The Man Who Smiled by Henning Mankell Page B

when it suits him."
    "I understand that he was working," Wallander said. "I was just wondering if there had been some special job, something urgent?"
    "Everything was urgent," she said. "As his father had been killed only a few weeks before, his workload was immense. That's pretty obvious."
    Wallander raised his eyebrows at her choice of words. "You're referring to the car accident, I assume?"
    "What else would I be referring to?"
    "You said his father had been killed. Not that he'd lost his life in an accident."
    "You die or you are killed," she said. "You die in your bed of what is generally called natural causes, but if you die in a car accident, surely you have to accept that you were killed?"
    Wallander nodded slowly. He understood what she meant. Nevertheless, he wondered if she had inadvertently said something that might be along the same lines as the suspicions that had led Sten Torstensson to find him at Skagen.
    A thought struck him. "Can you remember off the top of your head what Mr Torstensson was doing the previous week?" he said. "Tuesday, October 26, and Wednesday, October 27."
    "He was away," she said, without hesitation.
    So, Sten Torstensson had made no secret of his visit, he thought.
    "He said he needed to get away for a couple of days, to shake off all the sorrow he was feeling after the death of his father," she said. "Accordingly, I cancelled his appointments for those two days."
    And then, without warning, she burst into tears. Wallander was at a loss how to react. His chair creaked as he shifted in embarrassment.
    She stood up and hurried out to the kitchen. He could hear her blowing her nose. Then she returned.
    "It's hard," she said. "It's so very hard."
    "I understand."
    "He sent me a postcard," she said with a very faint smile. Wallander was sure she would start crying again at any moment, but she was more self-possessed than he had supposed.
    "Would you like to see it?"
    "Yes, I would," Wallander said.
    She went to a bookshelf on one of the long walls, took a postcard from a porcelain dish and handed it to him.
    "Finland must be a beautiful country," she said. "I have never been there. Have you?"
    Wallander stared at the card in confusion. The picture was of a seascape in evening sunshine.
    "Yes," he said slowly. "I've been to Finland. And as you say, it's very beautiful."
    "Please forgive me for getting upset," she said. "You see, the postcard arrived the day I found him dead."
    Wallander nodded absent-mindedly. It seemed to him there was a lot more he needed to ask Berta Dunér than he had suspected. At the same time, he recognised that this was not the right moment.
    So Torstensson had told his secretary that he had gone to Finland. A postcard had arrived from there, apparently as proof. Who could have sent it? Torstensson was in Jutland.
    "I need to hang on to this card for a couple of days, in connection with the investigation," he said. "You'll get it back. I give you my word." "I understand," she said.
    "Just one more question before I go," Wallander said. "Did you notice anything unusual those last few days before he died?" "In what way unusual?"
    "Did he behave at all differently from normal?" "He was very upset and sad about the death of his father." "Of course, but no other reason for anxiety?" Wallander could hear how awkward the question sounded, but he waited for her answer.
    "No," she said. "He was the same as usual."
    Wallander got to his feet. "I'm sure I'll need to talk to you again," he said.
    She did not get up from the sofa. "Who could have done such a horrible thing?" she asked. "Walk in through the door, shoot a man and then walk out again, as if nothing had happened?"
    "That's what we're going to find out," Wallander said. "I suppose you don't know if he had any enemies?"
    "Enemies? How could he have had enemies?"
    Wallander paused a moment, then asked one last question. "What do you yourself think happened?"
    "There was a time when you could understand things, even things