Read Online The Man Who Smiled by Henning Mankell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Henning Mankell
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Mystery & Detective, Mystery, Fiction - Mystery, Police Procedural, Mystery & Detective - Police Procedural
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floor next to the accelerator. With some difficulty he managed to open the door, pick up the keys and fit them into the ignition. Sten had been quite right. Neither the keys nor the ignition were damaged. Thinking hard, he walked once more round the car. Then he climbed inside and tried to work out where Gustaf Torstensson had hit his head. He searched thoroughly, without finding a solution. Although there were stains here and there that he supposed must be dried blood, he could not see anywhere where the dead man could have hit the back of his head.
He crawled out of the car again, the keys still in his hand. Without really knowing why, he opened the boot. There were a few old newspapers and the remains of a broken kitchen chair. He remembered the chair leg he had found in the field. He took out one of the newspapers and checked the date. More than six months old. He shut the boot again.
Then it dawned on him what he had seen without it registering. He remembered clearly what it said in Martinsson's report. It had been quite clear on one matter. All the doors apart from the driver's door had been locked, including the boot.
He stood stock-still.
There's a broken chair locked in the boot. A leg from that chair is lying half buried in the mud. A man is dead in the car.
His first reaction was to get angry about the slipshod examination and the unimaginative conclusions reached. Then he remembered that Sten had not found the chair leg either, and hence had not noticed anything odd about the boot.
He walked slowly back to his car.
So Sten had been right. His father had not lost his life in a car accident. Even though he couldn't envisage what, he was certain that something had happened that night in the fog, on that deserted stretch of road. There must have been at least one other person there. But who?
Niklasson emerged from his caravan.
"Can I get you a coffee?" he said.
Wallander shook his head. "Don't touch that car," he said. "We'll need to take another look at it."
"You'd better be careful," Niklasson said. Wallander frowned. "Why?"
"What's his name? The son? Sten Torstensson? He was here and had a look at the car. Now he's dead as well. That's all. I'll say no more."
A thought struck Wallander. "Has anybody else been here and examined the car?" he said.
Niklasson shook his head. "Not a soul."
Wallander drove back to Ystad. He felt tired. He could not work out the significance of what he had discovered. But the bottom line was not in doubt: Sten had been right. The accident was a cover for something entirely different.
It was 4.07 p.m. when Björk closed the meeting-room door. Wallander immediately felt that the mood was half-hearted, uninterested. He could sense that none of his colleagues was going to have anything to report which would have a decisive, not to say a dramatic, effect on the investigation. This is one of those moments in the everyday life of a police officer that inevitably ends up on the cutting-room floor. Nevertheless, it's times like this when nothing's happening, when everybody's tired, maybe even hostile towards one another, that are the foundation on which the course of the investigation is built. We have to tell one another that we do not know anything in order to inspire us to move on.
At that point he made up his mind. Whether it was an attempt to find himself an excuse for returning to duty and asking for his job back he could never afterwards be sure. But that half-hearted atmosphere gave him the inspiration to perform again; it was a background against which he could show that he was still a police officer, despite everything, not a burned-out wreck who ought to have had the wit to fade away in silence.
His train of thought was broken by Björk, who was looking at him expectantly. Wallander shook his head, a barely noticeable gesture. He had nothing to say as yet.
"What have we got to report?" Björk said. "Where do we stand?"
"I've been knocking on doors," Svedberg said.
He crawled out of the car again, the keys still in his hand. Without really knowing why, he opened the boot. There were a few old newspapers and the remains of a broken kitchen chair. He remembered the chair leg he had found in the field. He took out one of the newspapers and checked the date. More than six months old. He shut the boot again.
Then it dawned on him what he had seen without it registering. He remembered clearly what it said in Martinsson's report. It had been quite clear on one matter. All the doors apart from the driver's door had been locked, including the boot.
He stood stock-still.
There's a broken chair locked in the boot. A leg from that chair is lying half buried in the mud. A man is dead in the car.
His first reaction was to get angry about the slipshod examination and the unimaginative conclusions reached. Then he remembered that Sten had not found the chair leg either, and hence had not noticed anything odd about the boot.
He walked slowly back to his car.
So Sten had been right. His father had not lost his life in a car accident. Even though he couldn't envisage what, he was certain that something had happened that night in the fog, on that deserted stretch of road. There must have been at least one other person there. But who?
Niklasson emerged from his caravan.
"Can I get you a coffee?" he said.
Wallander shook his head. "Don't touch that car," he said. "We'll need to take another look at it."
"You'd better be careful," Niklasson said. Wallander frowned. "Why?"
"What's his name? The son? Sten Torstensson? He was here and had a look at the car. Now he's dead as well. That's all. I'll say no more."
A thought struck Wallander. "Has anybody else been here and examined the car?" he said.
Niklasson shook his head. "Not a soul."
Wallander drove back to Ystad. He felt tired. He could not work out the significance of what he had discovered. But the bottom line was not in doubt: Sten had been right. The accident was a cover for something entirely different.
It was 4.07 p.m. when Björk closed the meeting-room door. Wallander immediately felt that the mood was half-hearted, uninterested. He could sense that none of his colleagues was going to have anything to report which would have a decisive, not to say a dramatic, effect on the investigation. This is one of those moments in the everyday life of a police officer that inevitably ends up on the cutting-room floor. Nevertheless, it's times like this when nothing's happening, when everybody's tired, maybe even hostile towards one another, that are the foundation on which the course of the investigation is built. We have to tell one another that we do not know anything in order to inspire us to move on.
At that point he made up his mind. Whether it was an attempt to find himself an excuse for returning to duty and asking for his job back he could never afterwards be sure. But that half-hearted atmosphere gave him the inspiration to perform again; it was a background against which he could show that he was still a police officer, despite everything, not a burned-out wreck who ought to have had the wit to fade away in silence.
His train of thought was broken by Björk, who was looking at him expectantly. Wallander shook his head, a barely noticeable gesture. He had nothing to say as yet.
"What have we got to report?" Björk said. "Where do we stand?"
"I've been knocking on doors," Svedberg said.
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