The Troubled Man by Henning Mankell Page A

his fist. The argument ceased abruptly - or maybe they continued arguing in voices so low that he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Before going back to sleep he tried to recall if he and Mona had also had an argument in the hotel when they visited the capital. It happened occasionally that they dredged up pointless trivialities - always trivialities, never anything really serious - that made them angry. Our confrontations were never colourful, he thought, always grey. We were miserable or disappointed, or both at the same time, and we knew it would soon pass. But we would argue nonetheless, and we were both equally stupid and said things we immediately regretted. We used to send whole flocks of birds shooting out of our mouths and never managed to grab them by their wings.
    He fell asleep and dreamed about somebody - Rydberg, perhaps, or possibly his father? - standing in the rain, waiting for him. But he had been delayed, perhaps by his car breaking down, and he knew he would be told off for arriving late.
    After breakfast he sat in the lobby and dialled Sten Nordlander. Wallander began with his home number. No reply. No reply on the mobile either, although he was able to leave a message. He said his name and his business. But what was his business, in fact? Searching for the missing Hakan von Enke was a job for the Stockholm police, not for him. Perhaps he could be regarded as a sort of improvising private detective - a title that had acquired a bad reputation after the murder of Olof Palme.
    His train of thought was interrupted by his mobile phone ringing. It was Sten Nordlander. His voice was rough and deep.
    ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘Both Hakan and Louise have talked about you. Where can I pick you up?’
    Wallander was waiting on the pavement when Sten Nordlander pulled up. His car was a Dodge from the mid-fifties, covered in shiny chrome and with whitewall tyres. No doubt Nordlander had been a sort of Teddy boy in his youth. Even now he was wearing a leather jacket, American-style boots, jeans and a thin vest despite the cold weather. Wallander couldn’t help wondering how on earth von Enke and Nordlander had become such good friends. At first glance he found it impossible to think of two people who seemed more different. But judging by outward appearances was always dangerous. That reminded him of one of Rydberg’s favourite sayings: Outward appearances are something you should nearly always ignore .
    ‘Jump in,’ said Sten Nordlander.
    Wallander didn’t ask where they were going; he merely sank back into the red leather seat that was no doubt authentic. He asked a few polite questions about the car, and received similarly polite answers. Then they sat in silence. Two large dice in woolly material were swinging back and forth in the rear window. Wallander had seen lots of similar cars in his early youth. Behind the wheel were always middle-aged men wearing suits that glistened just as much as the chrome fittings on the cars. They came to buy up his father’s paintings by the dozen, and paid in notes peeled off thick bundles. He used to call them ‘the Silk Knights’. He discovered later they had humiliated his father by paying far too little for his paintings.
    The memory made him feel sad. But it was in the past, impossible to resurrect.
    There were no seat belts in the car. Nordlander saw that Wallander was looking for one.
    ‘This is a classic car,’ he said. ‘It’s excused from the obligatory seat belts.’
    They eventually came to somewhere or other on Varmdo - Wallander had lost his sense of distance and direction long ago. Nordlander pulled up outside a brown-painted building containing a cafe.
    The woman who owns the cafe used to be married to one of Hakan’s and my mutual friends,’ said Nordlander. ‘She’s a widow now. Her name’s Matilda. Her husband, Claes Hornvig, was first officer on a Snake that both Hakan and I worked on.’
    Wallander nodded. He recalled that Hakan