Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,16
a year’s sabbatical.”
“What does your wife think about this?”
“That’s why I’m calling. For moral support. I haven’t discussed it with her yet.”
“Is she supposed to go with you?”
“No.”
“Then I suspect she’ll be a little surprised.”
“Have you any idea how I should break it to her?”
“Unfortunately not. But I think you’re doing the right thing. There has to be more to life than putting people in jail.”
“I’ll let you know how it goes.”
They were just about to hang up when Wallander remembered that he had a question.
“Does this mean that Anette Brolin is coming back as your replacement?”
“She’s changed sides; she’s working as a criminal barrister in Stockholm now,” said Åkeson. “Weren’t you a little in love with her?”
“No,” Wallander said. “I was just curious.”
He hung up. He felt a pang of jealousy. He would have liked to travel to Uganda himself, to have a complete change. Nothing could undo the horror of seeing a young person set herself alight. He envied Per Åkeson, who wasn’t going to let his desire to escape stop at mere dreams.
The joy he had felt yesterday was gone. He stood at the window and gazed out at the street. The grass by the old water tower was still green. Wallander thought about the year before, when he had been on sick leave for a long time after he had killed a man. Now he wondered whether he had ever really recovered from that depression. I ought to do something like Åkeson, he thought. There must be a Uganda for me somewhere. For Baiba and me.
He stood by the window for a long time, then went back to his desk and tried to reach his sister. Several times he got a busy signal. He spent the next half hour writing up a report of the events of the night before. Then he called the pathology department in Malmö but couldn’t find a doctor who could tell him anything about the burned corpse.
Just before 9 a.m. he got a cup of coffee and went into one of the conference rooms. Höglund was on the phone, and Martinsson was leafing through a catalogue of garden equipment. Svedberg was in his usual spot, scratching the back of his neck with a pencil. One of the windows was open. Wallander stopped just inside the door with a strong feeling of déjà vu. Martinsson looked up from his catalogue and nodded, Svedberg muttered something unintelligible, while Höglund patiently explained something to one of her children. Hansson came into the room. He had a coffee cup in one hand and a plastic bag with the necklace that had been found in the field in the other.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” asked Hansson.
Wallander felt himself bristle at the question.
“Why do you ask?”
“Have you taken a look in the mirror lately?”
“I didn’t get home until early this morning. I sleep as much as I need to.”
“It’s those football matches,” said Hansson. “They’re on in the middle of the night.”
“I don’t watch them,” said Wallander.
“I thought everyone stayed up to watch.”
“I’m not that interested,” Wallander admitted. “I know it’s unusual, but as far as I know, the chief of the national police hasn’t sent out any instruction that it’s a dereliction of duty not to watch the games.”
“This might be the last time we’ll have a chance to see it,” Hansson said sombrely.
“See what?”
“Sweden playing in the World Cup. I just hope our defence doesn’t go pear-shaped.”
“I see,” Wallander said politely. Höglund was still talking on the phone.
“Ravelli,” Hansson went on, referring to Sweden’s goalkeeper.
Wallander waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.
“What about him?”
“I’m worried about him.”
“Why? Is he sick?”
“I think he’s erratic. He didn’t play well against Cameroon. Kicking the ball out at strange times, odd behaviour in the goal area.”
“Policemen can also be erratic,” said Wallander.
“You can’t really compare them,” said Hansson. “At least we don’t have to make lightning-fast decisions about whether to rush out or stay back on the goal line.”
“Hell, who knows?” said Wallander. “Maybe there’s a similarity between the policeman who rushes to the scene of a crime and the goalie who rushes out on the field.”
Hansson gave him a baffled look. The conversation died. They sat around the table and waited for Höglund to finish her call. Svedberg, who had a hard time accepting female police officers, drummed his pencil on the table in annoyance to let her know they were waiting for her. Soon Wallander would have to tell Svedberg to put a stop to these tiresome