“And when we’ve convinced ourselves? Where do we start?”
“We have to make sure we do not fail in too much of what we set ourselves to do. We have to lose our way so cleverly in the fog that Harderberg believes it. We have to lose our way and be following the right road at the same time.”
She went back to her office to grab a notepad. Meanwhile, Wallander sat listening to a dog barking somewhere inside the station. When she came back, it struck him again that she was an attractive woman, despite the fact that she was very pale, and had blotchy skin and dark circles under her eyes.
They went through Wallander’s pronouncements once again. All the time Höglund kept coming up with relevant comments, finding flaws in Wallander’s reasoning, homing in on contradictions. He noticed, however reluctantly, that he was inspired by her, and that she was very clear-headed. It struck him—at 2 a.m. — that he had not had a conversation like this since Rydberg died. He imagined Rydberg coming back to life and putting his vast experience at the disposal of this pale young woman.
They left the station together. It was cold, the sky was full of stars, the ground was covered in frost.
“We’ll have a long meeting tomorrow,” Wallander said. “There will be any number of objections, but I’ll talk to Björk and Åkeson ahead of time. I’ll ask Per to sit in on the meeting. If we don’t get them on our side, we’ll lose too much time trying to dig up new facts just in order to convince them.”
She seemed surprised. “Surely they must see we’re right?”
“We can’t be sure of that.”
“It sometimes seems to me that the Swedish police force is very slow to catch on to things.”
“You don’t need to be a recent graduate of the police academy to reach that conclusion,” Wallander said. “Björk has calculated that given the current increase in administrators and others who don’t actually do work in the field, as investigators or on traffic duties, that kind of thing, all normal police work will grind to a halt around 2010. By which time every police officer will just sit around all day passing pieces of paper to other police officers.”
She laughed. “Maybe we’re in the wrong job,” she said.
“Not the wrong job,” Wallander said, “but maybe we’re living at the wrong time.”
They said good night and drove home in their own cars. Wallander kept an eye on the rearview mirror, but could not see anybody following him. He was very tired, but at the same time inspired by the fact that a door had opened up into the current investigation. The coming days were going to be very strenuous.
On the morning of Saturday, November 6, Wallander phoned Björk at 7:00. His wife answered, and asked Wallander to try again a few minutes later because her husband was taking a bath. Wallander used the time to phone Åkeson, who he knew was an early riser and generally up and about by 5:00. Åkeson picked up the phone immediately. Wallander briefly summarized what had happened, and why Harderberg had become relevant to the investigation in quite a new light. Åkeson listened without interruption. When Wallander had finished, he made just one comment.
“Are you convinced you can make this stick?”
Wallander replied without a moment’s hesitation: “Yes,” he said. “I think this can solve the problem for us.”
“In that case, of course, I have no objection to our concentrating on digging deeper. But make sure it’s all discreet. Say nothing to the media without consulting me first. What we need least of all is a Palme situation here in Ystad.”
Wallander could see what Åkeson meant. The unsolved assassination of the Swedish prime minister, a mystery now almost ten years old, had not only stunned the police but had also shocked nearly everyone in Sweden. Too many people, both inside and outside the police force, were aware that in all probability the murder had not been solved because at an early stage the investigation had been dominated and mishandled in a scandalous fashion by a district police chief who had put himself in charge despite being incompetent to run a criminal investigation. Every local force discussed over and over, sometimes angrily and sometimes contemptuously, how it had been possible for the murder, the murderer, and the motive to be swept under the rug with such nonchalance. One of the most catastrophic errors in that disastrous investigation had been the insistence of the officers in charge on pursuing certain leads without first establishing priorities. Wallander agreed with Åkeson: an investigation had to be more or less concluded before the police had the green light to put all their eggs in one basket.
“I’d like you to be there when we discuss the case this morning,” Wallander said. “We have to be absolutely clear about what we’re doing. I don’t want the investigation team to be split. That would prevent us from being able to react rapidly to any new development.”
“I’ll be there,” Åkeson said. “I was supposed to be playing golf today. Of course, given the weather, I’d rather not.”
“It’s probably pretty hot in Uganda,” Wallander said. “Or was it the Sudan?”
“I haven’t even raised the subject with my wife yet,” Åkeson said in a low voice.
After that call, Wallander drank another cup of coffee and then called Björk again. This time it was the man himself who answered. Wallander had decided not to say anything about what had happened the first time he visited Farnholm Castle. He would rather not do that on the phone; he needed to be face-to-face with Björk. He was brief and to the point.
“We need to meet and discuss what’s happened,” Wallander said. “Something, that is, which is going to change the whole direction of the case.”
“What happened?” Björk said.
“I’d just as soon not discuss it over the phone,” Wallander said.
“You’re not suggesting our phones are being tapped, I hope?” Björk said. “We need to keep things in perspective, after all.”
“It’s not that,” Wallander said, although it struck him that he had never considered that possibility. It was too late to do anything about it now—he had already told Åkeson how things were going to develop from now on.
“I need to see you briefly before the investigation meeting starts,” he said.
“OK, half an hour from now,” Björk said. “But I don’t understand why you’re being so secretive.”
“I’m not being secretive,” Wallander said. “But it’s sometimes better to discuss crucial things face-to-face.”
“That sounds pretty dramatic to me,” Björk said. “I wonder if we shouldn’t contact Per.”
“I’ve done that already,” Wallander said. “I’ll be in your office in half an hour.”
Before meeting Björk, Wallander sat in his car outside the police station for a few minutes, gathering his thoughts. He considered canceling the whole thing; perhaps there were more important things to do; but then he acknowledged that he had to make it clear to Björk that Harderberg must be treated like any other Swedish citizen. Failure to reach that understanding would lead inevitably to a crisis of confidence that would end up with Wallander’s resignation. He thought how quickly things had moved. It was only just over a week since he had been pacing up and down the beach at Skagen, preparing to say good-bye forever to his life as a police officer. Now he was feeling that he had to defend his position and his integrity as a police officer. He must write about all this to Baiba as soon as he could.
Would she be able to understand why everything had changed? Did he really understand it himself?
He went to Björk’s office and sat on his visitors’ sofa.