The Troubled Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

especially on weekday evenings. No more than two or three restaurants or bars would be open. Wallander parked his car and went to a restaurant in the square. It was almost empty. He sat at a corner table, then ordered an appetizer and a bottle of wine. While he was waiting for the food, he gulped down a few glasses. He told himself he was swilling the alcohol in order to put his mind at rest. By the time the food arrived, he was already drunk.
    “The place is dead,” said Wallander. “Where is everybody?”
    The waiter shrugged.
    “Not here, that’s for sure,” he said. “Enjoy your meal.”
    Wallander only picked at the food. He dug out his cell phone and scrolled through the numbers in his address book. He wanted to talk to someone. But who? He put the phone down since he didn’t want anyone to know that he was drunk. The wine bottle was empty, and he had already had more than enough. But even so, he ordered a cup of coffee and a glass of cognac when the waiter came to tell him the place was about to close. He stumbled when he got to his feet. The waiter gave him a tired look.
    “Taxi,” said Wallander.
    The waiter called from the telephone attached to the wall next to the bar. Wallander could feel himself swaying from side to side. The waiter replaced the receiver, and nodded.
    The wind was icy cold when Wallander came out into the street. He sat in the backseat of the taxi and was almost asleep by the time it turned into his driveway. He left his clothes in a pile on the floor, and passed out the moment he lay down.
    ·   ·   ·
    Half an hour after Wallander fell asleep, a man hurried into the police station. He was agitated, and asked to speak to the night duty officer. It happened to be Martinsson.
    The man explained that he was a waiter. Then he put a plastic bag on the table in front of Martinsson. In it was a gun, similar to the one Martinsson had.
    The waiter even knew the name of the customer, since Wallander was well known in town.
    Martinsson filled out a criminal offense form, then sat there for a long time staring at the revolver.
    How on earth could Wallander have forgotten his service weapon? And why had he taken it to the restaurant?
    Martinsson checked the clock: just after midnight. He really should have called Wallander, but he didn’t.
    That conversation could wait until tomorrow. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

3
    When Wallander arrived at the police station the following day, there was a message waiting for him at the front desk, from Martinsson. Wallander swore under his breath. He was hungover and felt awful. If Martinsson wanted to speak to him the moment he arrived, it could mean only that something had happened that required Wallander’s immediate presence. If only it could have waited for a couple of days, he thought. Or at least a few hours. Right now all he wanted to do was to close the door to his office, unplug his phone, and try to get some sleep with his feet on his desk. He took off his jacket, emptied an open bottle of mineral water, then went to see Martinsson, who now had the office that used to be Wallander’s.
    He knocked on the door and went in. The moment he saw Martinsson’s face he realized it was serious. Wallander could always read his mood, which was important since Martinsson swung constantly between energetic exhilaration and glum dejection.
    Wallander sat down in the guest chair.
    “What happened? You only write me notes like that if something important has come up.”
    Martinsson stared at him in surprise.
    “You mean you have no idea what I want to talk to you about?”
    “No. Should I?”
    Martinsson didn’t reply. He merely continued looking at Wallander, who began to feel even worse than he had before.
    “I’m not going to sit here guessing,” he said in the end. “What is it you want?”
    “You still have no idea why I want to talk to you?”
    “No.”
    “That makes things harder.”
    Martinsson opened a drawer, took out Wallander’s