von Enke had referred to that class of submarine.
‘We try to give her business whenever we can. She needs the money. And besides, she serves pretty good coffee.’
The first thing Wallander noticed when he entered the cafe was a periscope standing in the middle of the floor. Nordlander explained which decommissioned submarine it had come from, and it dawned on Wallander that he was in a private museum for submarines.
‘It’s become a habit,’ explained Nordlander. ‘Anyone who ever served on a Swedish submarine makes at least one pilgrimage to Matilda’s cafe. And they always bring something with them - it’s unthinkable not to. Some stolen china, perhaps, or a blanket, or even items from the controls. Bonanza time of course was when submarines were being decommissioned and sent to the scrapyard. Lots of ex-servicemen turned up to collect souvenirs, and there was always somebody determined to find something to grace Matilda’s collection. The money didn’t matter; it was a question of salvaging something from the dead submarine.’
A woman in her twenties emerged from the swinging doors leading into the kitchen.
‘Matilda and Claes’s granddaughter Marie,’ said Nordlander. ‘Matilda still puts in an appearance now and again, but she’s over ninety now. She claims that her mother lived to be a hundred and one and her grandmother a hundred and three.’
‘That’s right,’ said the girl. ‘My mum’s fifty. She says she’s only lived half her life.’
They were served a tray of coffee and pastries. Nordlander also helped himself to a slice of cheesecake. There were a few other customers at other tables, most of them elderly.
‘Former submarine crew?’ Wallander wondered as they made their way to the room furthest away from the street, which was empty.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Nordlander. ‘But I do recognise some of them.’
This room in the heart of the cafe had old uniforms and signal flags hanging from the walls. Wallander had the feeling that he was in a props store for military films. They sat down at a table in the corner. On the wall beside them was a framed black-and-white photograph. Sten Nordlander pointed it out.
‘There you have one of our Sea Snakes. Number two in the second row is me. Number four is Hakan. Claes Hornvig wasn’t with us on that occasion.’
Wallander leaned forward in order to get a better view. It wasn’t easy to distinguish the various faces. Nordlander informed him that the picture had been taken in Karlskrona, just before they had set off on a long trip.
‘I suppose it wasn’t exactly our ideal voyage,’ he said. ‘We were due to go from Karlskrona up to the Kvarken straits, then on to Kalix and back home again. It was November, freezing cold. If I remember correctly there was a storm blowing the whole time. The ship was tossing and turning something awful - the Baltic Sea is so shallow, we could never get down deep enough. The Baltic Sea is nothing more than a pool.’
Nordlander attacked the pastries with eager intent. It didn’t seem to matter what they tasted like. But suddenly he laid down his fork.
‘What happened?’ he said.
‘I know no more than you or Louise.’
Nordlander pushed his coffee cup violently to one side. Wallander could see that he was just as tired as Louise. Someone else who can’t get to sleep, he thought.
‘You know him,’ Wallander said, ‘better than most. Louise said you and Hakan were very close. If that’s the case, then your view of events is more important than most others.’
‘You sound just like the police officer I spoke to in Bergsgatan.’
‘But I am a police officer!’
Sten Nordlander nodded. He was very tense. You could tell how worried he was from his fixed expression and his tight lips.
‘How come you weren’t at his seventy-fifth birthday party?’ Wallander asked.
‘I have a sister who lives in Bergen, in Norway. Her husband died unexpectedly. She needed my help. Besides, I’m not
‘We try to give her business whenever we can. She needs the money. And besides, she serves pretty good coffee.’
The first thing Wallander noticed when he entered the cafe was a periscope standing in the middle of the floor. Nordlander explained which decommissioned submarine it had come from, and it dawned on Wallander that he was in a private museum for submarines.
‘It’s become a habit,’ explained Nordlander. ‘Anyone who ever served on a Swedish submarine makes at least one pilgrimage to Matilda’s cafe. And they always bring something with them - it’s unthinkable not to. Some stolen china, perhaps, or a blanket, or even items from the controls. Bonanza time of course was when submarines were being decommissioned and sent to the scrapyard. Lots of ex-servicemen turned up to collect souvenirs, and there was always somebody determined to find something to grace Matilda’s collection. The money didn’t matter; it was a question of salvaging something from the dead submarine.’
A woman in her twenties emerged from the swinging doors leading into the kitchen.
‘Matilda and Claes’s granddaughter Marie,’ said Nordlander. ‘Matilda still puts in an appearance now and again, but she’s over ninety now. She claims that her mother lived to be a hundred and one and her grandmother a hundred and three.’
‘That’s right,’ said the girl. ‘My mum’s fifty. She says she’s only lived half her life.’
They were served a tray of coffee and pastries. Nordlander also helped himself to a slice of cheesecake. There were a few other customers at other tables, most of them elderly.
‘Former submarine crew?’ Wallander wondered as they made their way to the room furthest away from the street, which was empty.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Nordlander. ‘But I do recognise some of them.’
This room in the heart of the cafe had old uniforms and signal flags hanging from the walls. Wallander had the feeling that he was in a props store for military films. They sat down at a table in the corner. On the wall beside them was a framed black-and-white photograph. Sten Nordlander pointed it out.
‘There you have one of our Sea Snakes. Number two in the second row is me. Number four is Hakan. Claes Hornvig wasn’t with us on that occasion.’
Wallander leaned forward in order to get a better view. It wasn’t easy to distinguish the various faces. Nordlander informed him that the picture had been taken in Karlskrona, just before they had set off on a long trip.
‘I suppose it wasn’t exactly our ideal voyage,’ he said. ‘We were due to go from Karlskrona up to the Kvarken straits, then on to Kalix and back home again. It was November, freezing cold. If I remember correctly there was a storm blowing the whole time. The ship was tossing and turning something awful - the Baltic Sea is so shallow, we could never get down deep enough. The Baltic Sea is nothing more than a pool.’
Nordlander attacked the pastries with eager intent. It didn’t seem to matter what they tasted like. But suddenly he laid down his fork.
‘What happened?’ he said.
‘I know no more than you or Louise.’
Nordlander pushed his coffee cup violently to one side. Wallander could see that he was just as tired as Louise. Someone else who can’t get to sleep, he thought.
‘You know him,’ Wallander said, ‘better than most. Louise said you and Hakan were very close. If that’s the case, then your view of events is more important than most others.’
‘You sound just like the police officer I spoke to in Bergsgatan.’
‘But I am a police officer!’
Sten Nordlander nodded. He was very tense. You could tell how worried he was from his fixed expression and his tight lips.
‘How come you weren’t at his seventy-fifth birthday party?’ Wallander asked.
‘I have a sister who lives in Bergen, in Norway. Her husband died unexpectedly. She needed my help. Besides, I’m not
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