by Unknown
Hanzell nodded. Wallander stared at the tray of biscuits.
“Many of my former colleagues thought differently,” Hanzell said, “but for me, the mercenaries were despicable. They killed for money, even if they claimed they were fighting for an ideal: for freedom, against communism. But the truth was something else. They killed indiscriminately, and they took orders from whoever was paying the most at that moment.”
“A mercenary must have had considerable difficulty returning to normal life,” Wallander said.
“Many of them never managed to. They turned into shadows, on the periphery of society. Often they drank themselves to death. Many were probably mentally unbalanced to start with.”
“How do you mean?”
Hanzell’s reply was forthright.
“Sadists and psychopaths.”
CHAPTER 15
Wallander stayed in Nybrostrand until late in the afternoon. He had left the house at 1 p.m., but when he came out into the autumn air, he felt at a total loss. Instead of returning to Ystad he drove down to the sea. A walk might help him think. But when he got down to the beach and felt the biting wind, he changed his mind and went back to the car. He sat in the front on the passenger side and leaned the seat back as far as it would go. Then he closed his eyes and started going over everything that had taken place since the morning when Sven Tyrén had come into his office and reported Holger Eriksson missing.
Wallander tried to map out the sequence of events. Of all the things he had learned from Rydberg over the years, one of the most important was that the events that occurred first were not necessarily the first in the chain of causality. Eriksson and Runfeldt had both been killed, but were their murders acts of revenge? Or was it a crime committed for gain, even though he couldn’t see what kind of gain that might be?
He opened his eyes and looked at a tattered string of flags whipping in the stiff breeze. Eriksson had been impaled in a pit full of sharpened stakes. Runfeldt had been held prisoner and then strangled. Why the explicit display of cruelty? And why was Runfeldt held prisoner before he was killed? Wallander tried to go through the basic assumptions that the investigative team had to start with. The killer must have known both victims. He was familiar with Eriksson’s routines. He must have known that Runfeldt was going to Africa. And he wasn’t at all concerned that the dead men would be found. The opposite seemed to be the case.
Why put something on display? he wondered. So that somebody will notice what you’ve done. Did the murderer want other people to see what he had accomplished? If so, what was it he wanted to show? That those two particular men were dead? No, not only that. He also wanted it to be clear that they had been killed in particularly gruesome, premeditated ways.
If that was the case, then the murders of Eriksson and Runfeldt were part of something much bigger. It didn’t necessarily mean that more people would die, but it definitely meant that Eriksson, Runfeldt, and the person who had killed them had to be looked for among a larger group of people. Some type of community – such as a group of mercenaries in a remote African war.
Wallander suddenly wished he had a cigarette. Even though it had been unusually easy for him to quit several years back, there were times when he wished he still smoked. He got out of the car and switched to the back seat. Changing seats was like changing perspective. He soon forgot the cigarettes and went back to what he was thinking about.
The most important thing was to find the connection between Eriksson and Runfeldt. He was convinced that there was one. They needed to know more about the two men. Outwardly they had very little in common. The differences began with their ages. They belonged to different generations. Eriksson could have been Runfeldt’s father. But somewhere there was a point at which their paths crossed. The search for that point had to be the focus of the investigation now. Wallander couldn’t see any other route to take.
His phone rang. It was Höglund.
“Has something happened?” he asked.
“I have to admit I’m calling out of sheer curiosity,” she replied.
“The talk with Captain Hanzell was productive,” Wallander said. “One thing I’ve learned is that Harald Berggren could be living under an assumed name. Mercenaries often use false names when they sign their contracts or make verbal agreements.”
“That’s going to make it harder for us to find him.”
“That was my first thought, too. It’s like dropping the needle back into the haystack. But how many people actually change their names during their lifetimes? Even though it’s going to be a tedious task, it should be possible to check the records.”
“Where are you?”
“At the beach. In Nybrostrand.”
“What are you doing there?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m sitting in the car thinking.” He noticed the sharpness in his voice, as if he felt the need to defend himself. He wondered why.
“Then I won’t bother you,” she said.
“You’re not bothering me. I’m coming back now. I’m thinking of driving past Lödinge on the way.”
“Any special reason?”
“I need to refresh my memory. Later I’m going over to Runfeldt’s flat. I’ll try to be there by 3 p.m. Could you arrange for Vanja Andersson to meet me there?”
“I’ll see to it.”
Wallander drove towards Lödinge. In his mind the investigation had been given a sketchy outline.
When he turned into the driveway to Eriksson’s house, he was surprised to see two cars there. He wondered who the visitors could be. Reporters devoting an autumn day to taking pictures of a murder scene, perhaps? He had his answer as soon as he entered the courtyard. Standing there was a lawyer whom Wallander had met before. There were also two women, one elderly and one about Wallander’s age. The lawyer, whose name was Bjurman, shook hands and said hello.
“I’m overseeing Eriksson’s will,” he said. “We thought the police were finished with their investigations. I called and asked at the police station.”
“We won’t be finished until we catch the killer,” Wallander replied. “But I have nothing against you going through the house.”
