The Fifth Woman

by Unknown

  Hansson followed him out to the hall. “Private detective? Is that some sort of joke?”

  “No,” Wallander said. “We found a secret office that belonged to Runfeldt. You’ll hear more about it later.”

  Hansson nodded. “Ture Sventon wasn’t a comic book character,” he said. “He was in a series of mystery novels.”

  But Wallander had already left. He got a cup of coffee and closed the door to his office. The phone rang. He hung it up without answering. He was dying to get out of that press conference. He had too many other things to think about. With a grimace he pulled over a notebook and wrote down the most important things to tell the press.

  He leaned back and looked out the window. The wind was howling.

  If the killer speaks a language, than we can attempt to answer him, he thought. If it’s the way I think it is, he wants to show other people what he’s doing. So we have to acknowledge that we’ve seen, but that we haven’t let ourselves be scared off.

  He made some more notes. Then he got up and went into Chief Holgersson’s office. He told her what he had been thinking. She listened carefully and agreed that they would do as he suggested.

  The press conference was held in the largest conference room in the station. Wallander felt as though he’d been dragged back to last summer, and that tumultuous press conference that he had stormed out of in a rage. He recognised many of the same faces.

  “I’m glad you’re handling this,” Chief Holgersson whispered. “I’ll make the opening remarks. The rest is yours.”

  They went up to the dais at one end of the room. Lisa Holgersson welcomed everyone and then handed over to Wallander, who could already feel himself starting to sweat.

  He gave a thorough description of the murders of Holger Eriksson and Gösta Runfeldt. He told them that these were among the most savage crimes he and his colleagues had ever investigated. The only significant information he held back was the discovery that Runfeldt had probably worked as a private detective. He also didn’t mention that they were looking for a man who had once been a mercenary in a remote African war and called himself Harald Berggren.

  Instead he said something completely different, something that he and Lisa Holgersson had agreed on. He said that the police had some clear leads to follow. He couldn’t go into details at this time, but there were clues and indications. The police were on a specific track that they couldn’t talk about yet, for reasons crucial to the investigation.

  He’d had this idea when it had seemed to him that the investigation had been shaken up. Movement deep down inside, almost impossible to register, but there nevertheless. The thought that came to him was quite simple. When there is an earthquake, people flee from the epicentre in a hurry. The killer wanted the world to see that the murders were sadistic and well planned. The investigators could confirm that they were aware of this, but they could also give a more detailed answer. They had seen more than what may have been intended.

  Wallander wanted to get the killer moving. A person in motion was easier to see than one who kept still and hid in his own shadow. Wallander realised that the whole tactic could backfire. The killer might make himself invisible, but it was worth a try.

  He had also received Chief Holgersson’s permission to say something that was not altogether true. They had no leads. All they had were unrelated fragments.

  When Wallander finished, the questions began. He was ready for most of them. He had heard and replied to them before, and he would keep on hearing them as long as he was a policeman.

  Not until it was almost over, when Wallander had started to grow impatient and Chief Holgersson had signalled to him to wind it up, did everything turn in another direction. The man who raised his hand and then stood up had been sitting far back in a corner. Wallander didn’t see him and was just about to adjourn the conference when Holgersson drew his attention to the fact that there was one more question.

  “I’m from the Anmärkaren,” the man said. “I have a question.”

  Wallander searched his memory. He’d never heard of a magazine called the Anmärkaren. His impatience was growing.

  “What magazine did you say you were from?”

  “The Anmärkaren.”

  “I have to admit that I’ve never heard of your magazine, but what’s the question?”

  “The Anmärkaren has roots that go way back,” the man replied, unfazed. “There was a magazine in the early 19th century with that name. A magazine of social criticism. We plan to publish our first issue shortly.”

  “One question,” Wallander said. “When you come out with the first issue I’ll answer two questions.”

  There was tittering in the room. The man had the air of a preacher about him. Wallander wondered whether the Anmärkaren might be religious. Or pseudo-religious, he thought. New-age spirituality has finally reached Ystad. The southern plain of Sweden has been conquered, and Österlen is all that’s left.

  “What do the Ystad police think about the fact that the residents of Lödinge have decided to set up a citizen militia?” asked the man in the corner.

  Wallander couldn’t see his face clearly.

  “I haven’t heard that the people of Lödinge have considered committing any collective stupidities,” Wallander replied.

  “Not only in Lödinge,” the man continued calmly. “There are plans to start a people’s movement across the whole country. An umbrella organisation for the citizen militia that will protect the populace, which will do everything the police don’t want to do. Or can’t do. One of the starting points will be the Ystad district.”

  There was a sudden silence in the room.

  “And why was Ystad selected for this honour?” asked Wallander. He was still not sure whether to take the man seriously.

  “Within the past few months there have been a large number of brutal murders. The police succeeded in solving the crimes from this summer, but now it seems to have started again. People want to live their lives. The Swedish police have capitulated to the criminal elements that are creeping out of their holes today. That’s why the citizen militia is the only way to solve the problem of security.”

