The Fifth Woman kw-6

by Henning Mankell

  “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 Martensson 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 Skane?” he asked dubiously.

  “It’s in southern Jamtland,” Bjurman replied. “Near the border of Harjadal.”

  “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 Ostersund. I assume that’s the nearest city.”

  “Where is Svenstavik?” she asked.

  “Don’t you know?” Wallander said. “It’s in southern Jamtland.”

  “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 Vastra Vallgatan. Hoglund’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 Hoglund 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 Tyren’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 Hoglund 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 keep 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 Hoglund. 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,” Hoglund said gloomily. “What I’ll do then, I don’t even dare think about.”

  “Has Vanja Andersson been here?” Hoglund 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,” Hoglund 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.

  “Runfeldt’s children have arrived,” Hoglund said. “Hansson is looking after them.”

  They were now in the living room. Wallander looked at the photograph of Runfeldt’s wife.

  “We should find out what happened to her,” he said.

  “She drowned.”

  “I mean the details.”

  “Hansson understands that. He’s usually thorough in his interviews. He’ll ask them about their mother.”

  Wallander knew she was right. Hansson had many bad traits, but one of his best skills was interviewing witnesses. Gathering information. Interviewing parents about their children. Or vice versa, as in this case.

  Wallander told Hoglund about his conversation with Hanzell, skipping a lot of the details. The most important part was his conclusion that Berggren might be living under a different name. He had mentioned it when they had spoken earlier. He noticed that she had been thinking more about this.

  “If he changed his name legally we can track it down through the Registry Office,” she said.

  “A mercenary soldier wouldn’t follow such a formal process,” Wallander objected. “But of course we’ll look into it, like everything else. It’ll be time-consuming.”

  He told her about his meeting with the women from Lund and the lawyer at Eriksson’s farm.

  “My husband and I drove through the interior of Norrland once,” she said. “I have a distinct memory of passing through Svenstavik.”

  “Ebba should have called to give me the number of the parsonage,” Wallander remembered, taking his phone out of his pocket. It was turned off. He cursed his carelessness. Hoglund couldn’t conceal her amusement. Wallander realised he was acting like a child. Embarrassed, he called the police station. He borrowed a pen and wrote down the number. Ebba had tried to reach him several times.

  At that moment, Svedberg came into the living room with a stack of papers in his hand. Wallander saw that they were receipts.

  “This might be something,” Svedberg said. “Runfeldt has a place on Harpegatan. He pays rent once a month. As far as I can tell, he keeps it totally separate from any payments that have to do with the shop.”

  “Harpegatan?” Hoglund asked. “Where’s that?”

  “Over by Nattmanstorg,” Wallander replied. “Right in the centre of town.”

  “Has Vanja Andersson ever mentioned that he had another place?”

  “The question is whether she knew about it,” said Wallander. “I’ll find out right now.”

  Wallander left the flat and walked the short distance to the shop. He bent over and held his breath in the wind. Vanja Andersson was alone. As before, the scent of flowers was strong. A brief feeling of homelessness came over Wallander as he thought about Rome, and his father. But he pushed the thoughts aside. He was a policeman. He would grieve later, not now.

  “I have a question,” he said. “You can probably give me a straight yes-or-no answer.”

  She looked at him with her pale, frightened face. Certain people gave the impression of always being prepared for the worst. Vanja Andersson seemed to be one of those people. Right now he could hardly blame her.

  “Did you know that Mr Runfeldt rented a place on Harpegatan?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Gosta didn’t have any other place but this one.”

  Wallander suddenly felt in a big hurry.

  “That’s all then,” he said. “Thanks.”

  When he go
t back to the flat, Svedberg and Hoglund had gathered all the keys they could find. They took Svedberg’s car to Harpegatan. It was an ordinary block of flats. Runfeldt’s name wasn’t on the list of residents in the entrance.

  “I think it’s in the basement,” said Svedberg.

  They made their way down to the floor below. Wallander noticed the sharp fragrance of winter apples. Svedberg started trying the keys. The twelfth one worked. They went into a hall from which red, steel doors led to what looked like storerooms.

  Hoglund was the one who found it.

  “I think this is it,” she said, pointing to a door.

  Wallander and Svedberg went to stand next to her. On the door there was a sticker with a floral motif.

  “An orchid,” Svedberg said.

  “A secret room,” Wallander replied.

  Svedberg tried the keys again. Wallander noticed that an extra lock was set into the door.

  Finally the first lock clicked. Wallander felt the tension inside him swell. Svedberg kept on trying the keys. He had only two left when he looked at them and nodded.

  “Let’s go in,” Wallander said.

  Svedberg opened the door.

  CHAPTER 16

  The terror sank into Wallander like a claw. When the thought came it was already too late. Svedberg had opened the door. In that brief instant when terror replaced time, Wallander waited for the explosion to come. But all that happened was that Svedberg felt with one hand along the wall and muttered, wondering where the light switch was. Afterwards, Wallander felt embarrassment at his fear. Why would Runfeldt have booby-trapped his cellar?

  Svedberg turned on the light. They entered the room and looked around. Since it was under ground, there was only a thin row of windows along the top of the wall. The first thing Wallander noticed was that the windows had iron gratings on the inside. That was unusual, something Runfeldt must have added himself.

  The room was set up as an office. There was a desk, and filing cabinets along the walls. On a small table next to the wall stood a coffee maker and some cups. The room had a telephone, fax machine, and photocopier.