Wallander remembered that Bjurman was Eriksson’s executor. The lawyer introduced Wallander to the two women. The older one shook his hand with disdain, as if it was beneath her dignity to have anything to do with the police. Wallander, who was extremely sensitive to people’s snobbery, was instantly annoyed, but he hid his feelings. The other woman was friendly.
“Mrs Mårtensson and Mrs von Fessler are from the Cultural Association in Lund. Mr Eriksson bequeathed most of his estate to the association. He kept a meticulous record of his property. We were just about to start going through everything.”
“Let me know if anything’s missing,” Wallander said. “Otherwise I won’t disturb you. I’m not staying long.”
“Is it true the police haven’t found the murderer?” said Mrs von Fessler, the older woman. Wallander assumed that she meant this as a criticism.
“That’s right,” he said. “The police have not.”
Knowing that he should end the conversation before he got angry, he turned and walked up to the house, where the front door stood open. To insulate himself from the conversation going on out in the courtyard, he shut the door behind him. A mouse raced right by his feet and disappeared behind an old wardrobe that stood against the wall. It’s autumn, thought Wallander. The field mice are making their way into the walls of the house. Winter is on its way.
He went through the house slowly. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular; he just wanted to memorise the house. It took him about 20 minutes. Bjurman and the two women were in one of the other two wings when he came outside again. Wallander decided to leave without saying anything. He looked out towards the fields as he walked to his car. The rooks were gone. Just as he reached the car he halted. Bjurman had said something – at first he couldn’t recall what it was. He retraced his steps. He pushed open the door, and beckoned
to Bjurman.
“What was it you said about the will?” he asked.
“Holger Eriksson bequeathed most of his estate to the Cultural Association in Lund.”
“Most? So not everything is going to it?”
“There’s a bequest of 100,000 kronor to another beneficiary. That’s all.”
“What other beneficiary?”
“A church in Berg parish – Svenstavik Church. A gift, to be used in accordance with the wishes of the church authorities.”
Wallander had never heard of the place.
“Is Svenstavik in Skåne?” he asked dubiously.
“It’s in southern Jämtland,” Bjurman replied. “Near the border of Härjadal.”
“What did Eriksson have to do with Svenstavik?” Wallander asked in surprise. “I thought he was born here in Ystad.”
“Unfortunately I have no information on that,” Bjurman replied. “Mr Eriksson was a very secretive man.”
“Did he give any explanation for the gift?”
“The will is an exemplary document, brief and precise. No explanations of an emotional nature are included. Svenstavik Church, according to his last wish, is to receive 100,000 kronor. And that is what it shall receive.”
When Wallander got back to his car he called the station. Ebba answered. She was the one he wanted to talk to.
“I want you to find the phone number for the parsonage at Svenstavik,” he said. “Or it might be in Östersund. I assume that’s the nearest city.”
“Where is Svenstavik?” she asked.
“Don’t you know?” Wallander said. “It’s in southern Jåmtland.”
“Very funny,” she replied.
“When you get the number, let me know,” he said. “I’m on my way to Runfeldt’s flat now.”
“Chief Holgersson wants to talk to you right away,” Ebba said. “Reporters keep calling here. But she’s postponed the press conference until 6.30 tonight.”
“That suits me,” Wallander said.
“Your sister called, too,” Ebba went on. “She’d like to talk to you before she goes back to Stockholm.”
The reminder of his father’s death was both swift and harsh, but he couldn’t give in to his feelings. At least not right now.
“I’ll call her,” he said. “But the parsonage in Svenstavik is top priority.”
On his way back to Ystad, he stopped and ate a flavourless hamburger at a takeaway restaurant. He was about to get back into his car, but then he turned back and ordered a hot dog. He ate quickly, as if he were committing an illegal act. Then he drove to Västra Vallgatan. Höglund’s old car was parked outside Runfeldt’s building.
The wind was still blowing hard. Wallander was cold. He hunched up his shoulders as he hurried across the street.
It wasn’t Höglund but Svedberg who opened the door to Runfeldt’s flat.
“She had to go home,” said Svedberg. “One of her children is sick. Her car wouldn’t start, so she took mine. But she’ll be back.”
Wallander went into the living room and looked around.
“Is Nyberg finished already?” he asked in surprise.
Svedberg gave him a baffled look.
“Didn’t you hear?” he asked.
“Hear what?”
“About Nyberg’s foot.”
“I haven’t heard a thing,” said Wallander. “What happened?”
“He slipped on some oil outside the station. He fell so hard that he tore a muscle or a tendon in his left foot. He’s at the hospital right now. He called and said he can still work, but he’ll have to use a crutch. He was really pissed off.”
Wallander thought about Tyrén’s truck. He decided not to mention it.
Vanja Andersson arrived. She was very pale. Wallander nodded to Svedberg, who disappeared into Runfeldt’s study. He took her into the living room. She seemed frightened to be in the flat, and hesitated when he invited her to sit down.
