One Step Behind

"My son is convinced that he wants to be a policeman too," Martinsson said after a while. "He asks me what it's like. I never know what to say."

"Send him to me," Wallander said. "I'll have a talk with him."

"He's eleven."

"That's a good age."

"All right, I'll send him."

Wallander took advantage of the shift in their conversation to return to the matter at hand.

"How much did the Werners know about the photo session?"

"Nothing more than the time."

Wallander let his hands fall onto the table.

"Then we have a breakthrough. Tell everyone I want a meeting at 3 p.m. this afternoon."

Martinsson nodded and got ready to leave. He turned when he reached the door.

"Do you mean what you said about talking to my son?"

"I'll do it the moment all this is over," Wallander said. "I'll answer all his questions and even let him try on my policeman's cap."

"You have one of those?" Martinsson asked with surprise.

"Somewhere. I just have to find it."

Wallander went to the meeting that afternoon with the feeling that he was going to end up having another confrontation with Thurnberg. Apart from the unfortunate incident in Nybrostrand, there had been no further contact. Wallander was still unsure what would come of the charges the jogger had filed against him. Although Thurnberg hadn't said anything about it, Wallander felt that there was an ongoing war between them.

After the meeting, he realised he was wrong. Thurnberg surprised him by offering support when the others faltered or started to disagree. Whenever he made a comment, it was short and to the point. Perhaps Wallander had been too quick to judge him. Was Thurnberg's arrogance just a bluff, perhaps a sign of insecurity?

Wallander paused for a moment as they were getting ready to leave, wondering if he should say something to Thurnberg. But he couldn't think of anything.

It was now 4.30 p.m. In two hours, Haag's assistant would be arriving at the airport. Wallander tried to call Birch, but there was no answer. He decided to do something he had never done before. He had an old alarm clock in his desk drawer, and he got it out and set it. He locked the door of his office, stretched out on the floor, and pushed an old briefcase under his head for a pillow. Someone knocked on the door right before he fell asleep, but he didn't answer. If he was going to have the energy to keep working, he would need an hour of sleep.

A rapid succession of disjointed images passed before him. A glimpse of his father, the smell of turpentine, the holiday in Rome. Suddenly Martinsson was there, standing at the foot of the Spanish Steps. He looked like a small child. Wallander called out to him, but Martinsson couldn't hear him. Then the dream was gone.

It took some effort to get to his feet. His joints cracked as he walked to the men's room. He hated this crippling fatigue. It was getting harder and harder to bear as he got older. He splashed cold water on his face and took a long leak. He avoided looking at his face in the mirror. He reached Sturup Airport at 6.45 p.m. When he entered the arrivals area, he spotted Birch's imposing figure almost immediately. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. When he saw Wallander, his sombre face broke into a wide smile.

"You're here as well?"

"I thought you wouldn't mind the company."

"Let's go and grab a cup of coffee. Her plane's not due in for a while."

As they stood in line at the cafeteria, Birch told him he hadn't found the envelope Wallander was hoping for. "But I did talk to one of our forensic technicians," Birch said, as he helped himself to a piece of cake and a Danish pastry, "and he told me I'd never be able to tell if a letter had been opened and resealed. There have been new advances in this area, it seems. No more steam, like in the old days."

"I need that envelope," Wallander said. He forced himself not to follow Birch's example and kept to a cup of coffee. They walked over to the gate. Birch wiped crumbs from his mouth.

"I'm not sure I understand the relevance of the envelope. Of course, I'm also wondering why you decided to come out here. Maria Hjortberg must be important."

Wallander began to tell him about the latest developments as passengers started to stream in from the plane. Birch surprised Wallander by pulling a piece of paper from his coat pocket with Maria Hjortberg's name on it. He walked out into the middle of the gate area and held it up, while Wallander watched from the side.

Maria Hjortberg was a very beautiful woman, with intense dark eyes and long dark hair. She had a rucksack slung over one shoulder. She probably still didn't know that Rolf Haag was dead, but Birch was already telling her. She shook her head in disbelief. Birch took her rucksack, then led her over to Wallander and introduced him.

"Is anyone coming to pick you up?" Birch asked.

"I was going to take the bus."

"Then we'll give you a ride. Unfortunately we have some questions to ask you and they can't wait. But we can do this either at the police station or the studio."

"Is it really true?" she asked in a dazed voice. "Is Rolf really dead?"

"Yes. I'm sorry," Birch said. He asked her if she had more luggage, but she didn't. "How long have you worked as his assistant?"

"Not very long. Since April."

Her answer came as a relief to Wallander. Her grief wouldn't be too intense – unless, of course, she had been in a relationship with him. She told Birch that she preferred to speak to them at the studio.

"You take her in your car," Wallander said to Birch. "I have some phone calls to make."

Two hours later it became clear that Maria Hjortberg didn't have any crucial information to give them. She hadn't even known about Rolf Haag's photo session at Nybrostrand. He had told her that he would be attending a wedding on Saturday, but she had thought it was a personal invitation, not a job. She had never heard of Malin Skander or Torbjörn Werner. They had a calendar in the office where they noted their appointments, but there was nothing down for Saturday, August 17. When Birch showed her the letter he had found, she merely shook her head.

"He opened all the post," she said. "I helped him with the photo sessions, that was all."

"Who else could have seen this letter?" Wallander asked. "Who else has access to this studio? A cleaner?"

"We do our own cleaning. And clients didn't go into the office."

"So it was just you and Rolf?"

"Yes, although I was hardly ever here."

"Have there been any burglaries?"

"No."

"I looked for the envelope that this letter came in," Birch said. "I couldn't find it anywhere."

"It must have been thrown away," she said. "Rolf likes to keep things tidy. The rubbish is collected every Monday."

Wallander looked at Birch. There was no reason for her to lie. He didn't think they could get any further.

"How close was your relationship?" he asked.

She understood what he was getting at, but didn't seem to mind. "It was nothing personal," she said. "We worked well together and I learned a lot from him. I'm hoping to set up my own studio one day."

It was over. Birch said he would drive her home while Wallander drove back to Ystad. They parted outside on the street.

"I still don't understand it," she said. "I spent the last two days in an isolated house in an equally isolated forest, and I come back to this."

She began to cry and Birch put an arm around her protectively.

"I'll take her home now," he said. "Will you give me a call later?"

"I'll call you from Ystad," Wallander said. "Where are you going to be?"