Read Online The Man Who Smiled by Henning Mankell - Free Book Online
Authors: Henning Mankell
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Mystery & Detective, Mystery, Fiction - Mystery, Police Procedural, Mystery & Detective - Police Procedural
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that seemed incomprehensible," she said. "Not now, though. It's just not possible in this country nowadays."
Wallander put on his jacket, which was still wet and heavy. He paused when he went out into the street. He thought about a slogan going the rounds at the time he graduated from Police Training College, sentiments he had adopted as his own. "There's a time for life, and a time for death."
He also thought about what Mrs Dunér had said as he was leaving. He felt that she had said something significant about Sweden, something he ought to come back to. But for now he banished her words to the back of his mind.
I must try to understand the minds of the dead, he thought. A postcard from Finland, postmarked the day when Torstensson was drinking coffee with me in Skagen, makes it clear that he wasn't telling the truth.
Not the whole truth, at least. A person can't lie without being aware of it.
He got into his car and tried to make up his mind what to do. For himself, what he wanted most of all was to go back to his flat in Mariagatan, and lie down on the bed with the curtains drawn. As a police officer, however, he must think otherwise.
He checked his watch: 1.45 p.m. He would have to be back at the station by 4.00 at the latest, for the meeting of the investigation team. He thought for a moment before deciding. He started the engine, turned into Hamngatan and bore left to emerge on to the Osterleden highway again. He continued along the Malmö road until he came to the turning off to Bjäresjö. The rain had become drizzle, but the wind was gusting. A few kilometres further on he left the main road and stopped outside a fenced-in yard with a rusty sign announcing that this was Niklasson's Scrapyard. The gates were open so he drove in among the skeletons of cars piled on top of each other. He wondered how many times he had been to the scrapyard in his life. Over and over again Niklasson had been suspected of receiving, and been prosecuted for the offence on many occasions. He was legendary in the Ystad police force: he had never once been convicted, in spite of overwhelming evidence of his guilt. But in the last resort there had always been one little spanner that had got stuck in the works, and Niklasson had invariably been set free to return to the two caravans welded together that constituted both his home and his office.
Wallander switched off the engine and got out of the car. A grubby-looking cat studied him from the bonnet of an ancient, rusty Peugeot. Niklasson emerged from behind a pile of tyres. He was wearing a dark-coloured overcoat and a filthy hat pulled down over his long hair. Wallander had never seen him in any other attire.
"Kurt Wallander!" Niklasson said with a grin. "Long time no see. Here to arrest me?"
"Should I be?" Wallander said.
Niklasson laughed. "Only you can say," he said.
"You have a car I'd like to take a look at," Wallander said. "A dark blue Opel that used to be owned by Gustaf Torstensson, the solicitor."
"Oh, that one. It's over here," he said, starting in the direction he was pointing. "What do you want to see that for?"
"Because a person in it died when the accident took place."
"People drive like idiots," Niklasson said. "The only thing that surprises me is that more of them aren't killed. Here it is. I haven't started cutting it up yet. It's exactly as it was when they brought it here."
Wallander nodded. "I can manage on my own now," he said.
"I've no doubt you can," Niklasson said. "Incidentally, I've always wondered what it feels like, killing somebody."
Wallander was put out. "It feels bloody awful," he said. "What did you think it would feel like?"
Niklasson shrugged. "I just wondered."
When he was on his own, Wallander walked round the car twice. He was surprised to see that there was hardly any superficial damage. After all, it had gone through a stone wall and then turned over at least twice. He squinted into the driving seat. The car keys were lying on the
Wallander put on his jacket, which was still wet and heavy. He paused when he went out into the street. He thought about a slogan going the rounds at the time he graduated from Police Training College, sentiments he had adopted as his own. "There's a time for life, and a time for death."
He also thought about what Mrs Dunér had said as he was leaving. He felt that she had said something significant about Sweden, something he ought to come back to. But for now he banished her words to the back of his mind.
I must try to understand the minds of the dead, he thought. A postcard from Finland, postmarked the day when Torstensson was drinking coffee with me in Skagen, makes it clear that he wasn't telling the truth.
Not the whole truth, at least. A person can't lie without being aware of it.
He got into his car and tried to make up his mind what to do. For himself, what he wanted most of all was to go back to his flat in Mariagatan, and lie down on the bed with the curtains drawn. As a police officer, however, he must think otherwise.
He checked his watch: 1.45 p.m. He would have to be back at the station by 4.00 at the latest, for the meeting of the investigation team. He thought for a moment before deciding. He started the engine, turned into Hamngatan and bore left to emerge on to the Osterleden highway again. He continued along the Malmö road until he came to the turning off to Bjäresjö. The rain had become drizzle, but the wind was gusting. A few kilometres further on he left the main road and stopped outside a fenced-in yard with a rusty sign announcing that this was Niklasson's Scrapyard. The gates were open so he drove in among the skeletons of cars piled on top of each other. He wondered how many times he had been to the scrapyard in his life. Over and over again Niklasson had been suspected of receiving, and been prosecuted for the offence on many occasions. He was legendary in the Ystad police force: he had never once been convicted, in spite of overwhelming evidence of his guilt. But in the last resort there had always been one little spanner that had got stuck in the works, and Niklasson had invariably been set free to return to the two caravans welded together that constituted both his home and his office.
Wallander switched off the engine and got out of the car. A grubby-looking cat studied him from the bonnet of an ancient, rusty Peugeot. Niklasson emerged from behind a pile of tyres. He was wearing a dark-coloured overcoat and a filthy hat pulled down over his long hair. Wallander had never seen him in any other attire.
"Kurt Wallander!" Niklasson said with a grin. "Long time no see. Here to arrest me?"
"Should I be?" Wallander said.
Niklasson laughed. "Only you can say," he said.
"You have a car I'd like to take a look at," Wallander said. "A dark blue Opel that used to be owned by Gustaf Torstensson, the solicitor."
"Oh, that one. It's over here," he said, starting in the direction he was pointing. "What do you want to see that for?"
"Because a person in it died when the accident took place."
"People drive like idiots," Niklasson said. "The only thing that surprises me is that more of them aren't killed. Here it is. I haven't started cutting it up yet. It's exactly as it was when they brought it here."
Wallander nodded. "I can manage on my own now," he said.
"I've no doubt you can," Niklasson said. "Incidentally, I've always wondered what it feels like, killing somebody."
Wallander was put out. "It feels bloody awful," he said. "What did you think it would feel like?"
Niklasson shrugged. "I just wondered."
When he was on his own, Wallander walked round the car twice. He was surprised to see that there was hardly any superficial damage. After all, it had gone through a stone wall and then turned over at least twice. He squinted into the driving seat. The car keys were lying on the