Free An Event in Autumn: A Kurt Wallander Mystery by Henning Mankell

garden as a whole was symmetry: everything was planted in a way that created a pattern. Even though the garden was neglected and very overgrown, he could still see all those patterns. And there was something about the currant bushes that didn’t fit in.
    The bushes were an exception that went against the rule that held sway in the garden as a whole.
    After a few minutes the penny dropped. It wasn’t a pattern that had been broken: it was a pattern that was no longer there. Several currant bushes were in the wrong place, in this garden that was based on a pattern of straight lines.
    He went back and examined the area more closely. There was no doubt about it, some of the bushes were in the wrong place. But as far as he could see the bushes had not been planted at different times—they all seemed to be the same age.
    He thought for a while. The only explanation he could think of was that at some point the bushes had been dug up, and then replanted by somebody with no sense of the garden’s symmetry.
    But then it occurred to him that there might be another explanation. Whoever dug up the bushes and then replanted them might have been in a hurry.
    It was starting to get light now. It was almost eight o’clock. He sat down on one of the moss-covered stone chairs and continued to study the currant bushes. Was he just imagining it all, despite everything?
    After another quarter of an hour he was certain. The haphazard planting of the currant bushes told a story. About somebody who was either careless, or had been in a hurry. Or of course the person might come into both categories.
    He took out his cell phone and rang Nyberg, who had just arrived at the police station.
    “I’m sorry I rang you so late the other day,” said Wallander.
    “If you were really sorry you’d have stopped ages ago ringing me at all hours of the day and night. You’ve frequently rung me at four or five in the morning without having any questions that couldn’t have waited until a decent time of day. I don’t recall you apologizing any of those times.”
    “Perhaps I’ve become a better person.”
    “Don’t talk shit! What do you want?”
    Wallander told him where he was, and about his feeling that something was wrong. Nyberg was a person who would understand the significance of currant bushes planted in the wrong place.
    “I’ll come out there,” said Nyberg when Wallander had finished. “But I’ll be on my own. Do you have a spade in your car?”
    “No. But no doubt there’ll be one in the shed somewhere.”
    “That’s not what I meant. I have my own spade. I just wanted to make sure that you wouldn’t start rooting around yourself before I got there.”
    “I’ll do nothing at all until you arrive.”
    They hung up. Wallander sat in his car, as he was feeling cold. He listened somewhat absentmindedly to the car radio. Somebody was going on about a new infectious disease that they suspected was spread by common ticks.
    He switched off the radio and waited.
    Nineteen minutes later Nyberg turned into the yard. He was wearing Wellington boots, overalls and a strange old hunting hat pulled down over his ears. He took a spade out of the trunk.
    “I suppose we can be pleased that you didn’t stumble over that hand after the frost had made it impossible to dig in the soil.”
    “Surely the ground doesn’t get frozen before Christmas in these parts? If it ever does.”
    Nyberg mumbled something inaudible in response. They went to the spot in question at the back of the house. Wallander could see that Nyberg had understood the significance of his observations about the currant bushes without needing further explanation. Nyberg tested the ground with the edge of his spade, as if he were looking for something.
    “The soil is pretty tightly packed,” he said. “Whichsuggests that it’s been a long time since anybody was digging here. The roots from the bushes bind the soil together.”
    He started digging. Wallander stood to one side,