“I know this is unpleasant,” he said. “But I wouldn’t have asked you to come here if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”
She nodded. Wallander doubted whether she really understood.
“You’ve been to this flat before,” Wallander said. “And you have a good memory. I know that because you remembered the colour of Mr Runfeldt’s suitcase.”
“Have you found it?” she asked.
Wallander realised that they hadn’t even started looking for it. He excused himself and went to find Svedberg, who was methodically searching the contents of a bookshelf.
“Have you heard anything about Runfeldt’s suitcase?”
“Did he have a suitcase?”
Wallander shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll talk to Nyberg.”
He went back to the living room. Vanja Andersson was sitting uneasily on the sofa. Wallander could see that she wanted to get out as soon as possible. She looked as if she had to force herself to breathe the air in the flat.
“We’ll come back to the suitcase,” he said. “What I’d like to ask you now is to go through the flat and try to see if anything is missing.
She gave him a terrified look.
“How could I tell? I haven’t been here very often.”
“I know,” Wallander said. “But you still might see that something is missing. Right now everything is important, if we’re going to find the person who did this. I’m sure you want that as much as we do.”
She burst into tears. Svedberg appeared in the door. As usual in this kind of situation, Wallander felt helpless. He wondered if new officers were better trained in how to comfort people. He must ask Höglund about it.
Svedberg handed Vanja Andersson a tissue. She stopped crying as suddenly as she had started.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “It’s so difficult.”
“I know,” Wallander said. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I don’t think people cry often enough.”
She looked at him.
“That goes for me too,” Wallander said.
After a brief pause she got up from the sofa. She was ready to begin.
“Take your time,” Wallander told her. “Try to remember how it looked the last time you were here.”
He followed her but kept his distance. When he heard Svedberg cursing in the study, he went in and held a finger to his lips. Svedberg nodded; he understood. Wallander had often thought that significant moments in investigations occurred either during conversations or during periods of absolute silence. He had seen it happen countless times. Right now, silence was essential. He could see that she was really making an effort.
Even so, nothing came of it. They returned to the living room. She shook her head.
“Everything looks the same as usual,” she said. “I can’t see that anything is missing or different.”
Wallander was not surprised. He would have noticed if she had paused during her survey of the flat.
“You haven’t thought of anything else?” he asked.
“I thought he had gone to Nairobi,” she said. “I watered his flowers and took care of the shop.”
“You did both of those things very well,” Wallander said. “Thank you for coming. We’ll be in touch.”
He escorted her to the door. Svedberg reappeared just as she left.
“Nothing seems to be missing,” Wallander said.
“He seems to have been a complicated man,” Svedberg said thoughtfully. “His study is a strange mixture of chaos and order. When it comes to his flowers, there’s perfect order. I never imagined there were so many books about orchids. But when it comes to his personal life, his papers are a big mess. In his account books from the shop for this year, I found a tax return from 1969. By the way, in that year he declared a dizzying income of 30,000 kronor.”
“I wonder how much we made back then,” Wallander said. “Probably not much more than that. Most likely less. I seem to remember that we were getting about 2,000 kronor a month.”
They pondered this until Wallander said, “Let’s kee
p searching.”
Svedberg went back to what he was doing. Wallander stood by the window and looked out over the harbour. The front door opened. It was Höglund. He met her out in the hall.
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“An autumn cold,” she said. “My husband is in what used to be called the East Indies. My neighbour rescued me.”
“I’ve often wondered about that,” said Wallander. “I thought helpful women neighbours became extinct back in the 1950s.”
“That’s probably true. But I’ve been lucky. Mine is in her 50s and has no children. Of course she doesn’t do it for free. And sometimes she says no.”
“Then what do you do?”
She shrugged.
“I improvise. If it’s in the evening I might be able to find a babysitter. Sometimes I wonder myself how I cope, and you know that there are times when I come in late. I don’t think men really understand what a complicated business it is trying to handle your job when you have a sick child.”
“Probably not,” Wallander replied. “Maybe we should see to it that your neighbour gets some kind of medal.”
“She’s been talking about moving,” Höglund said gloomily. “What I’ll do then, I don’t even dare think about.”
“Has Vanja Andersson been here?” Höglund asked.
“Nothing seems to have disappeared from the flat,” Wallander replied. “But she reminded me of something completely different. Runfeldt’s suitcase. I have to admit I forgot all about it.”
“Me too,” she said. “They didn’t find it out in the woods. I talked to Nyberg right before he broke his foot.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Well, it’s badly sprained, anyway.”
“Then he’s going to be in a foul mood for a while. Which is not good at all.”
“I’ll invite him over for dinner,” Höglund said cheerfully. “He likes boiled fish.”
“How do you know that?” Wallander asked in surprise.
“I’ve had him over before,” she replied. “He’s a very nice dinner guest. He talks about all kinds of things, and never about his job.”
Wallander wondered briefly whether he would be considered a nice dinner guest. He knew that he tried not to talk about work. But when was the last time he had been invited somewhere for dinner? It was so long ago that he couldn’t even remember.