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

criminal investigations—looking for people who might still be alive and could possibly have something of interest to tell them.
    One evening when Wallander returned home with a headache, Linda sat down opposite him at the kitchen table and asked how things were going.
    “We’re not giving up,” he said. “We never give up.”
    She asked no more questions. She knew her father.
    He had said all he had to say.

CHAPTER 17
    The next day, November 29, it was snowing heavily over Skåne. A storm was blowing in from the west, and flights were disrupted at Sturup airport for several hours. Lots of cars skidded off the road between Malmö and Ystad. But after a few hours, the strong wind suddenly dropped, it became warmer, and it began to rain.
    Wallander stood at his window in the police station, gazing out over the road and noting how the snow suddenly became rain. The telephone rang. As usual he gave a start. He answered it.
    “It’s Simon,” said a voice.
    “Simon?”
    “Simon Larsson. Once upon a time we used to be colleagues.”
    Wallander thought at first that he had misunderstood what had been said. Simon Larsson had been a police officer when Wallander had come to Ystad from Malmö. That was a long time ago. Simon Larsson had been old even then. Two years after Wallander’s arrival in Ystad Larsson had retired and been formally thanked at a party hosted by the then chief of police. As far as Wallander was aware, Simon Larsson had never set foot inside the police station since then. He had severed all contact. Wallander had heard a rumor that Larsson had an apple orchard just north of Simrishamn to which he devoted all his time.
    He was surprised to hear that Simon Larsson was evidently still alive. He did the mental arithmetic and concluded that Larsson must now be at least eighty-five.
    “I remember who you are,” said Wallander. “But I must say that this call has come as a surprise.”
    “No doubt you thought I was dead. I sometimes think I am myself.”
    Wallander said nothing.
    “I’ve read about the two people you found,” said Larsson. “I might have something useful to say about it.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “What I say. If you come around to my place, then maybe—but only maybe—I might have something useful to tell you.” Simon Larsson spoke in a clear and lucid voice.
    Wallander made a note of his address. It was a carehome for the elderly just outside Tomelilla. Wallander promised to visit him right away. He stopped in at Martinson’s office but it was empty—his cell phone was lying on his desk. Wallander shrugged and decided to drive out to Tomelilla on his own.
    Simon Larsson seemed to be in a fragile state. He had a wrinkled face and a hearing aid. He opened the door and Wallander entered a pensioner’s apartment that was frightening in its dreariness. It seemed to Wallander that he was entering the hallway of death. The apartment comprised two rooms. Through a half-open door Wallander could see an old woman lying on top of a bed, resting. Hands shaking, Simon Larsson served up coffee. Wallander felt ill at ease. It was as if he were looking at himself at some time in the future. He didn’t like what he saw. He sat down in a worn armchair. A cat immediately jumped up onto his knee. Wallander let it stay there. He preferred dogs, but he had nothing against cats that occasionally expressed an interest in him.
    Simon Larsson sat down on a Windsor chair opposite him.
    “I don’t hear well, but I see well. I suppose it’s a hangover from all my years as a police officer—wanting to see the people I’m talking to.”
    “I have the same problem,” said Wallander. “Or custom, perhaps I ought to say. What was it you wanted to tell me?”
    Simon Larsson took a deep breath, as if he needed to brace himself for what was about to come.
    “I was born in August 1917,” he said. “It was a warm summer, the year before the war ended. In 1937 I started working for the public