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Authors: Henning Mankell
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could get angry. But he tried to calm himself, thinking that at first she would simply be surprised. That could give him the time he needed to say that he was here purely on business. It was not her ex-boyfriend Kurt Wallander who was here, it was the police officer by the same name, the would-be criminal investigator.
The words 'Helena Aronsson, Assistant Clerk', were printed on the door. Wallander drew a deep breath and knocked. He heard her voice and walked in. She had finished her phone call and was sitting at the typewriter. He had been right. She was clearly surprised, not angry.
'You,' she said. 'What are you doing here?'
'I'm here on police business,' Wallander said. 'I thought you might be able to help me.'
She had stood up and was already looking like she was going to ask him to leave.
'I mean it,' Wallander said. 'It's nothing personal, not at all.'
She was still on her guard.
'What would I be able to help you with?'
'May I sit down?'
'Only if it won't take long.'
The same power language as Hemberg, Wallander thought. You're supposed to stand there and feel subordinate, while the person with power remains seated. But he sat down and wondered how he could once have been so in love with the woman on the other side of the desk. Now he could not remember her being anything other than stiff and dismissive.
'I'm fine,' she said. 'So there's no need for you to ask.'
'I'm fine too.'
'What do you want?'
Wallander sighed internally over her rude tone but told her what had happened.
'You work in the shipping industry,' he finished. 'You would know how I could find out what Hålén really did at sea. Which com panies he worked for, which ships.'
'I work with freight,' Helena said. 'We rent vessels or cargo space for
Kockums and Volvo. That's all.'
'There must be someone who knows.'
'Can't the police find this out some other way?'
Wallander had anticipated this question and had thus prepared an answer.
'This case is being handled a little on the side,' he said, 'for reasons that I can't go into.'
He could see that she only partly believed him. But she seemed amused.
'I could ask some of my colleagues,' she said. 'We have an old sea captain. But what do I get in return? If I help you?'
'What would you like?' he asked in return, in as friendly a tone as he could muster.
She shook her head.
'Nothing.'
Wallander stood up.
'I have the same phone number as before,' he said.
'Mine is different,' Helena said. 'And you're not getting it.'
When Wallander was back out on the street he noticed that he was damp with sweat. The meeting with Helena had been more stressful than he had wanted to admit. He ended up standing still, wondering what to do next. If he had had more money he would have gone to
Copenhagen. But he had to remember that he had taken a sick day.
Someone could call him. He shouldn't stay away from home too long.
And also he was finding it increasingly difficult to justify the fact that he was spending so much time on his dead neighbour. He went to a cafe across from the Denmark ferries and had the daily special. But before he ordered he checked to see how much money he had. He would have to go to the bank tomorrow. He still had a thousand kronor there.
That would last him for the rest of the month. He ate stew and drank some water.
By one o'clock he was back out on the pavement. New storms were moving in from the south-west. He decided to go home. But when he saw a bus that was going to his father's suburb he took that instead.
If nothing else he could spend a few hours helping his father pack.
There was indescribable chaos in the house. His father was reading an old newspaper, a torn straw hat on his head. He looked up at
Wallander in surprise.
'Have you finished?' he asked.
'Finished with what?'
'Have you come to your senses and finished being a cop?'
'I'm off today,' Wallander said. 'And there's no use bringing up the subject again. We're never going to see eye to eye.'
'I've found a
The words 'Helena Aronsson, Assistant Clerk', were printed on the door. Wallander drew a deep breath and knocked. He heard her voice and walked in. She had finished her phone call and was sitting at the typewriter. He had been right. She was clearly surprised, not angry.
'You,' she said. 'What are you doing here?'
'I'm here on police business,' Wallander said. 'I thought you might be able to help me.'
She had stood up and was already looking like she was going to ask him to leave.
'I mean it,' Wallander said. 'It's nothing personal, not at all.'
She was still on her guard.
'What would I be able to help you with?'
'May I sit down?'
'Only if it won't take long.'
The same power language as Hemberg, Wallander thought. You're supposed to stand there and feel subordinate, while the person with power remains seated. But he sat down and wondered how he could once have been so in love with the woman on the other side of the desk. Now he could not remember her being anything other than stiff and dismissive.
'I'm fine,' she said. 'So there's no need for you to ask.'
'I'm fine too.'
'What do you want?'
Wallander sighed internally over her rude tone but told her what had happened.
'You work in the shipping industry,' he finished. 'You would know how I could find out what Hålén really did at sea. Which com panies he worked for, which ships.'
'I work with freight,' Helena said. 'We rent vessels or cargo space for
Kockums and Volvo. That's all.'
'There must be someone who knows.'
'Can't the police find this out some other way?'
Wallander had anticipated this question and had thus prepared an answer.
'This case is being handled a little on the side,' he said, 'for reasons that I can't go into.'
He could see that she only partly believed him. But she seemed amused.
'I could ask some of my colleagues,' she said. 'We have an old sea captain. But what do I get in return? If I help you?'
'What would you like?' he asked in return, in as friendly a tone as he could muster.
She shook her head.
'Nothing.'
Wallander stood up.
'I have the same phone number as before,' he said.
'Mine is different,' Helena said. 'And you're not getting it.'
When Wallander was back out on the street he noticed that he was damp with sweat. The meeting with Helena had been more stressful than he had wanted to admit. He ended up standing still, wondering what to do next. If he had had more money he would have gone to
Copenhagen. But he had to remember that he had taken a sick day.
Someone could call him. He shouldn't stay away from home too long.
And also he was finding it increasingly difficult to justify the fact that he was spending so much time on his dead neighbour. He went to a cafe across from the Denmark ferries and had the daily special. But before he ordered he checked to see how much money he had. He would have to go to the bank tomorrow. He still had a thousand kronor there.
That would last him for the rest of the month. He ate stew and drank some water.
By one o'clock he was back out on the pavement. New storms were moving in from the south-west. He decided to go home. But when he saw a bus that was going to his father's suburb he took that instead.
If nothing else he could spend a few hours helping his father pack.
There was indescribable chaos in the house. His father was reading an old newspaper, a torn straw hat on his head. He looked up at
Wallander in surprise.
'Have you finished?' he asked.
'Finished with what?'
'Have you come to your senses and finished being a cop?'
'I'm off today,' Wallander said. 'And there's no use bringing up the subject again. We're never going to see eye to eye.'
'I've found a
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