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Authors: Henning Mankell
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waste-paper basket.
“Holger Eriksson,” Wallander said. “The man who may have disappeared. Do you remember the oil truck blocking the driveway here? On Tuesday?”
Hansson nodded.
“The driver, Sven Tyrén,” Wallander went on. “You remembered that he’d been mixed up in some assaults?”
“I remember,” Hansson said.
Wallander was concealing his impatience with difficulty.
“He came here to report a missing person. I drove out to the farmhouse where Holger Eriksson lives. I wrote a report. Then I called here yesterday morning and asked the rest of you to take on the case. I considered it serious.”
“It must be lying around here somewhere,” said Martinsson. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
Wallander knew he couldn’t be angry about it.
“Things like this shouldn’t happen, you know,” he said. “But we can blame it on bad timing. I’ll go out to the farm one more time. If he’s not there, we’ll have to start looking for him. I hope we don’t find him dead somewhere, considering we’ve wasted a whole day already.”
“Should we call in a search party?” Martinsson asked.
“Not yet. I’ll go there first. But I’ll let you know what I find.”
Wallander went to his office and looked up the number for O.K. Oil. A girl answered on the first ring. Wallander introduced himself and said he needed to speak to Sven Tyrén.
“He’s out on a delivery,” the girl said. “But he has a phone in the truck.”
Wallander dialled his number. The connection was fuzzy.
“I think you may be right,” Wallander said. “Holger Eriksson is missing.”
“You’re damn right I’m right,” Tyrén shot back. “Did it take you this long to work that one out?”
“Is there anything else you wanted to tell me about?” Wallander asked.
“And what would that be?”
“You know better than I do. Does he have any relatives he visits? Does he ever travel? Who knows him best? Anything that might explain where he’s gone.”
“There isn’t any reasonable explanation,” Tyrén said. “I already told you that. That’s why I went to the police.”
Wallander thought for a moment. There was no reason for Sven Tyrén not to tell the truth.
“Where are you?” Wallander asked.
“I’m on the road from Malmö. I was at the terminal filling up.”
“I’ll drive up to Eriksson’s place. Can you stop off there?”
“I’ll be there within an hour,” Tyrén said. “I have to deliver some oil to a nursing home first. We don’t want the old folks to freeze, do we?”
Wallander left the station. It was drizzling again. He felt ill at ease as he drove out of Ystad. If he hadn’t been sick, the misunderstanding wouldn’t have happened. He was convinced that Tyrén’s concern was warranted. He had already sensed it on Tuesday, and now it was Thursday.
By the time he reached the farmhouse the rain was coming down hard. He pulled on the gumboots he kept in the boot of his car. When he opened the letter box he found a newspaper and a few letters. He went into the courtyard and rang the bell, then used the spare keys to open the door. He tried to sense whether anyone else had been there. But everything was just as he had left it. The binocular case in the hall was still empty. The lone sheet of paper lay on the desk.
Wallander went out to the courtyard, and stood pondering an empty kennel. A flock of rooks cawed out in the fields. A dead hare, he thought absently. He got his torch out of the car and began a methodical search of the entire house. Eriksson had kept everything tidy. Wallander stood and admired an old, well-polished Harley-Davidson in part of one wing that served as a garage and workshop. Then he heard a truck coming down the road, and went out to greet Sven Tyrén.
“He’s not here,” he said.
Wallander took Tyrén to the kitchen and told him that he wanted to take a statement.
“I have nothing more to say,” said Tyrén belligerently. “Wouldn’t it be better if you
“Holger Eriksson,” Wallander said. “The man who may have disappeared. Do you remember the oil truck blocking the driveway here? On Tuesday?”
Hansson nodded.
“The driver, Sven Tyrén,” Wallander went on. “You remembered that he’d been mixed up in some assaults?”
“I remember,” Hansson said.
Wallander was concealing his impatience with difficulty.
“He came here to report a missing person. I drove out to the farmhouse where Holger Eriksson lives. I wrote a report. Then I called here yesterday morning and asked the rest of you to take on the case. I considered it serious.”
“It must be lying around here somewhere,” said Martinsson. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
Wallander knew he couldn’t be angry about it.
“Things like this shouldn’t happen, you know,” he said. “But we can blame it on bad timing. I’ll go out to the farm one more time. If he’s not there, we’ll have to start looking for him. I hope we don’t find him dead somewhere, considering we’ve wasted a whole day already.”
“Should we call in a search party?” Martinsson asked.
“Not yet. I’ll go there first. But I’ll let you know what I find.”
Wallander went to his office and looked up the number for O.K. Oil. A girl answered on the first ring. Wallander introduced himself and said he needed to speak to Sven Tyrén.
“He’s out on a delivery,” the girl said. “But he has a phone in the truck.”
Wallander dialled his number. The connection was fuzzy.
“I think you may be right,” Wallander said. “Holger Eriksson is missing.”
“You’re damn right I’m right,” Tyrén shot back. “Did it take you this long to work that one out?”
“Is there anything else you wanted to tell me about?” Wallander asked.
“And what would that be?”
“You know better than I do. Does he have any relatives he visits? Does he ever travel? Who knows him best? Anything that might explain where he’s gone.”
“There isn’t any reasonable explanation,” Tyrén said. “I already told you that. That’s why I went to the police.”
Wallander thought for a moment. There was no reason for Sven Tyrén not to tell the truth.
“Where are you?” Wallander asked.
“I’m on the road from Malmö. I was at the terminal filling up.”
“I’ll drive up to Eriksson’s place. Can you stop off there?”
“I’ll be there within an hour,” Tyrén said. “I have to deliver some oil to a nursing home first. We don’t want the old folks to freeze, do we?”
Wallander left the station. It was drizzling again. He felt ill at ease as he drove out of Ystad. If he hadn’t been sick, the misunderstanding wouldn’t have happened. He was convinced that Tyrén’s concern was warranted. He had already sensed it on Tuesday, and now it was Thursday.
By the time he reached the farmhouse the rain was coming down hard. He pulled on the gumboots he kept in the boot of his car. When he opened the letter box he found a newspaper and a few letters. He went into the courtyard and rang the bell, then used the spare keys to open the door. He tried to sense whether anyone else had been there. But everything was just as he had left it. The binocular case in the hall was still empty. The lone sheet of paper lay on the desk.
Wallander went out to the courtyard, and stood pondering an empty kennel. A flock of rooks cawed out in the fields. A dead hare, he thought absently. He got his torch out of the car and began a methodical search of the entire house. Eriksson had kept everything tidy. Wallander stood and admired an old, well-polished Harley-Davidson in part of one wing that served as a garage and workshop. Then he heard a truck coming down the road, and went out to greet Sven Tyrén.
“He’s not here,” he said.
Wallander took Tyrén to the kitchen and told him that he wanted to take a statement.
“I have nothing more to say,” said Tyrén belligerently. “Wouldn’t it be better if you
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