Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,134

kind of papers from you?”

“Not if she gives you her permission,” said Åkeson. “But you mustn’t put pressure on her.”

“Do I do that?” Wallander asked, surprised. “I didn’t realise.”

“I’m just telling you the rules. That’s all.”

Sjösten had suggested they take a ferry across to Denmark and have dinner, so they could talk, and Wallander had agreed. It was still too early to call Baiba. Maybe not too early for her, but certainly too early for him. It occurred to him that Sjösten, with all his marriages behind him, might be able to give him some advice on how to present his dilemma to Baiba. They took the ferry across the Sound, with Wallander wishing the journey was longer. They had dinner, which Sjösten insisted on paying for. Then they strolled back through Helsingør towards the terminal. Sjösten stopped at a doorway.

“In here lives a man who appreciates Swedes,” he said, smiling.

Wallander read on a brass plate that a doctor had his practice here.

“He writes prescriptions for diet drugs that are banned in Sweden,” said Sjösten. “Every day there’s a long line of overweight Swedes outside.”

They were on their way up the stairs to the terminal when Sjösten’s mobile phone rang. He kept walking as he listened.

“That was Larsson, one of my colleagues. He’s found what may be a real gold mine,” Sjösten said, putting away his phone. “A neighbour of Liljegren’s who saw a number of things.”

“What did he see?”

“Black cars, motorcycles. We’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“We’ll talk to him tonight,” Wallander said. “It’ll only be 10 p.m. by the time we get back to Helsingborg.”

Sjösten nodded without replying. Then he called the station and asked Larsson to meet them at the terminal. The young police officer waiting for them reminded Wallander of Martinsson. They got into his car and drove to Tågaborg. Wallander noticed a banner from the local football team hanging from his rear-view mirror. Larsson filled them in.

“His name is Lennart Heineman, and he’s a retired diplomat,” he said, in a Skåne accent so broad that Wallander had to strain to understand him. “He’s almost 80, but quite sharp. His wife seems to be away. Heineman’s garden is just across from the main entrance to Liljegren’s grounds. He’s observed a number of things.”

“Does he know we’re coming?” asked Sjösten.

“I called,” said Larsson. “He said it was fine. He says he rarely goes to bed before 3 a.m. He told me he was writing a critical study of the Swedish foreign office’s administration.”

Wallander remembered with distaste an officious woman from the foreign office who had visited them in Ystad some years earlier, in connection with the investigation that led him to Latvia to meet Baiba. He tried to think of her name. Something to do with roses. He pushed the thought aside as they pulled up outside Heineman’s house. A police car was parked outside Liljegren’s villa across the street. A tall man with short white hair came walking towards them. He had a firm handshake, and Wallander trusted him instantly. The handsome villa he ushered them into was from the same period as Liljegren’s, but this house had an air of vitality about it, a reflection of the energetic old man who lived there. He asked them to have a seat and offered them a drink. They all declined. Wallander sensed that he was used to receiving people he hadn’t met before.

“Terrible things going on,” said Heineman.

Sjösten gave Wallander an almost imperceptible nod to lead the interview.

“That’s why we couldn’t postpone this conversation until tomorrow,” Wallander replied.

“Why postpone it?” said Heineman. “I’ve never understood why Swedes go to bed so early. The continental habit of taking a siesta is much healthier. If I’d gone to bed early I’d have been dead long ago.”

Wallander pondered Heineman’s strong criticism of Swedish bed-time hours for a moment.

“We’re interested in any observations you may have made of the traffic in and out of Liljegren’s villa,” he said. “But there are some things that are of particular interest to us. Let’s begin by asking about Liljegren’s black Mercedes.”

“He must have had at least two,” said Heineman.

Wallander was surprised at the answer. He hadn’t imagined more than one car, even though Liljegren’s big garage could have held two or three.

“What makes you think he had more than one?”

“I don’t just think so,” said Heineman, “I know. Sometimes two cars left the house at the same time. Or returned at the same time. When Liljegren was away the cars remained here. From my upper