Hemberg smiled.
‘He may have thought you were a burglar,’ he said.
‘Who rang the bell?’
‘A standard way of seeing if anyone’s home.’
‘At three o’clock in the morning?’
Hemberg threw down the pen and leaned back in his chair.
‘You don’t seem convinced,’ he said, without masking the fact that Wallander was beginning to get on his nerves.
Wallander immediately realised that he had gone too far and started his retreat.
‘Of course I am,’ he said. ‘It’s definitely suicide and nothing more.’
‘Good,’ Hemberg said. ‘Then that’s settled. It was good of you to report this. I’ll send over a couple of guys to deal with the mess. Then we’ll wait for the medical examiners and forensic lab. After that we can put Halen in a folder and forget about him.’
Hemberg put his hand on the phone as a signal that the conversation was over and Wallander left the room. He felt like an idiot. An idiot who had run away with himself. What was it he had imagined? That he had tracked down a murder? He walked back to his office and decided that Hemberg was right. Once and for all, forget all thoughts of Halen. And be a diligent patrolman a little longer.
That evening Mona came out to Rosengard. They had dinner and Wallander said none of his prepared speech. Instead he apologised for being late. Mona accepted this and then spent the night. They lay awake for a long time, talking about July, when they were going on holiday together for two weeks. They had still not decided what they were going to do. Mona worked in a hair salon and did not make much money. Her dream was to be able to open her own place sometime in the future. Wallander also did not have a high salary. To be exact, 1,896 kronor a month. They had no car and they would have to plan carefully to get the money to last.
Wallander had suggested they travel north and hike in the mountains. He had never been further than Stockholm. But Mona wanted to go somewhere where you could swim. They had done the calculation to see if they could afford to go to Mallorca. But that was too expensive. Instead Mona suggested they go to Skagen in Denmark. She had been there a few times with her parents as a child and had never forgotten it. She had also already found out that there were many inexpensive bed and breakfasts that were not yet fully booked. Before they fell asleep they had managed to reach an agreement. They would go to Skagen. The next day Mona would book a room, while Wallander would check the train schedule from Copenhagen.
The following evening, 5 June, Mona went to visit her parents in Staffanstorp. Wallander played poker with his father for several hours. For once his father was in a good mood and did not start criticising Wallander for his choice of profession. When he went on to win almost fifty kronor from his son he became so jolly that he took out a bottle of cognac.
‘Sometime I want to go to Italy,’ he said after they had said cheers. ‘And once in my life I also want to see the pyramids in Egypt.’
‘Why?’
His father looked at him for a long time.
‘That is an extraordinarily stupid question,’ he said. ‘Of course you should see Rome before you die. And the pyramids. It is part of a well-rounded person’s general education.’
‘How many Swedes do you think can afford to go to Egypt?’
His father pretended not to hear his objection.
‘But I am not about to die,’ he added instead. ‘What I will do is move to Loderup.’
‘How’s the property deal coming along?’
‘It’s already done.’
Wallander stared at him with surprise.
‘What do you mean by “done”?’
‘I’ve already bought and paid for the house. Svindala 12:24 is the address.’
‘But I haven’t even seen it.’
‘You’re not the one who’s going to live there. I am.’
‘Have you even been out there?’
‘I’ve seen a picture of it. That’s enough. I make no unnecessary trips. It encroaches on my work.’
Wallander groaned inside. He was convinced his father had been duped. Taken advantage of, as he so often had been when he sold his paintings to the dubious characters in their large American cars who had been his clients all these years.
‘This is news,’ Wallander said. ‘May I ask when you’re planning to move?’
‘The removal men are coming this Friday.’
‘You’re already moving this week?’
‘You heard what I said. Next time we play cards we’ll be in the middle of the Skane mud.’
Wallander threw his arms out.
‘When will you pack? Everything is a terrible mess.’
‘I assumed that you wouldn’t have any time. So I asked your sister to come down and help me.’
‘So you’re saying that if I hadn’t come over tonight I would have found an empty house the next time I came for a visit?’
‘Yes, you would have.’
Wallander held out his glass for more cognac, which his father parsimoniously only filled halfway.
‘I don’t even know where it is. Loderup? Is that on this or the far side of Ystad?’
‘It’s on this side of Simrishamn.’
‘Can you answer my question?’
‘I already have.’
His father stood up and put the bottle of cognac away. Then he pointed to the cards.
‘One more hand?’
‘I have no money left. But I’ll try to drop by in the evenings and help you pack. How did you pay for this house?’
‘I’ve already forgotten that.’
‘You can’t have done. Do you have that much money?’
‘No. But money doesn’t interest me.’
Wallander realised he was not going to get a clearer answer than this. It was already half past ten. He needed to get home and sleep. At the same time he had trouble leaving. This was where he had grown up. When he was born they had lived in Klagshamn but he had no real memories of it.
‘Who is going to live here now?’ he asked.
‘I’ve heard it will be demolished.’
‘You don’t seem to care very much about that. How long have you lived here, anyway?’
‘Nineteen years. More than enough.’
‘I can’t accuse you of being sentimental, at any rate. Do you realise that this is my childhood home?’
‘A house is a house,’ his father answered. ‘Now I’ve had enough of the city. I want to get out into the countryside. I’ll be left in peace there and paint and plan my travels to Egypt and Italy.’
Wallander walked all the way back to Rosengard. It was overcast. He realised he was anxious that his father was going to move and that his childhood home was going to be torn down.
I am sentimental, he thought. Perhaps that’s why I like opera. The question is, can you be a good police officer if you have a tendency towards sentimentality?
The day after, Wallander called to enquire about train departures for their holiday. Mona had booked a room in a bed and breakfast that sounded cosy. Wallander spent the rest of the day patrolling down-town Malmo. The whole time he thought he saw the girl who had accosted him in the cafe. He longed for the day he could take off his uniform. Everywhere gazes were directed at him, expressing distaste or disdain, especially from people his own age. He was patrolling with an overweight and slow policeman by the name of Svanlund, who spent the whole time talking about the fact that he was going to retire in one year and move to his ancestral farm outside Hudiksvall. Wallander listened absently and mumbled something inconsequential from time to time. Apart from escorting some drunks away from a playground, nothing else happened other than Wallander’s feet starting to hurt. It was the first time, even though he had patrolled so often during his working life thus far. He wondered if it was due to his increased desire to become a criminal investigator. When he came home he took out a washbowl and filled it with warm water. A feeling of well-being spread throughout his entire body when he put his feet into the water.
He closed his eyes and started to think about the tempting holiday. He and Mona would have undisturbed time to plan their future. And soon he hoped to be able to hang up his uniform at long last and move up to the floor where Hemberg was.