“It’s thick fog. Say forty-five minutes. Maybe a little less.”
“I’ll be there. Thanks for your help.”
He hung up and left the kitchen. Then he could not resist the temptation. He walked through the living room where the old television set was, and carefully pulled aside the curtain to the guest room where his daughter was sleeping. In the weak light from the lamp outside the kitchen door, he could see her hair and forehead, some of her nose. She was fast asleep.
Then he left the house and cleaned up after himself in the inside room of the studio. He cycled down to the main road and turned right. When he came to the Kaseberga exit he put the bicycle behind a hut belonging to the telephone company, concealed himself in the shadows, and settled down to wait. The fog was just as thick as before. Suddenly a police car flashed past on the way to Sandhammaren. Wallander thought he recognized Peters behind the wheel.
His thoughts turned to Sten Widen. They had not met for over a year. In connection with a criminal investigation Wallander had gotten the idea of calling on him at his stables near the ruined castle at Stjarnsund. That was where he trained a number of trotting horses. He lived alone, probably drank too much and too often, and had unclear relationships with his female employees. Once upon a time they had shared a common dream. Sten Widen had a fine baritone voice. He was going to become an opera singer, and Wallander would be his impresario. But the dream faded away, their friendship dissolved, and finally ceased to be.
Even so, he’s perhaps the only real friend I’ve ever had, thought Wallander as he waited in the fog. If I don’t count Rydberg. But that was something different. We’d never have gotten close to each other if we hadn’t both been cops.
Forty minutes later the wine-red Duett came gliding through the fog. Wallander emerged from behind the hut and got into the car. Sten Widen looked at his face, dirty, smeared with blood. But as usual he displayed no surprise.
“I’ll explain later,” said Wallander.
“When it suits you,” said Sten Widen. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth, and smelled of strong liquor.
They passed the training ground. Wallander crouched down and made himself invisible. There were several police cars by the side of the road. Sten Widen slowed down but did not stop. The road was clear, no roadblocks. He looked across at Wallander, who was still trying to hide. But he said nothing. They drove past Ystad, Skurup, then took a right towards Stjarnsund. The fog was still as thick as ever when they turned into the stable yard. A girl of about seventeen stood yawning and smoking in front of the stalls.
“My face has been in the newspapers and on TV,” said Wallander. “I’d prefer to be anonymous.”
“Ulrika doesn’t read the papers,” said Sten Widen. “If she ever watches TV, it’s just videos. I have another girl, Kristina. She won’t say anything either.”
They went into the untidy, chaotic house. Wallander had the feeling it looked exactly the same as the last time he was there. Sten Widen asked if he was hungry. Wallander nodded and they sat down in the kitchen. He had some sandwiches and a cup of coffee. Sten Widen occasionally went out into the next room. Whenever he came back he smelled even more strongly of spirits.
“Thanks for coming for me,” said Wallander.
Sten Widen shrugged.
“No problem,” he said.
“I need a few hours’ sleep,” Wallander went on. “Then I’ll tell you what’s going on.”
“The horses have to be looked after,” said Sten Widen. “You can sleep in here.”
He got up and Wallander followed him. His exhaustion caught up with him. Sten Widen showed him into a little room with a sofa.
“I doubt if I have any clean sheets. But you can have a pillow and a blanket.”
“That’s more than enough,” said Wallander.
“You know where the bathroom is?”
Wallander nodded. He could remember.
Wallander took off his shoes. You could hear the sand crunching underfoot. He slung his jacket over a chair. Sten Widen stood watching him in the doorway.
“How are things?” Wallander inquired.
“I’ve started singing again,” said Sten Widen.
“You must tell me all about it,” said Wallander.
Sten Widen left the room. Wallander could hear a horse whinnying out in the yard. The last thing he thought before falling asleep was that Sten Widen was just the same as ever. The same tousled hair, the same dry eczema on his neck.
Nevertheless there was something different.
When he woke up, he was not sure where he was at first. He had a headache, and pain all over his body. He put his hand on his forehead and could feel he had a temperature. He lay still under the blanket, which smelled of horses. When he went to check his watch, he found he must have dropped it at some point during the night. He got up and went out into the kitchen. A clock on the wall showed half past eleven. He had slept for over four hours. The fog had lifted somewhat, but was still there. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. Then he stood up and opened various cabinets until he found some painkillers. Shortly afterwards the telephone rang. Wallander heard Sten Widen come in and answer it. The call had to do with hay. They were discussing the price of a delivery. When he finished talking, he came into the kitchen.
“Awake?” he asked.
“I needed some sleep,” said Wallander.
Then he told him what had happened. Sten Widen listened in silence, expressionless. Wallander started with the disappearance of Louise Akerblom. He talked about the man he had killed.
“I just had to get away,” he concluded. “I know of course my colleagues will be looking for me now. But I’ll have to tell them a white lie. Say I passed out and lay behind a bush. But I’d be grateful if you could do one thing for me. Call my daughter and tell her I’m OK. And tell her she should stay where she is.”
“Should I tell her where you are?”
“No. Not yet. But you’ve got to convince her.”
Sten Widen nodded. Wallander gave him the number. But there was no answer.
“You’ll have to keep on trying until you reach her,” he said.
One of the stable girls came into the kitchen. Wallander nodded, and she introduced herself as Kristina.
“You can go get a pizza,” said Sten Widen. “Buy a few newspapers, too. There isn’t a bite to eat in the house.”
Sten Widen gave the girl some money. She drove off in the Duett.
“You said you started singing again,” said Wallander.
Sten Widen smiled for the first time. Wallander could remember that smile, but it was many years since he had last seen it.
“I’ve joined the church choir at Svedala,” ha said. “I sometimes sing solos at funerals. I realized I was missing it. But the horses don’t like it if I sing in the stables.”
“Do you need an impresario?” wondered Wallander. “It’s hard to see how I can keep going as a cop after all this.”
“You killed in self-defense,” said Sten Widen. “I’d have done the same thing. Just thank your lucky stars you had a gun.”
“I don’t think anybody can understand what it feels like.”
“It’ll pass.”
“Never.”
“Everything passes.”
Sten Widen tried calling again. Still no answer. Wallander went out to the bathroom and took a shower. He borrowed a shirt from Sten Widen. That also smelled like horses.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“How’s what going?”
“The horse business.”
“I’ve got one that’s good. Three more that might become good. But Fog’s got talent. She’ll bring in the money. She might even be a possibility for the Derby this year.”
“Is she really called Fog?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I was thinking about last night. If I’d had a horse I might have been able to catch up with Konovalenko.”
“Not on Fog you wouldn’t. She throws riders she doesn’t know. Talented horses are often a handful. Like people. Full of themselves, and whimsical. I sometimes wonder if she should have a mirror in the horse box. But she runs fast.”