The Fifth Woman kw-6

by Henning Mankell

  “And the house?”

  “The problem is, we don’t know what we’re looking for. Everything seems to be in good order. The break-in he reported a few years ago is a riddle too. The only thing that might be worth noting is that Eriksson had a couple of extra locks installed recently, on the doors leading directly into the living-quarters.”

  “That might mean he was afraid of something,” Wallander said.

  “I thought so too. On the other hand, everybody’s putting on extra locks these days, aren’t they?”

  Wallander glanced around the table.

  “Neighbours,” he said. “Who was Holger Eriksson? Who might have had a reason to kill him? What about Harald Berggren? It’s about time we did a complete summary. No matter how long it takes.”

  Later, Wallander would think back on that Thursday morning as an endless uphill climb. All of them presented the results of their work, and the only conclusion was that there was no sign of a breakthrough. The slope just grew steeper. Eriksson’s life seemed impregnable. No-one had seen a thing, no-one even seemed to have known this man who sold cars, watched birds, and wrote poems. Finally Wallander began to wonder whether he was mistaken, whether Eriksson’s killer might have selected him at random. But deep inside he knew that this couldn’t be true. The killer had spoken a specific language — there was a logic and consistency to his method of killing. Wallander knew he wasn’t mistaken. But that was as far as he got.

  They were completely bogged down by the time Svedberg returned from the hospital. He appeared like a saviour, because when he sat down at the table and sorted through his notes, the investigation finally seemed to begin to move forward.

  Svedberg began by apologising for his absence. Wallander asked what had happened at the hospital.

  “The whole thing is pretty weird,” Svedberg said. “Just before 3 a.m. a nurse appeared in the maternity ward. One of the midwives, Ylva Brink, who happens to be my cousin, was working there last night. She didn’t recognise the nurse and asked her what she was doing there. She was struck to the ground and knocked out. When she came to, the woman was gone. They asked all the patients, but none of them had seen her. I talked to the personnel on duty last night. They were all very upset.”

  “How’s your cousin?” Wallander asked.

  “She has concussion.”

  Wallander was just about to return to Eriksson when Svedberg spoke up again. He seemed embarrassed and scratched his head nervously.

  “What’s even stranger is that this woman had been there before, about a week ago. Ylva happened to be working that night too. She’s positive that the woman wasn’t really a nurse, that she was in disguise.”

  Wallander frowned, and remembered the note that had been lying on his desk all week.

  “You talked to Ylva Brink that time too. And took some notes.”

  “I threw out that piece of paper,” Svedberg said. “Since nothing happened the first time I didn’t think it was anything to worry about. We had more important things to do.”

  “I think it’s creepy,” said Hoglund. “A fake nurse who enters the maternity ward at night. And has no qualms about using violence. It has to mean something.”

  “My cousin didn’t recognise her, but she gave me a very good description. The woman was stocky and obviously very strong.”

  Wallander said nothing about having Svedberg’s note on his desk.

  “That sounds odd,” was all he said. “What kind of precautions have the hospital taken?”

  “For the time being they’re hiring a security company. They’ll see if the woman shows up again.”

  They left the night’s events behind. Wallander looked at Svedberg, thinking despondently that he was about to reinforce the feeling that the investigation was going nowhere. But Svedberg had some news.

  “Last week I talked to one of Eriksson’s employees, Ture Karlhammar, who is 73 years old, and lives in Svarte. I wrote up a report about it that you may have read. He worked as a car salesman for Eriksson for more than 30 years. At first he just said how sorry he was about what had happened, and that no-one had anything but good things to say about Eriksson. Karlhammar’s wife was making coffee. The door to the kitchen was open. Suddenly she came in, slammed the coffee tray on the table so the cream sloshed over, and said Holger Eriksson was a crook. Then she walked out.”

  “And then?”

  “It was a little embarrassing, of course. But Karlhammar stuck to his story. I went to talk to his wife, but by then she was gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “She had taken the car and driven off. Later I called several times, but nobody answered. But this morning I got a letter. I read it before I drove over to the hospital. It’s from Karlhammar’s wife. And if what she says is correct, then it makes very interesting reading.”

  “Sum it up for us,” Wallander said. “Then you can make copies.”

  “She claims that Eriksson showed signs of sadism many times in his life. He treated his employees badly. He would harass anyone who quit. She repeats over and over that she could provide as many examples as we need to prove this is true.”

  Svedberg scanned the letter.

  “She says that he had little respect for other people. Towards the end of the letter she indicates that he made trips to Poland quite often. Apparently to visit some women there. According to Mrs Karlhammar, they would be able to tell us stories too. It might all be gossip. How would she know about what he did in Poland?”

  “She doesn’t say anything about him being homosexual?” asked Wallander.

  “No. And this part about the trips to Poland certainly doesn’t give that impression.”

  “And Karlhammar had never heard of anyone named Harald Berggren, I suppose?”

  “No.”

  Wallander felt a need to get up and stretch his legs. What Svedberg had said about the contents of the letter was important, without a doubt. He realised that this was the second time in 24 hours that he’d heard a man described as brutal.

