Firewall - By Henning Mankell & Ebba Segerberg Page 0,36
it."
"I already have," Wallander said.
At 7 p.m., Wallander heard a car horn below. From his kitchen window he could see Widén's rusty old van. Wallander tucked the whisky bottle in a plastic bag and went down.
They drove out to the farm. As usual Wallander asked to see the stables first. Many of the stalls were empty. A girl of about 17 was hanging up a saddle when they came in. When she had mucked out they were left alone. Wallander sat on a bale of hay. Widén leaned against a wall.
"I'm leaving," he said. "The stud has been put up for sale."
"Who do you think will buy it?"
"Someone crazy enough to think he'll make money on it."
"Can you get a decent price?"
"No, but it will probably be enough. If I live cheaply I can probably survive on the interest."
Wallander was curious to know how much money was involved, but couldn't think of the right way to ask.
"Have you decided where to go?" he said, instead.
"First I have to sell. Then I'll decide where to go."
Wallander got out the whisky.
"You'll never be able to live without your horses," he said. "What will you do?"
"I don't know."
"You'll drink yourself to death."
"Or else it'll be just the opposite. Maybe that's when I'll be able to kick the habit for good."
They left the stables and walked across the yard to the house. It was a chilly evening. Wallander felt his usual pang of envy. Widén was on his way to an unknown but surely very different future. He, on the other hand, was splashed across the front pages of the paper for assaulting a 14-year-old girl.
Sweden has become a place people try to escape from, he thought. The ones who can afford to. And those who can't afford it join the hordes who scavenge for enough money to leave. How had that happened? What had changed?
They settled down in the untidy living room that also served as an office. Widén poured himself a glass of cognac.
"I've been thinking about becoming a stage technician."
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say. I could go to La Scala in Milan and operate the curtain."
"You don't really think that that's done by hand any more, do you?"
"Well, I'm sure the occasional prop is still moved by hand. Just think about being able to be backstage every night and hear that singing without paying a single cent for it. I would even work for free."
"Is that what you're going to do?"
"No. I have a lot of ideas. Sometimes I even think about heading up to northern Sweden and burying myself in some cold and unpleasant snowdrift. I just don't know. The only thing I know is that the stud is going to be sold and I'll have to go somewhere. What about you?"
Wallander shrugged without answering. He'd had too much to drink. His head was starting to feel heavy.
"Are you still chasing booze smugglers?"
Widén had a teasing tone in his voice. Wallander felt himself get angry.
"Murderers," Wallander said, "people who kill other people by smashing their heads with a hammer. I take it you heard about that taxi driver?"
"No."
"Two girls hit and stabbed a taxi driver to death the other day. They are the kind of people I chase. Not smugglers."
"I don't understand how you can keep at it."
"Neither do I. But someone has to do it, and I probably do it as well as anybody else."
Widén looked smilingly at him. "You don't have to get so defensive. Of course I think you're an excellent policeman. I've always thought so. I just wonder if you're going to make time for anything else in your life."
"I'm not a quitter."
"Like me?"
Wallander didn't answer. He was suddenly aware of the distance between them and wondered how long it had been so without their knowing it. Once upon a time they had been very close. Then they had grown up and gone their separate ways. When they met up years later, they thought they could build on the friendship they had once had. They had never grasped that the continuation of that friendship was utterly different. Only now could Wallander see clearly. Widén had probably come to the same conclusion.
"One of the girls who killed this taxi driver had a stepfather," Wallander said. "Erik Hökberg. Or Eriksson, as we know him."
Widén looked at him with surprise. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. It looks as if the girl has now been murdered herself. I don't have the time to take off, even if I wanted to."