Björk spoke for the first time. “This sort of thing is deplorable. We can’t afford to have people like Ström in the force. What’s troubling is that they then turn up in one of these security firms, no problem. The checks made on them are obviously nowhere near thorough enough.”
Wallander refrained from commenting on Björk’s outburst. He knew from experience the risk of being sidetracked into a discussion that had no direct bearing on the case.
“As for the explosion in your car,” Nyberg said, “we can be sure that the device was planted in your gas tank. I gather that this method of using the gas to eat its way through a fuse and delay the explosion is common in Asia.”
“An Italian pistol,” Wallander said, “and an Asian car bomb. Where does that leave us?”
“With a false conclusion, if we’re not careful,” Björk said firmly. “It needn’t be people from the other end of the world behind all this. Nowadays Sweden is a crossroads and a meeting place for everything you can think of.”
“What did you find at the lawyers’ offices, Ann-Britt?”
“Nothing yet that could be considered significant,” Höglund said. “It will take us a long time to take stock of all the material. The only thing that’s already definite is that Gustaf Torstensson’s clients diminished in number drastically over the last years. And that he seemed to spend all his time setting up companies, on financial advice, and drawing up contracts. I wonder whether we might need some help from the national CID, a specialist on financial crime. Even if no crime has been committed it’s probably beyond us to make out what may be behind all the various transactions.”
“Make use of Åkeson,” Björk said. “He knows a lot about financial matters and crime. Then he can decide if he’s sufficiently on top of it or whether we need to send for reinforcements.”
Wallander agreed and returned to his checklist.
“What about the cleaner?” he said.
“I’m going to meet her,” Höglund said. “I’ve spoken to her on the phone. She speaks Swedish well enough for an interpreter to be unnecessary.”
Then it was Wallander’s turn. He told the meeting of his visit to Martin Oscarsson and the drive to Klagshamn and the birch woods where Borman was supposed to have hanged himself. As so often before, Wallander felt he had discovered new details when he reported to his colleagues on what had happened. Retelling the story sharpened his concentration.
When he had finished, the atmosphere in the conference room was tense. We’re close to making significant progress, Wallander thought. “We have to find the link between Borman and the Torstensson law firm. What upset Borman so much that he sent threatening letters to the Torstenssons and even involved Mrs. Dunér? He accused them of what he called a serious injustice. We can’t be certain that it had anything to do with the scam inflicted on the county council, but I think we would do well to assume that, for the time being, this is what it was. In any case, this is the black hole in our investigation, and we must dredge our way into it with as much energy as we can muster.”
The discussion was tentative at first. Everybody needed time for what Wallander had described to sink in.
“I’m thinking about those threatening letters,” Martinsson said hesitantly. “I can’t get away from the feeling that they are so naive. So childish, almost innocent. I can’t get a clear sense of Borman’s nature.”
“We’ll have to find out more,” Wallander said. “Let’s start by tracing his children. We should also telephone his widow in Marbella.”
“I’d be happy to do that,” Martinsson said. “Borman interests me.”
“The whole business of that investment firm Smeden will have to be thoroughly investigated,” Björk said. “I suggest we contact the fraud squad in Stockholm. Or maybe it would be better for Åkeson to do that. There are people there who know as much about the business world as the most skillful investment analysts.”
“I’ll speak to Per,” Wallander said.
They went backward and forward through the case all morning. Eventually they reached a point where everybody was losing their sharpness, and nobody seemed to have anything else to say. Björk had already left for one of his countless meetings with the district chief of police. Wallander decided it was time to bring the meeting to an end.
“Two lawyers murdered,” he said. “Plus Lars Borman’s suicide, if that is what it was. We have the mine in Mrs. Dunér’s garden, and we have my car. Let no one forget that we’re dealing with extremely dangerous people, people who are keeping a close watch on everything we do. That means we all have to be tirelessly watchful ourselves.”
They gathered their papers and left.
Wallander drove to a restaurant nearby for lunch. He needed to be by himself. He was back at the police station just after 1:00, and spent the rest of the afternoon talking to the national CID and their fraud specialists. At 4:00 he went over to the prosecutor’s offices and spoke at length to Åkeson. Then he returned to his own office, and did not leave until nearly 10:00.
He felt the need for fresh air. He was missing his long walks at Skagen, so he left his car at the station and walked home to Mariagatan. It was a mild evening, and he occasionally paused to look in store windows. He was home by 11:00.
Half an hour later he was surprised by the phone ringing. He had just poured himself a glass of whiskey and settled in to watch a film on television. He went out to the hall and answered. It was Höglund.
“Am I disturbing you?” she said.
“Not in the least.”
“I’m at the station,” she said. “I think I’m onto something.”
Wallander did not hesitate. She would not have called if it hadn’t been very important. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said.
She was in the hallway, waiting for him.
“I need a cup of coffee,” she said. “There’s nobody in the canteen just now. Peters and Norén left a few minutes ago. There’s been an accident at the Bjäresjö crossroads.”
They sat down at a table with their mugs of coffee.
“There was a fellow student at college who paid his way through his studies by dealing on the stock exchange,” she said.
Wallander looked at her in surprise.
“I phoned him,” she said, almost apologetically. “It can be quicker to do things through personal contacts, if you have them. Anyway, I told him about STRUFAB, Sisyphus, and Smeden. I gave him the names Fjällsjö and Holmberg. He called me at home an hour ago. I came straight here.”
Wallander could hardly wait to hear what was coming next.
“I made notes of everything he said. The investment company Smeden has undergone a lot of changes in recent years. Boards of directors have come and gone, and on several occasions their shares have been suspended because of suspicions of insider trading and other infringements of stock exchange regulations. Substantial shareholdings have been changing hands with bewildering frequency, and it’s difficult to keep track of them. Smeden seems to have been a prime example of the irresponsible goings-on in the financial world. Until a few years ago. Then a number of foreign brokers, including firms in Britain, Belgium, and Spain, started buying shares, very discreetly. At first there was nothing to suggest that the same purchaser was acting through these various brokerage firms. It was all done stealthily, and the brokers did nothing to attract attention to themselves. By this time everybody was so fed up with Smeden that nobody was taking the company seriously anymore, least of all the mass media. Every time the secretary-general of the Stockholm Stock Exchange met reporters, he would begin by asking them not to ask questions about Smeden because he was so irritated by everything about the company. Then one day such substantial holdings were acquired by the same group of brokers that it was no longer possible to avoid wondering who was so interested in this shady company with such a bad reputation. It transpired that Smeden had fallen into the hands of a not-exactly-unknown Englishman called Robert Maxwell.”