  “It doesn’t solve anything for people to take the law into their own hands,” Wallander replied. “There can only be one response to this from the Ystad police. And it is clear and unequivocal. No-one can misunderstand it. We will regard all private initiatives to establish a citizen militia as illegal, and participants will be prosecuted.”

  “Should I interpret that to mean you are against it?” the man asked.

  Now Wallander could see his pale, emaciated face. He decided to memorise it.

  “Yes,” he said. “You can interpret it this way: we are opposed to any attempt to organise a citizen militia.”

  “Don’t you wonder what the people in Lödinge are going to say about that?”

  “I may wonder, but I’m not afraid of the answer,” he said quickly, and adjourned the press conference.

  “Do you think he was serious?” Chief Holgersson asked when they were alone in the room.

  “Maybe. We should keep an eye on what’s happening in Lödinge. If it’s true that people are starting to demand a citizen militia publicly, then there’s been a change in the situation. And we might have problems.”

  It was 7 p.m. Wallander said goodbye to Holgersson and went back to his office. He sat down in his chair. He needed to think. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had so little time for reflection and summarising during a criminal investigation.

  The phone rang. He picked it up at once. It was Svedberg.

  “How did the press conference go?”

  “A little worse than usual. How’s it going with you two?”

  “I think you ought to come over here. We found a camera with a roll of film in it. Nyberg’s here. We thought we should develop it.”

  “Can we establish that he worked as a private detective?”

  “We think so. But there’s something else too.”
<
br />   Wallander waited tensely for the rest.

  “We think the film contains pictures from his last case.”

  Last, thought Wallander. Not latest.

  “I’m coming,” he said.

  Clouds raced across the sky. As he walked towards his car, he wondered if the migrating birds flew in wind this strong. On the way to Harpegatan he stopped and filled his car with petrol. He felt drained. He wondered when he would have time to look for a house. And think about his father. He wondered when Baiba would come to visit. He looked at his watch. Was it time or his life that was passing? He was too tired to decide which. He started the engine. His watch said 7.40 p.m.

  A few minutes later he parked on Harpegatan and went down to the basement.

  CHAPTER 17

  They watched tensely as the picture began to emerge in the developing bath. Wallander wasn’t sure what he was expecting, or hoping for, as he stood with his colleagues in the darkroom. The red light made him feel as though they were waiting for something indecent to happen. Nyberg was developing the film. He was hobbling around with a crutch, and Höglund had warned that he was in an especially grumpy mood.

  They had made progress while Wallander had been busy with the reporters. There was no doubt that Runfeldt had been working as a private detective. In the various client records they had discovered, they could see that he’d been doing it for at least ten years.

  “His activities were limited,” Höglund said. “He had not more than seven or eight cases a year. It seems as though this was something he did in his spare time.”

  Svedberg had made a swift survey of the types of assignments Runfeldt had taken on.

  “About half the cases have to do with suspected infidelity,” he said. “Strangely enough, his clients were mostly men who suspected their wives.”

  “Why is that strange?” Wallander asked.

  “I just didn’t think it would be that way around,” was all Svedberg said. “But what do I know?”

  Wallander motioned for him to continue.

  “There are about two cases per year in which an employer suspects an employee of embezzling,” Svedberg said. “We’ve also come across a number of surveillance assignments that are rather vague in nature. In general, quite a tedious picture. His notes aren’t particularly extensive. But he was well paid.”

  “So now we know how he could take those expensive holidays,” Wallander said. “It cost him 30,000 kronor for the trip to Nairobi.”

  “He was working on a case when he died,” Höglund said.

  She opened a diary on the desk. Wallander thought about those reading glasses. He didn’t bother to look at it.

  “It seems to have been his usual sort of assignment. Someone referred to only as ‘Mrs Svensson’ suspects her husband of being unfaithful.”

  “Here in Ystad?” Wallander asked. “Did he work in other areas too?”

  “In 1987 he had a case in Markaryd,” Svedberg said. “There’s nothing further north than that. Since then only cases in Skåne. In 1991 he went to Denmark twice and once to Kiel. I haven’t had time to look into the details, but it had something to do with an engineer on a ferry who was having an affair with a waitress who worked on the ferry too. His wife, in Skanör, had suspected him correctly.”

  “But otherwise he only took cases in the Ystad area?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Svedberg replied. “Southern and eastern Skåne is probably closer to the truth.”

  “Holger Eriksson?” Wallander asked. “Have you come across his name?”

  Höglund looked at Svedberg, who shook his head.

  “Harald Berggren?”

  “Not him either.”

  “Have you found anything that might indicate a connection between Eriksson and Runfeldt?”

  Again the answer was negative. It has to be there, thought Wallander. It doesn’t make sense that there would be two different killers. Just as it doesn’t make sense that there would be two random victims. The connection is there. We just haven’t found it yet.

  “I can’t work him out,” Höglund said. “He had a passion for flowers, but he spent his spare time working as a private detective.”

  “People are seldom what you think they are,” Wallander replied, wondering suddenly whether this could be said of him.

  “He seems to have made a bundle from this work,” Svedberg said. “But if I’m not mistaken, he didn’t report any of the income when he filed his tax returns. Could the explanation be that simple? He kept it secret so the tax authorities wouldn’t find out what he was up to?”

