He took two books out of his briefcase as if to assure Wallander that he was telling the truth.
Wallander had been listening with increasing amazement. The feeling that something didn’t add up was strengthened. He stepped aside and nodded for the salesman to come in.
‘Has anything happened?’ the man asked.
Wallander ushered him into the kitchen without answering and indicated that he should sit down at the table.
Then Wallander realised that he was now going to deliver the news of a death. Something he had always dreaded. But he reminded himself that he was not talking to a relative, only to an encyclopedia salesman.
‘Artur Halen is dead,’ he said.
The man on the other side of the table did not seem to understand this.
‘But I spoke to him earlier today.’
‘I thought you said you had spoken to him last week?’
‘I called him this morning and asked if it would be all right for me to come by this evening.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That it would be fine. Why else would I have come? I am not an intrusive person. People have such bizarre preconceptions about door-to-door salesmen.’
It was likely that the man was lying.
‘Let’s take the whole thing from the top,’ Wallander said.
‘What is it that’s happened?’ the man interrupted.
‘Artur Halen is dead,’ Wallander answered. ‘And that is as much as I can say at this point.’
‘But if the police are involved then something must have happened. Was he hit by a car?’
‘For now that is as much as I can say,’ Wallander repeated and wondered why he had to overdramatise the situation.
Then he asked the man to tell him the whole story.
‘I am Emil Holmberg,’ the man began. ‘I am actually a school biology teacher. But I’m trying to sell encyclopedias to save up for a trip to Borneo.’
‘Borneo?’
‘I’m interested in tropical plants.’
Wallander nodded for him to continue.
‘I walked around the neighbourhood here last week and knocked on people’s doors. Artur Halen showed some interest and asked me to come in. We sat here in the kitchen. I told him about the encyclopedia, what it cost, and showed him a copy of one of the volumes. After about half an hour he signed the contract. Then I called him today and he said that it would be all right for me to come by this evening.’
‘Which day were you here last week?’
‘Tuesday. Between around four and half past five.’
Wallander recalled that he had been on duty at that time. But he saw no reason to tell the man that he lived in the building. Especially since he had claimed to be a detective.
‘Halen was the only one who showed any interest,’ Holmberg continued. ‘A lady on one of the upper floors started to tell me off for disturbing people. These things happen, but not too often. Next door to here there was no one home, I remember.’
‘You said that Halen made his first payment?’
The man opened his briefcase where he kept the books and showed Wallander a receipt. It was dated the Friday from the week before.
Wallander thought it over.
‘How long was he supposed to make payments for this encyclopedia?’
‘For two years. Until all twenty instalments were paid for.’
This makes no sense, Wallander thought, no sense at all. A man who was planning to commit suicide doesn’t agree to sign a two-year contract.
‘What was your impression of Halen?’ Wallander asked.
‘I don’t think I know what you mean.’
‘How was he? Calm? Happy? Did he appear worried?’
‘He didn’t say very much. But he was genuinely interested in the encyclopedia. I am sure of that much.’
Wallander did not have anything else to ask. There was a pencil on the kitchen windowsill. He searched for a piece of paper in his pocket. The only thing he found was his grocery list. He turned it over and asked Holmberg to write down his number.
‘We will most likely not be in touch again,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to have your telephone number as a precaution.’
‘Halen seemed perfectly healthy,’ Holmberg said. ‘What is it really that has happened? And what will now happen with the contract?’
‘Unless he has relatives that can take it over, I don’t think you’ll get paid. I can assure you that he is dead.’
‘But you can’t tell me what has happened?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘It sounds sinister to me.’
Wallander stood up to indicate that their talk was over. Holmberg stood rooted to the spot with his briefcase.
‘Would I be able to interest you, Detective Inspector, in an encyclopedia?’
‘Detective Sergeant,’ Wallander said, ‘and I don’t need an encyclopedia right now. At least not at the moment.’
Wallander showed Holmberg out to the street. Only when the man had turned the corner on his bike did Wallander go back in and return to Halen’s apartment. Then he sat down at the kitchen table and in his mind walked back over everything that Holmberg had said. The only reasonable explanation he could come up with was that Halen had arrived at his decision to kill himself very suddenly. If you could rule out the idea of him being so crazy that he wanted to play a mean trick on an innocent salesman.
Somewhere in the distance a telephone rang. Far too late he realised it was his own. He ran into the apartment. It was Mona.
‘I thought you were going to meet me,’ she said angrily.
Wallander looked at his watch and swore quietly. He should have been down by the boat at least a quarter of an hour ago.
‘I got caught up in a criminal investigation,’ he said apologetically.
‘I thought you were off today?’
‘Unfortunately they needed me.’
‘Are there really no other policemen except you? Is this how it’s going to be?’
‘It was an exception.’
‘Did you go grocery shopping?’
‘No, I ran out of time.’
He heard how disappointed she was.
‘I’ll come get you now,’ he said, ‘I’ll try to hail a cab. Then we can go to a restaurant somewhere.’
‘How can I be sure? Maybe you’ll get called away again.’
‘I’ll be down there as soon as I can, I promise.’
‘I’ll be on a bench outside. But I’m only waiting for twenty minutes. Then I’m going home.’
Wallander hung up and called the cab company. It was busy. It took almost ten minutes for him to get a cab. Between tries, he managed to lock up Halen’s apartment and change his shirt.
He arrived at the ferry terminal after thirty-three minutes. Mona had already left. She lived on Sodra Forstadsgatan. Wallander walked up to Gustav Adolf’s Square and called from a payphone. There was no answer. Five minutes later he called again. By then she was home.
‘If I say twenty minutes, I mean twenty minutes,’ she said.
‘I couldn’t get a hold of a cab. The line to the damn cab company was busy.’
‘I’m tired anyway,’ she said. ‘Let’s get together another night.’
Wallander tried to change her mind, but she was firm. The conversation turned into an argument. Then she hung up. Wallander slammed the receiver into the cradle. A couple of passing patrol officers gave him disapproving looks. They did not appear to recognise him.
Wallander walked over to a hot-dog stand by the square. Then he sat down on a bench to eat and distractedly watched some seagulls fighting over a scrap of bread.
He and Mona did not fight very often but each time it happened it worried him. Inside, he knew it would blow over the next day. Then she would be back to normal. But his reason had no influence on his anxiety. It was there anyway.
When Wallander arrived home he sat down at the kitchen table and tried to concentrate on writing down a systematic account of everything that had happened in the apartment next door. But he didn’t feel he was getting anywhere. On top of this he felt unsure of himself. How do you go about conducting an investigation and an analysis of a crime scene? He realised he lacked too many fundamental skills, despite his time at the police academy. After half an hour he angrily threw the pen down. It was all in his imagination. Halen had shot himself. The betting form and the salesman didn’t change anything. He would be better off bemoaning the fact that he had not got to know Halen. Perhaps it was the man’s loneliness that at last became unbearable?