One Step Behind

The phone rang. More reporters, Wallander thought despondently. But it was Sten Widen.

"Where are you?" Widen asked. "I realise you have a lot going on and you have my condolences, but I've been waiting here for a while now."

Wallander swore under his breath. He had completely forgotten his promise to visit Sten Widen at his horse ranch near the castle ruins at Stjärnsund. They had been friends since childhood and shared a passion for opera. As adults, they had started to grow apart. Wallander became a police officer and Sten Widen took over the ranch from his father, where he raised racehorses. A couple of years ago they had started seeing each other again, and they had made plans for this evening. It had totally slipped his mind.

"I should have called you," Wallander said. "I completely forgot."

"They a

"We don't know, it's too early to tell. But the last 24 hours have been horrific."

"We can get together some other time."

Wallander made up his mind. "Give me half an hour."

"Don't feel pressured."

"I don't; I need to get away for a while."

Wallander left the station, went to the flat and picked up his mobile phone, then took the E65 out of town. He saw the castle ruins and slowed down to turn into Widén's ranch. Apart from the neighing of a horse, all was quiet.

Widén came out to greet him. Wallander was used to seeing him in dirty work clothes, but now he was wearing a white shirt and his hair was combed back. As they shook hands Wallander smelt alcohol on his breath. He knew that Widén drank too much, but he had never said anything to him. Somehow it never came up.

"What a beautiful evening," Widen said. "Summer finally arrived in August. Or is it the other way around? August finally arrived with summer. Who really arrives with whom?"

Wallander felt a twinge of jealousy. This was what he had dreamed of, living out in the countryside with a dog and maybe even Baiba. But nothing had come of it.

"How's business?" he asked.

"Not so good. The eighties were the golden decade. Everyone seemed to have plenty of money then. Now they don't. People spend most of their time praying they won't lose their jobs."

"Isn't it just the wealthy who buy racehorses? I didn't think they had to worry about unemployment."

"They're still around," Widen agreed. "But there don't seem to be as many of them as before."

They walked down towards the stables. A girl wearing riding gear appeared around the corner with a horse.

"That's Sofia. She's the only one left. I had to get rid of everyone else," Widen said.

Wallander remembered hearing something a couple of years ago about Widen sleeping with one of the girls working on the ranch. What had her name been? Je

Widen exchanged some words with the girl and Wallander caught the name of the horse, Black Triangle. The outlandish names still surprised him.

They went into the stables.

"This is Dreamgirl Express," Widen said, showing him another horse. "Right now she supports me almost all by herself. Owners complain about the upkeep being expensive, and my accountant keeps calling earlier and earlier in the morning. I really don't know how much longer I can get by."

Wallander stroked the horse's muzzle carefully.

"You've always managed before," he said.

Widen shook his head.

"Right now it doesn't look good," he said. "But I can probably get a good price for the place and then I'll take off."

"Where will you go?"

"I'm just going to pack my bags, get a good night's sleep, and decide in the morning."

They left the stables and walked up to the main house. Wallander remembered it being a huge mess, but surprisingly everything was very neatly arranged this time.

"A couple of months ago I realised that cleaning could be therapeutic," Widen said in answer to Wallander's obvious surprise.

"That doesn't work for me. God knows I've tried."

Widen gestured for him to sit at the table, where he had set out glasses and a couple of bottles. Wallander hesitated, then nodded and sat down. His doctor wouldn't like it but right now he didn't have the energy to abstain.

"Do you remember that time we went to Germany to hear Wagner?" Widen said, much later in the evening. "It's 25 years ago now. I found some photos the other day. Do you want to see them?"

"Sure."

"I treat them like valuables," Widén said. "I've put them in my secret compartment."

Wallander watched as Widen removed part of the wooden panelling next to the window and took out a metal box that had been jammed into the space underneath. The pictures were in the box. Widen held them out to Wallander, who took them, marvelling at what he saw.

One of the pictures was taken at a roadside rest area outside Lübeck. Wallander had a bottle of beer in his hand and was bellowing at the photographer.

"We had a great time," Widen said. "Maybe more fun than we've ever had since."

Wallander poured some more whisky into his glass. Widen was right. They had never had as much fun after that.

Close to 1 a.m., they called a company in Skurup and ordered a taxi. Widen agreed to drive his car in the next day. Wallander already had a headache and felt sick to his stomach. He was very, very tired.

"We should go back to Germany sometime," Widen said as they were waiting for the cab.

"No, we shouldn't go back," Wallander said. "We should take a new trip. Not that I have any property I can sell."

The car came and Wallander got into the back seat, leaned back, and fell asleep immediately.

Just as they passed the turn-off to Rydsgård something pulled him up to the surface again. At first he didn't know what it was. Something had flickered through his mind in the dream he'd been having. But then he remembered what it was: Widen had removed a piece of the wood panelling.

Wallander's mind became crystal clear at once. Svedberg had kept the woman in his life a secret for years. But when Wallander had searched his desk he hadn't found anything except some old letters from his parents. Svedberg must have a secret compartment, Wallander thought. Just like Sten Widen.

He leaned forward to the driver and changed the destination from Mariagatan to the town square. A little after 1.30 a.m. he got out of the cab. He still had the keys to Svedberg's flat in his pocket. He remembered seeing some aspirin in Svedberg's medicine cabinet. He unlocked the front door of the flat, held his breath, and listened. Then he poured himself a glass of water and took the aspirin.

Some drunken teenagers walked by on the street below, and then the silence returned. He put the glass down and started looking for Svedberg's secret compartment. By 2.45 a.m. he had found it. A corner of the plastic flooring under the chest of drawers in the bedroom could be peeled away from the concrete base. Wallander repositioned the bedside lamp so that light fell on the exposed area. There was a brown envelope stuffed in the space under the mat. It wasn't sealed. He took it out into the kitchen and opened it.

Like Widén, Svedberg treated his photographs as valuables. There were two pictures inside the envelope. One was a studio portrait of a woman's face. The other photograph was a snapshot of a group of young people who sat in the shadow of a tree and raised their wineglasses towards an unknown photographer.

The scene was idyllic. There was only one thing that struck Wallander as odd. The young people were dressed in elaborate, old-fashioned costumes, as if the party had taken place in a bygone era.

Wallander put on his glasses. His stomach started to ache. He recalled having seen a magnifying glass in one of Svedberg's drawers, and he got it out and studied the photograph more closely. There was something familiar about these young people, especially the girl who sat on the extreme right. Then he suddenly knew who it was. He had seen another picture of her recently, one in which she was not dressed up. The girl on the far right was Astrid Hillström.