  “Hardly,” Wallander said. “In the eyes of most people, being a private detective is a rather shady occupation.”

  “Or childish,” Höglund said. “A game for men who have never grown up.”

  Wallander felt a vague urge to protest. But since he didn’t know what to say, he let it drop.

  Images of a man in his 50s, with thin, closely cropped hair appeared in the developing tray. The photographs had been taken out of doors. None of them could identify the background. Nyberg guessed that the pictures had been taken from a great distance, since some of the negatives were blurry, suggesting that Runfeldt had used a telephoto lens sensitive to the slightest movement.

  “Mrs Svensson contacted him for the first time on 9 September,” Höglund said. “Runfeldt noted that he had ‘worked on the case’ on 14 and 17 September.”

  “That’s only a few days before he was due to leave for Nairobi,” Wallander said.

  They had come out of the darkroom. Nyberg was sitting at the desk, going through a number of files with photographs in them.

  “Who is his client?” Wallander asked. “Mrs Svensson?”

  “His client records and notes are vague,” Svedberg said. “He seems to have been a detective of few words. There isn’t even an address for Mrs Svensson.”

  “How does a private detective find clients?” Höglund asked. “He must advertise his services somehow.”

  “I’ve seen ads in the papers,” Wallander said. “Maybe not in Ystad’s Allehanda, but in national newspapers. It must be possible to track down this Mrs Svensson somehow.”

  “I talked to the porter,” Svedberg said. “He thought Runfeldt just had a storeroom here. He didn’t see anyone come to visit.”

  “So he must have met his clients somewhere else,” Wallander said. “This was the secret room in his life.”

  They mulled this over. Wallander tried to decide what was most important right now, but the press conference was troubling him. The man from the Anmärkaren had upset him. Could it really be true that a national citizen militia was being formed? If it was, then Wallander knew it wouldn’t be long before these people began seeking vengeance. He felt a need to tell Höglund and Svedberg what had happened, but he stopped himself. It was probably better if they discussed it together at the next team meeting. And Chief Holgersson was really the one who should tell them.

  “How can we find Mrs Svensson?” Svedberg asked.

  “We’ll put a tap on the phone and go through all the papers thoroughly,” Wallander said. “We’ll find her somewhere. I’m sure of that. I might leave it to you two, while I go and have a talk with Runfeldt’s son.”

  The town seemed deserted. He parked near the post office, and stepped out into the wind again. He saw himself as a pathetic figure, a police officer in a thin jumper, battling the wind in a desolate Swedish town in the autumn. The Swedish criminal justice system, he thought. Or what’s left of it. This is how it looks. Freezing officers in flimsy jumpers.

  He turned left at the Savings Bank and walked to the Hotel Sekelgården. He checked the son’s name – Bo Runfeldt. Wallander nodded to the young man at the reception desk, and realised that he was the oldest son of Björk their former police chief.

  “It’s been a long time,” Wallander said. “How’s your father?”

  “He’s unhappy in Malmö.”

  He’s not unhappy in Malmö, Wallander thought. He’s unhappy
with his new job.

  “What are you reading?” asked Wallander.

  “About fractals.”

  “Fractals?”

  “It’s a mathematical term. I’m at Lund University. This is just a part-time job.”

  “That sounds good,” Wallander said. “I’m here to talk to one of your guests, Bo Runfeldt.”

  “He just came in.”

  “Is there somewhere that we can sit and talk in private?”

  “We don’t have many guests,” the boy said. “You can sit in the breakfast room.”

  He pointed towards the hall.

  “I’ll wait there,” said Wallander. “Please call his room and tell him that I’m here to see him.”

  “I read the paper,” the boy said. “Why is it that everything is getting so much worse?”

  Wallander looked at him with interest.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Worse. More brutal.”

  “I don’t know,” Wallander replied. “I honestly don’t know why things have got so bad. At the same time, I don’t really believe what I just said. I think I do know. I think everybody knows why things are this way.”

  Björk’s son wanted to continue the discussion, but Wallander raised his hand to cut him off and pointed to the phone. Then he went into the breakfast room and sat down. He thought about the unfinished conversation. He knew quite well what the explanation was. The Sweden that was his, the country he had grown up in, that was built after the war, was not as solid as they had thought. Under the surface was quagmire. Even back then the high-rise buildings that had been erected were described as “inhuman”. How could people who lived there be expected to keep their “humanity”? Society had grown cruel. People who felt they were unwanted or unwelcome in their own country, reacted with aggression. There was no such thing as meaningless violence. Every violent act had a meaning for the person who committed it. Only when you dared accept this truth could you hope to turn society in another direction.

  He also asked himself how it would be possible to be a police officer as things got worse. Many of his colleagues were seriously considering finding other occupations. Martinsson had talked about it, Hansson had mentioned it once. And a few years ago Wallander had cut out an ad for security personnel at a large company in Trelleborg from the paper. He wondered what Ann-Britt thought. She was still young. She could be a police officer for 30 years or more. He would ask her. He needed to know in order to see how he was going to stand it himself.