came in without interrupting his telephone call was thin, with tousled hair and an angry red patch of eczema on his chin. He looked just as he had twenty-five years back. In those days they had seen a lot of each other. Widen had dreamed then of becoming an opera singer. He had a fine tenor voice, and they had planned a future with Wallander acting as his impresario. But the dream had collapsed, or rather, faded away; Wallander had become a police officer and Widen had inherited his father's business, training racehorses. They had drifted apart, without either of them really knowing why, and it was not until the early 1990s, in connection with a lengthy and complicated murder case, that they had come into contact again.
There was a time when he was my best friend, Wallander thought. I haven't had another one since then. Perhaps he will always be the best friend I ever had.
Widen finished his call and slammed the receiver down.
"What a bastard!" he snarled.
"A horse owner?" Wallander said.
"A crook," Widen said. "I bought a horse from him a month ago. He has some stables over at Hoor. I was going to collect it, but he's changed his mind. The bastard."
"If you've paid for the horse, there's not much he can do about it," Wallander said.
"Only a deposit," Widen said. "But I'm going to collect that horse no matter what he says."
Widen disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back Wallander could smell alcohol on his breath.
"You always come when I'm not expecting you," Widen said. "Would you like some coffee?"
Wallander accepted the offer and they went out to the kitchen. Widen shifted piles of old racing programmes to one side, exposing a small patch of plastic tablecloth.
"How about a drop of something stronger?" he asked, as he set about making the coffee.
"I'm driving," Wallander said. "How's it going with the horses?"
"It hasn't been a good year. And next year's not going to be any better. There isn't enough money in circulation. Fewer horses. I keep having to raise my training fees to make ends meet. What I'd really like to do is close down and sell up, but property prices are too low. In other words, I'm stuck fast in the Scanian mud."
He poured the coffee and sat down. Wallander noticed Widen's hand shaking as he reached for the cup. He's well on the way to drinking himself to death, he thought. I've never seen his hand shake like that in the middle of the day.
"What about you?" Widen asked. "What are you doing nowadays? Are you still off sick?"
"No, I'm back at work. A police officer again."
Widen looked bemused. "I didn't think so," he said.
"Didn't think what?"
"That you'd go back."
"What else could I do?"
"You were talking about getting a job with a security company. Or becoming head of security for some firm."
"I'll never be anything but a police officer."
"No," Widen agreed, "and I don't suppose I'll ever get away from these stables. That horse I've bought in Hoor is a good 'un, by the way. Out of Queen Blue. Nothing wrong with its pedigree."
A girl rode past the window on horseback.
"How many staff have you got?"
"Three. But I can't afford more than two. I really need four."
"That's why I'm here, actually," Wallander said.
"Don't tell me you want a job as a stableboy," Widen said. "I don't think you've got the necessary qualifications."
"I'm sure I haven't," Wallander said. "Let me explain."
Wallander could see no reason why he shouldn't explain about Alfred Harderberg; he knew Widen would never breathe a word to anybody else.
"It's not my idea," Wallander said. "We've recently acquired a new woman police officer in Ystad. She's good. She was the one who saw the advert and told me about it."
"You mean I should second one of my girls to Farnholm Castle, is that it?" Widen said. "As a sort of spy? You must be out of your mind."
"Murder is murder," Wallander said. "The castle is impenetrable. This advert gives us an opportunity to get in. You say you have a girl too many."
"I said I had one too few."
"She can't be stupid," Wallander said. "She has to be wide awake and notice things."
"I have a girl who would fit the bill," Widen said. "She's sharp, and nothing scares her. But there is a problem."
"What's that?"
"She doesn't like the police."