The Man Who Smiled by Henning Mankell

seekers in various contexts.
    He drove back to the police station. The wind was still squally, and clouds were building up from the east. He had just turned into Kristianstadvägen when he slammed his foot on the brake. A lorry behind him sounded its horn.
    I'm reacting far too slowly, he thought. I'm not seeing the wood for the trees.
    He made an illegal U-turn, parked outside the post office in Hamngatan and made his way swiftly into the side street that led into Stickgatan from the north. He positioned himself so that he could see the pink building where Mrs Dunér lived.
    It was getting chilly, and he started walking up and down while keeping an eye on the building. After an hour he wondered whether he ought to give up. But he was sure he was right. He kept on watching the building. By now Åkeson was waiting for him, but he would wait in vain.
    At 3.43 p.m. the door to the pink building suddenly opened. Wallander hid behind a wall. He was right. He watched that woman with the vaguely Asiatic appearance leave Berta Dunér's house. Then she turned the corner and was gone.
    It had started raining.
    CHAPTER 5
    The meeting of the investigation team started at 4 p.m. and finished exactly seven minutes later. Wallander was the last to arrive and flopped down on his chair. He was out of breath, and sweating. His colleagues around the table observed him in surprise, but no-one made any comment.
    It took Björk a few minutes to establish that no-one had any significant progress to report or matters to discuss. They had reached a point in the investigation where they had become "tunnel diggers", as they used to say. They were all trying to break through the surface layer to find what might be concealed underneath. It was a familiar phase in criminal investigations, and no discussion was needed. The only one who came up with a question at the end of the meeting was Wallander.
    "Who is Alfred Harderberg?" he asked, after consulting a scrap of paper on which he'd written down the name.
    "I thought everybody knew that," Björk said. "He's one of Sweden's most successful businessmen just now. Lives here in Skåne. When he's not flying all over the world in his private jet, that is."
    "He owns Farnholm Castle," Svedberg said. "It's said that he has an aquarium with genuine gold dust at the bottom instead of sand."
    "He was a client of Gustaf Torstensson's," Wallander said. "His principal client, in fact. And his last. Torstensson had been to see him the night he met his death in the field."
    "He organises collections for the needy in parts of the Balkans ravaged by war," Martinsson said. "But maybe that's not so extraordinary when you have the limitless amounts of money he does."
    "Alfred Harderberg is a man worthy of our respect," Björk said.
    Wallander could see he was getting annoyed. "Who isn't?" he wondered aloud. "I intend to pay him a visit even so."
    "Phone first," Björk said, getting to his feet.
    The meeting was at an end. Wallander fetched a cup of coffee and repaired to his office. He needed time on his own to think over the significance of Mrs Dunér being visited by a young Asian woman. Maybe there was nothing to it at all, but Wallander's instinct told him otherwise. He put his feet on his desk and leaned back in his chair, balancing his coffee cup between his knees.
    The telephone rang. Wallander stretched to answer it, lost his grip on the cup, and coffee spilled all over his trouser leg as the cup fell to the floor.
    "Shit!" he shouted, the receiver halfway to his ear.
    "No need to be rude," said his father. "I only wanted to ask why you never get in touch."
    Wallander was instantly assailed by his bad conscience, and that in turn made him angry. He wondered if there would ever be a time when dealings with his father could be conducted on a less tense footing.
    "I spilled a cup of coffee," he said, "and scalded my leg."
    His father seemed not to have heard what he said. "Why are you in your office?" he asked. "You're