Read Online An Event in Autumn: A Kurt Wallander Mystery by Henning Mankell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Henning Mankell
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answering.
“My mother and father had fallen out. But they didn’t divorce. I don’t know what happened. We lived in a flat in Limhamn for a few years. Then, in the spring of 1945, we moved back to Löderup. They had become reconciled. When she was older, I tried to ask my mother why they had fallen out, but she didn’t want to talk about it. I asked my siblings as well. We don’t think anything special happened. The marriage just suddenly fell apart. My mother moved out and took her children with her. But then they became friends again and remained together until she died. I remember my parents as people wholiked one another. What happened when I was a little girl during the war is now just a vague memory. An unpleasant memory.”
“So your father remained living at the farm in Löderup during those years, did he?”
“He had animals that needed looking after. My elder brother said that he employed two farmhands. One of them came from Denmark, as a refugee. But nobody knows any details. My father wasn’t very talkative.”
Wallander thought for a moment. There was an obvious question to ask.
“So he hadn’t met another woman?”
“No.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I just know.”
“Can you explain in a little more detail?”
“My mother would never have moved back to the house if my father had had a lover. And it wouldn’t have been possible to keep it secret.”
“My experience is that you can have secrets no matter where you live.”
Wallander noticed that Linda raised her eyebrows with interest.
“No doubt you can. But not from my mother. Her intuition was something I’ve never come across in any other person.”
“Apart from me,” said her daughter Lena.
“That’s right. You’ve inherited it from your grandmother. Nobody can hide the truth from you either.”
Kristina Fredberg sounded convincing. Wallander was sure that she was not intentionally trying to conceal anything that could be of value to the police. But could she really be so certain about what her father had been doing when he lived alone at the farm for those three years during the war?
“Those farmhands,” he said. “One came from Denmark, did he? What was his name?”
“Jörgen. I remember that. But he’s dead. He had some illness or other—something to do with his kidneys, I believe. He died in the fifties.”
“But there was a second one?”
“So my brother Ernst maintained. I never heard a name.”
“Perhaps there are pictures? Or records of wage payments?”
“I think my father paid cash in hand. And I’ve never seen any photographs.”
Wallander served himself some more coffee.
“Could the other farmhand have been a woman?” asked Linda suddenly.
As usual Wallander was annoyed when he felt that she was trespassing on his territory. She was welcome to be present and learn a thing or two, but she should avoid taking any initiatives without consulting him first.
“No,” said Kristina Fredberg. “There were no female farmhands in those days. Housekeepers, perhaps; but not farmhands. I’m absolutely convinced that my father did not have an affair with any other woman. I don’t know who it is lying buried in the garden. The very thought makes me shudder. But I’m sure my father had nothing to do with what happened. Even if he lived there at the time.”
“Why are you so sure? Please forgive me for asking the question.”
“My father was a friendly, peaceful man. He never touched another person. I can’t remember him ever smacking one of my brothers. He simply lacked the ability to get angry. Surely you must have a streak of uncontrolled fury in order to kill another human being? I think so in any case.”
For now, Wallander had only one question left to ask.
“Your brothers and sister are dead—but is there anybody else you think I ought to talk to? Somebody who might have some memory of this?”
“It’s all so long ago. Everybody from my parents’ generation died ages ago.
“My mother and father had fallen out. But they didn’t divorce. I don’t know what happened. We lived in a flat in Limhamn for a few years. Then, in the spring of 1945, we moved back to Löderup. They had become reconciled. When she was older, I tried to ask my mother why they had fallen out, but she didn’t want to talk about it. I asked my siblings as well. We don’t think anything special happened. The marriage just suddenly fell apart. My mother moved out and took her children with her. But then they became friends again and remained together until she died. I remember my parents as people wholiked one another. What happened when I was a little girl during the war is now just a vague memory. An unpleasant memory.”
“So your father remained living at the farm in Löderup during those years, did he?”
“He had animals that needed looking after. My elder brother said that he employed two farmhands. One of them came from Denmark, as a refugee. But nobody knows any details. My father wasn’t very talkative.”
Wallander thought for a moment. There was an obvious question to ask.
“So he hadn’t met another woman?”
“No.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I just know.”
“Can you explain in a little more detail?”
“My mother would never have moved back to the house if my father had had a lover. And it wouldn’t have been possible to keep it secret.”
“My experience is that you can have secrets no matter where you live.”
Wallander noticed that Linda raised her eyebrows with interest.
“No doubt you can. But not from my mother. Her intuition was something I’ve never come across in any other person.”
“Apart from me,” said her daughter Lena.
“That’s right. You’ve inherited it from your grandmother. Nobody can hide the truth from you either.”
Kristina Fredberg sounded convincing. Wallander was sure that she was not intentionally trying to conceal anything that could be of value to the police. But could she really be so certain about what her father had been doing when he lived alone at the farm for those three years during the war?
“Those farmhands,” he said. “One came from Denmark, did he? What was his name?”
“Jörgen. I remember that. But he’s dead. He had some illness or other—something to do with his kidneys, I believe. He died in the fifties.”
“But there was a second one?”
“So my brother Ernst maintained. I never heard a name.”
“Perhaps there are pictures? Or records of wage payments?”
“I think my father paid cash in hand. And I’ve never seen any photographs.”
Wallander served himself some more coffee.
“Could the other farmhand have been a woman?” asked Linda suddenly.
As usual Wallander was annoyed when he felt that she was trespassing on his territory. She was welcome to be present and learn a thing or two, but she should avoid taking any initiatives without consulting him first.
“No,” said Kristina Fredberg. “There were no female farmhands in those days. Housekeepers, perhaps; but not farmhands. I’m absolutely convinced that my father did not have an affair with any other woman. I don’t know who it is lying buried in the garden. The very thought makes me shudder. But I’m sure my father had nothing to do with what happened. Even if he lived there at the time.”
“Why are you so sure? Please forgive me for asking the question.”
“My father was a friendly, peaceful man. He never touched another person. I can’t remember him ever smacking one of my brothers. He simply lacked the ability to get angry. Surely you must have a streak of uncontrolled fury in order to kill another human being? I think so in any case.”
For now, Wallander had only one question left to ask.
“Your brothers and sister are dead—but is there anybody else you think I ought to talk to? Somebody who might have some memory of this?”
“It’s all so long ago. Everybody from my parents’ generation died ages ago.
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