But a few weeks later Jespersen had suddenly turned up outside his door in Rosengard and given him a bottle of Danish aquavit as thanks for his help. Wallander had never managed to establish how Jespersen had found him. But he had invited him in. Jespersen had problems with alcohol, but only from time to time. Usually he worked on various ships as an engineer. He was a good storyteller and seemed to know every northern sailor from the past fifty years. Jespersen had told him that he usually spent his evenings in a bar in Nyhavn. When he was sober he always drank coffee. Otherwise beer. But always in the same place. If he was not somewhere out at sea.
Now Wallander came to think of him. Jespersen knows, he thought. Or else he can give me some advice.
Wallander had already made his decision. If he was lucky, Jespersen would be in Copenhagen and hopefully not in the middle of one of his drinking binges. It was not yet three o’clock. Wallander would spend the rest of the day going to Copenhagen and back. No one seemed to miss his presence at the station. But before he set off across the sound he had a telephone call to make. It was as if his decision to go to Copenhagen had given him the necessary courage. He dialled the number to the hair salon where Mona worked.
The woman who answered the phone was called Karin and was the owner. Wallander had met her on several occasions. He found her intrusive and nosy. But Mona thought she was a good boss. He told her who he was and asked her to give a message to Mona.
‘You can talk to her yourself,’ Karin said. ‘I have a woman under a dryer here.’
‘I’m in a case meeting,’ Wallander said and tried to sound busy. ‘Just tell her that I’ll be in touch by ten o’clock tonight.’
Karin promised to forward the message.
Afterwards Wallander noticed that he had started sweating during the short conversation. But he was still happy that he had accomplished it.
Then he left the station and just managed to catch the hydrofoil that left at three o’clock. Earlier in the year he had often gone to Copenhagen. First alone, and then with Mona. He liked the city, which was so much bigger than Malmo. Sometimes he also went to Det Kongelige Theatre when there was an opera performance he wanted to see.
He didn’t much care for the hydrofoils. The trip went too fast. The old ferries gave him a stronger feeling that there was actually some distance between Sweden and Denmark; that he was travelling abroad when he crossed the sound. He looked out the window as he drank his coffee. One day they will probably build a bridge here, he thought. But I probably won’t have to live to see that day.
When Wallander arrived in Copenhagen it had started to drizzle again. The boat docked in Nyhavn. Jespersen had told him where his regular pub was and it was not without a feeling of excitement that Wallander stepped into the semi-darkness. It was a quarter to four. He looked around the dim interior. There were a few customers scattered about, sitting at tables, drinking beer.
A radio was turned on somewhere. Or was it a record player? A Danish woman’s voice was singing something that seemed very sentimental. Wallander didn’t see Jespersen at any of the tables. The bartender was working on a crossword puzzle in a newspaper spread out over the counter. He looked up when Wallander approached.
‘A beer,’ Wallander said.
The man gave him a Tuborg.
‘I’m looking for Jespersen,’ Wallander said.
‘Holger? He won’t be in for another hour or so.’
‘He’s not out at sea, then?’
The bartender smiled.
‘If he was, he would hardly be coming in in an hour, would he? He usually comes in around five.’
Wallander sat down at a table and waited. The sentimental female voice had now been replaced by an equally schmaltzy male voice. If Jespersen came in around five, Wallander would have no trouble being back in Malmo before he was set to call Mona. Now he tried to think out what he was going to say. He would not even acknowledge the slap. He would tell her why he had contacted Helena. He would not give up until she believed what he said.
A man at one of the tables had fallen asleep. The bartender was still hunched over his crossword. Time was passing slowly. Now and again the door opened and let in a glimpse of daylight. Someone came in and a few others left. Wallander checked his watch. Ten to five. Still no Jespersen. He became hungry and was given some slices of sausage on a plate. And another Tuborg. Wallander had the feeling that the bartender was puzzling over the same word as he had been when Wallander had arrived at the bar an hour ago.
It was five o’clock. Still no Jespersen. He’s not coming, Wallander thought. Today of all days he’s slipped and started drinking again.
Two women walked in through the door. One of them ordered a schnapps and sat down at a table. The other one went behind the counter. The bartender left his newspaper and started to go through the bottles lined up on the shelves. Apparently the woman worked there. It was now twenty minutes past five. The door opened and Jespersen entered, dressed in a denim jacket and a cap. He walked straight to the counter and said hello. The bartender immediately poured him a cup of coffee and pointed to Wallander’s table. Jespersen took his cup and smiled when he saw Wallander.
‘This is unexpected,’ he said in broken Swedish. ‘A Swedish police servant in Copenhagen.’
‘Not a servant,’ Wallander said. ‘Constable. Or criminal investigator.’
‘Isn’t that the same thing?’
Jespersen chuckled and dropped four lumps of sugar into his coffee.
‘In any case, it’s nice to get a visitor,’ he said. ‘I know everyone who comes here. I know what they’re going to drink and what they’re going to say. And they know the same about me. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t go someplace else. But I don’t think I dare.’
‘Why not?’
‘Maybe someone will say something I don’t want to hear.’
Wallander wasn’t sure he understood everything that Jespersen was saying. For one thing, his Swedo-Danish was unclear, for another his pronouncements were somewhat vague.
‘I came here to see you,’ Wallander said. ‘I thought you might be able to help me.’
‘With any other police servant I would have told you to go to hell,’ Jespersen answered jovially. ‘But with you it’s different. What is it you want to know?’
Wallander filled him in on what had happened.
‘A sailor, called both Anders Hansson and Artur Halen,’ he finished. ‘Who also worked as an engineer.’
‘Which line?’
‘Sahlen.’
Jespersen slowly shook his head.
‘I would have heard about someone who changed his name,’ he said. ‘That isn’t an everyday occurrence.’
Wallander tried to describe Halen’s appearance. At the same time he was thinking of the photographs he had seen in the sailor’s books. A man who changed. Maybe Halen also deliberately altered his appearance when he changed his name?
‘Can you add anything else?’ Jespersen said. ‘He was a sailor and an engineer. Which in itself is an unusual combination. Which ports did he sail to? Which type of vessel?’
‘I think he went to Brazil a number of times,’ Wallander said hesitantly. ‘Rio de Janeiro, of course. But also a place called Sao Luis.’
‘Northern Brazil,’ Jespersen said. ‘I’ve been there once. Had shore leave there and stayed in an elegant hotel called Casa Grande.’
‘I don’t think I have anything more to tell,’ Wallander said.
Jespersen studied him while he dropped a few more sugar cubes into his coffee.
‘Someone who knew him? Is that what you want to know? Someone who knew Anders Hansson? Or Artur Halen?’
Wallander nodded.
‘Then we won’t get any further right now,’ Jespersen said. ‘I’ll check around. Both here and in Malmo. Now I think we should go have a bite to eat.’
Wallander looked at his watch. Half past five. There was no need to hurry. If he took the hydrofoil back to Malmo at half past eight he would still get home in time to call Mona. And he was hungry anyway. The sausage slices had not been enough.