  He suggested a break so they could get some air. Akeson stayed behind.

  “It’s all set now. With the Sudan, I mean.”

  Wallander felt a pang of jealousy. Akeson had made a decision and dared to resign. Why didn’t he do the same thing himself? Why did he settle for looking for a new house? Now that his father was gone, he had nothing to keep him here. Linda could take care of herself.

  “They don’t need any policemen to keep order among the refugees, do they? I’ve had some experience in that field here in Ystad.”

  Akeson laughed.

  “I can ask. Swedish policemen usually go into the UN special forces. There’s nothing to stop you from putting in an application.”

  “Right now I’ve got a murder investigation to take care of. Maybe later. When are you leaving?”

  “Between Christmas and New Year. It’ll be great to get away. Sometimes I think I might never come back. I’ll never get to sail to the West Indies in a boat I built myself, but I am going to the Sudan. And I have no idea what’ll happen after that.”

  “Everybody dreams about escape,” Wallander said. “People in Sweden are always looking for the next paradise. Sometimes I think I don’t even recognise my own country any more.”

  “Maybe I’m escaping too. But the Sudan is no paradise, believe me.”

  “At least you’re doing the right thing by trying. I hope you write once in a while. I’ll miss you.”

  “That’s actually something I’m looking forward to. Writing personal letters, not just official ones. Maybe that way I’ll figure out how many friends I actually have: the ones who answer the letters I hope to write.”

  The short break was over. They all sat down again.

  “Let’s switch over to Gosta Runfeldt,” Wallander said.

  Hoglund described their discovery of the room on Harpegatan and the fact that Runfeldt was a private detective. After the photographs that Nyberg had developed had made their way around the tab
le, Wallander told them about his conversation with Runfeldt’s son. He noticed that the investigative team were now concentrating in a way that they hadn’t been when the long meeting had begun.

  “I can’t shake the feeling that we’re close to something crucial,” Wallander concluded. “We’re still seeking a point of contact. What could be the significance of both Eriksson and Runfeldt having been described as brutal? And why has this never come out before?”

  He broke off to allow for comments and questions. No-one said a word.

  “It’s time we started digging deeper,” he went on. “All the material has to be run back and forth between these two men. It’s Martinsson’s job to see that this gets done. There are a number of items that seem particularly important. I’m thinking about Runfeldt’s wife’s death. I’ve got the feeling that this might be crucial. And there’s the money that Eriksson donated to the church in Svenstavik. I’ll take care of that myself. Which means it might be necessary to take a few trips.”

  “Where’s Svenstavik?” Hansson asked.

  “In southern Jamtland. About 50 kilometres from the border of Harjadal.”

  “What did Eriksson have to do with that place? He was from Skane, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s precisely what we have to find out,” said Wallander. “Why did he choose that particular church to leave money to? There must have been some definite reason.”

  They had been in the meeting for several hours when Wallander brought up the question of more manpower.

  “I have nothing against getting reinforcements. We have plenty to investigate, and it’s going to take a lot of time.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Chief Holgersson said.

  Akeson nodded without saying anything. In all the years Wallander had worked with him, he had never known Akeson to speak unnecessarily. Wallander supposed that this would be an advantage in the Sudan.

  “On the other hand, I doubt we need a psychologist,” Wallander continued. “I’m the first to agree that Mats Ekholm, who was here in the summer, was helpful. But the situation is different with this case. My suggestion is that we send summaries of the investigative material to him and ask for his comments. Let’s leave it at that for now.”

  They adjourned the meeting at just past 1 p.m. Wallander left the station hastily. The long meeting had left him feeling heavy-headed. He drove to one of the restaurants in the town centre. As he ate, he tried to decide what had actually developed during the meeting. Since he kept coming back to the question of what had happened at the lake outside Almhult ten years ago, he decided to follow his intuition. When he finished eating he called the Hotel Sekelgarden. Bo Runfeldt was in his room. Wallander asked the receptionist to tell him he was coming over shortly. Then he drove back to the police station. He found Martinsson and Hansson and took them to his office. He asked Hansson to call Svenstavik.

  “What am I supposed to ask?”

  “Get straight to the point. Why did Eriksson make this bequest to them? Was he looking for forgiveness of his sins? If so, what sins? And if they mention confidentiality, tell them we need the information so we can try to prevent more murders.”

  “You really want me to ask if he was looking for forgiveness for his sins?”

  Wallander burst out laughing. “Yes, if necessary. Find out whatever you can. I think I’ll take Bo Runfeldt with me to Almhult. Ask Ebba to book us a couple of hotel rooms there.”

  Martinsson seemed doubtful. “What do you think you’re going to discover by looking at a lake?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Wallander replied. “But the trip will at least give me time to talk to Runfeldt. I’ve got a hunch there’s some hidden information that’s important for us, and that we can get it if we’re persistent enough. We have to scrape hard enough to break through the surface. And there might be someone who was there at the time of the accident. I want you to do some background work. Call up our colleagues in Almhult. It happened about ten years ago. You can find out the exact date from the daughter. A drowning accident. I’ll give you a call when I get there.”

