The Man Who Smiled by Henning Mankell Page A
Authors: Henning Mankell
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Mystery & Detective, Mystery, Fiction - Mystery, Police Procedural, Mystery & Detective - Police Procedural
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supposed to be on sick leave."
"Not any more. I've started work again."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"Yesterday?"
Wallander could tell that this conversation was going to be a very long one if he did not manage to cut it short. "I owe you an explanation, I know," he said, "but I just haven't time at the moment. I'll come and see you tomorrow evening, and tell you what's happened."
"I haven't seen you for ages," his father said, and hung up.
Wallander sat for a moment with the receiver in his hand. His father would be 75 next year, and invariably managed to arouse in him contradictory emotions. Their relationship had been complicated for as long as he could remember. Not least on the day he told his father he intended to join the police. More than 25 years had passed since then and the old man never missed an opportunity of criticising that decision. Nevertheless, Wallander had a guilty conscience about the time he devoted to him. The previous year, when he had heard the astonishing news that his father was going to marry a woman 30 years younger than himself, a home help who came to his house three times a week, he had reckoned his father would not lack for company any more. Now, sitting there with the receiver in his hand, he realised that nothing had really changed.
He replaced the receiver, picked up the cup and wiped his trouser leg with a sheet torn from his notepad. Then he remembered he was supposed to get in touch with Åkeson, the prosecutor. Åkeson's secretary put him straight through. Wallander explained that he had been held up and Åkeson suggested a time for the next morning instead.
Wallander went to fetch another cup of coffee. In the corridor he bumped into Höglund carrying a pile of files. "How's it going?" Wallander said.
"Slowly," she said. "And I can't shake off the feeling that there's something fishy about those two dead lawyers."
"That's exactly how I feel," Wallander said. "What makes you think so?”
"I don't know."
"Let's talk about it tomorrow," Wallander said. "Experience tells me you should never underestimate the significance of what you can't put into words, can't put your finger on."
He went back to his office, unhooked the phone and pulled over his notepad. He went back in his mind to the freezing cold beach at Skagen, Sten Torstensson walking towards him out of the fog. That's where this case started for me, he thought. It started while Sten was still alive.
He went over everything he knew about the two solicitors. He was like a soldier cautiously retreating, keeping a close watch to his left and his right. It took him an hour to work his way through every one of the facts he and his colleagues had so far assembled.
What is it I can see and yet do not see? He asked himself this over and over as he sifted through the case notes. But when he tossed aside his pen all he had managed to achieve was a highly decorative and embellished question mark.
Two lawyers dead, he thought. One killed in a strange accident that was in all probability not an accident. Whoever killed Gustaf Torstensson was a cold, calculating murderer. That lone chair leg left in the mud was an uncharacteristic mistake. There's a why and a who, but there may well be something else.
It came to him that there was something he could and should do. He found Mrs Dunér's telephone number in his notes.
"I'm sorry to trouble you," he said. "Inspector Wallander here. I have a question I'd be grateful for an answer to right away."
"I'd be pleased to help if I can," she said.
Two questions in fact, Wallander thought, but I'll save the one about the Asian woman for another time.
"The night Gustaf Torstensson died he had been to Farnholm Castle," he said. "How many people knew he was going to visit his client that evening?"
There was a pause before she replied. Wallander wondered whether that was in order to remember, or to give herself time to think of a suitable answer.
"I knew, of course," she said. "It's possible I
"Not any more. I've started work again."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"Yesterday?"
Wallander could tell that this conversation was going to be a very long one if he did not manage to cut it short. "I owe you an explanation, I know," he said, "but I just haven't time at the moment. I'll come and see you tomorrow evening, and tell you what's happened."
"I haven't seen you for ages," his father said, and hung up.
Wallander sat for a moment with the receiver in his hand. His father would be 75 next year, and invariably managed to arouse in him contradictory emotions. Their relationship had been complicated for as long as he could remember. Not least on the day he told his father he intended to join the police. More than 25 years had passed since then and the old man never missed an opportunity of criticising that decision. Nevertheless, Wallander had a guilty conscience about the time he devoted to him. The previous year, when he had heard the astonishing news that his father was going to marry a woman 30 years younger than himself, a home help who came to his house three times a week, he had reckoned his father would not lack for company any more. Now, sitting there with the receiver in his hand, he realised that nothing had really changed.
He replaced the receiver, picked up the cup and wiped his trouser leg with a sheet torn from his notepad. Then he remembered he was supposed to get in touch with Åkeson, the prosecutor. Åkeson's secretary put him straight through. Wallander explained that he had been held up and Åkeson suggested a time for the next morning instead.
Wallander went to fetch another cup of coffee. In the corridor he bumped into Höglund carrying a pile of files. "How's it going?" Wallander said.
"Slowly," she said. "And I can't shake off the feeling that there's something fishy about those two dead lawyers."
"That's exactly how I feel," Wallander said. "What makes you think so?”
"I don't know."
"Let's talk about it tomorrow," Wallander said. "Experience tells me you should never underestimate the significance of what you can't put into words, can't put your finger on."
He went back to his office, unhooked the phone and pulled over his notepad. He went back in his mind to the freezing cold beach at Skagen, Sten Torstensson walking towards him out of the fog. That's where this case started for me, he thought. It started while Sten was still alive.
He went over everything he knew about the two solicitors. He was like a soldier cautiously retreating, keeping a close watch to his left and his right. It took him an hour to work his way through every one of the facts he and his colleagues had so far assembled.
What is it I can see and yet do not see? He asked himself this over and over as he sifted through the case notes. But when he tossed aside his pen all he had managed to achieve was a highly decorative and embellished question mark.
Two lawyers dead, he thought. One killed in a strange accident that was in all probability not an accident. Whoever killed Gustaf Torstensson was a cold, calculating murderer. That lone chair leg left in the mud was an uncharacteristic mistake. There's a why and a who, but there may well be something else.
It came to him that there was something he could and should do. He found Mrs Dunér's telephone number in his notes.
"I'm sorry to trouble you," he said. "Inspector Wallander here. I have a question I'd be grateful for an answer to right away."
"I'd be pleased to help if I can," she said.
Two questions in fact, Wallander thought, but I'll save the one about the Asian woman for another time.
"The night Gustaf Torstensson died he had been to Farnholm Castle," he said. "How many people knew he was going to visit his client that evening?"
There was a pause before she replied. Wallander wondered whether that was in order to remember, or to give herself time to think of a suitable answer.
"I knew, of course," she said. "It's possible I
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