  The wind was still gusting when Wallander walked out to his car. He drove down to the Sekelgarden and went into reception. Bo Runfeldt was waiting for him.

  “Get your overcoat,” Wallander said. “We’re going on a field trip.”

  “Where to?”

  “Once you’re in the car I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Not until they had passed the turn off to Hoor did Wallander tell him where they were going.

  CHAPTER 19

  It started to rain just after they left Hoor. By then Wallander had begun to doubt the whole undertaking. Was it really worth the trouble of driving all the way to Almhult? What did he actually think he would achieve? Yet deep down he had no doubts. What he wanted was not a solution, but to move a step further in the right direction.

  Bo Runfeldt had been angry when Wallander had told him where they were going, asking if this was some kind of joke. What did his mother’s death have to do with the murder of his father?

  “You and your sister seem reluctant to talk about what happened,” he said. “In a way, I can understand it. People don’t like to talk about a tragedy. But why don’t I believe that it’s the tragedy that makes you reluctant to talk about it? If you give me a good answer, we’ll turn around and drive back. And don’t forget, you’re the one who brought up your father’s brutality.”

  “There you have my answer,” Runfeldt said. Wallander noticed an almost imperceptible change in his voice. A hint of a defence beginning to crumble.

  Wallander cautiously probed deeper as they drove through the monotonous landscape.

  “You said that your mother talked about committing suicide?”

  It took a while before Runfeldt answered.

  “It’s strange that she didn’t do it earlier. I don’t think you can imagine what hell she was forced to live in. I can’t. No-one can.”

  “Why didn’t she divorce him?”

  “He threatened to kill her if she left him. She had every reason to believe he would do it. I didn’t know anything back then, but later on I understood.”

  “If the doctors suspect abuse, they’re obliged to report it to the police.”

  “She always had an explanation, and she was convincing. She would say anything to protect him. She might say she was drunk and fell down. My mother never touched alcohol, but of course the doctors didn’t know that.”

  The conversation died as Wallander overtook a bus. He noticed that Runfeldt seemed tense. Wallander wasn’t driving fast, but his passenger was clearly nervous in traffic.

  “I think what kept her from committing suicide was my sister and me,” he said after a while.

  “That’s natural,” Wallander replied. “Let’s go back to what you said earlier, that your father had threatened to kill your mother. When a man abuses a woman, he doesn’t usually intend to kill her. He does it to control her. Sometimes he hits too hard, and the abuse leads to death. But generally there’s a different reason for murder. It’s taking it one step further.”

  Runfeldt replied with a surprising question.

  “Are you married?”

  “Not any more.”

  “Did you ever hit your wife?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I just wondered.”

  “We’re not talking about me here.”

  Runfeldt was silent. Wallander remembered with horrifying clarity the time that he had struck Mona in a moment of uncontrollable rage. She had fallen, hit the back of her head against the doorframe, and blacked out for a few seconds. She almost packed her bags and left, but Linda was still so young. And Wallander had begged and pleaded. They had sat up all night. He had implored her, and in the end she had stayed. The incident was etched in his memory, but he couldn’t now recall what they had been fighting about. Where had the rage come from? He didn’t know. There were few things in his life that he was more ashamed of. He understood his own reluctan
ce to be reminded of it.

  “Let’s get back to that day ten years ago,” Wallander said. “What happened?”

  “It was a Sunday,” Runfeldt said. “5 February 1984. It was a beautiful, cold winter’s day. They used to go out on excursions every Sunday, to walk in the woods, along the beach, or across the ice on the lake.”

  “It sounds idyllic,” said Wallander. “How am I supposed to make this fit with what you said before?”

  “It wasn’t idyllic. It was just the opposite. My mother was always terrified. I’m not exaggerating. She had long ago crossed the boundary where fear takes over and dominates your whole life. She must have been mentally exhausted. But he wanted to take a Sunday walk, and so they did. The threat of a clenched fist was ever present. I’m convinced that my father never saw her terror. He probably thought all was forgiven and forgotten each time. I assume he regarded his abuse of her to be chance incidents of rash behaviour. Hardly more than that.”

  “I think I understand. So what happened?”

  “Why they had gone to Smaland that Sunday, I don’t know. They parked on a logging road. It had been snowing, but it wasn’t particularly deep. They walked along the road to the lake, and out onto the ice. Suddenly it gave way and she fell in. He couldn’t pull her out. He ran to the car and went to get help. She was dead, of course, when they found her.”

  “How did you hear about it?”

  “He called me himself. I was in Stockholm at the time.”

  “What do you remember of the phone conversation?”

  “Naturally he was very upset.”

  “In what way?”

  “Can you be upset in more than one way?”

  “Was he crying? Was he in shock? Try to describe it.”

  “He wasn’t crying. I can only remember my father having tears in his eyes when he talked about rare orchids. It was more that he was trying to convince me he had done everything in his power to rescue her. But that shouldn’t be necessary, should it? If someone’s in trouble, you do everything you can to help, don’t you?”