The Fifth Woman kw-6

by Henning Mankell

  “This may take some time,” Wallander went on. “But since in my opinion she’s crucial for us, I’m not going to give up. She knows who that woman is, and I’m more convinced than ever that she’s important.”

  Birch suddenly seemed to understand the connection.

  “You mean there might be a woman behind all this? The killer is a woman?” He sounded almost frightened by his own words.

  “She doesn’t necessarily have to be the killer,” Wallander said. “But there is a woman somewhere near the heart of this investigation. I’m certain of that. At the very least she’s blocking our view of what’s behind all this. Which is why we have to get to her as soon as possible. We have to find out who she is.”

  The crying stopped. Svedberg and Wallander returned quickly to their places in the room. A minute went by. Katarina Taxell came back and sat down on the sofa. Wallander could see that she was very much on her guard.

  “Let’s return to the maternity ward in Ystad,” Wallander said in a friendly voice. “You say that you were asleep. And nobody visited you there at night?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You live here in Lund. Yet you choose to give birth in Ystad. Why?”

  “I prefer the methods they practise there.”

  “I understand,” Wallander said. “My own daughter was born in Ystad.”

  She didn’t respond. Wallander sensed that she wanted only to answer the questions. She wasn’t going to say anything voluntarily.

  “I have to ask you some questions of a personal nature,” he continued. “Since this is not an interrogation, you can choose not to answer. But then I must warn you that we may have to take you down to the police station and arrange a formal interrogation. We came here because we’re looking for information connected with a number of extremely brutal and violent crimes.”

  Still she didn’t react. Her gaze was fixed on his face. It felt as if she was staring straight into his head. Something about her eyes made him nervous.

  “Did you understand what I said?”

  “I understand. I’m not stupid.”

  “Do you agree that I can ask you some questions of a personal nature?”

  “I won’t know until I hear them.”

  “It seems that you live alone in this flat. You’re not married?”

  “No.”

  The reply came very swiftly and hard, Wallander thought, as if she was hitting something.

  “May I ask who the father of your child is?”

  “I don’t think I’ll answer that. It’s of no concern to anyone but myself. And the child.”

  “If the child’s father has been the victim of a violent crime, I would say it has something to do with the matter that I am concerned with.”

  “That would mean that you knew who the father of my child is. But you don’t. So the question is unreasonable.”

  Wallander saw that she was right. There was nothing wrong with her mind.

  “Let me ask another question. Do you know a man named Eugen Blomberg?”

  “Yes.”

  “In what way do you know him?”

  “I know him.”

  “Do you know that he was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw it in the paper this morning.”

  “Is he the father of your child?”

  “No.”

  She’s a good liar, thought Wallander. But not good enough.

  “You and Eugen Blomberg had a relationship, didn’t you?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “But he isn’t the father of your child?”

  “No.”

  “How long did you have this relationship?”

  “For two and a half years.”

  “It must have been kept secret, since he was married.”

  “He lied to me. I didn’t find out about that until much later.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I ended it.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “About a year ago.”

  “After that you never met again?”

  “That’s right.”

  Wallander seized the moment and went on the attack.

  “We’ve found letters at his house that you wrote to him as recently as a few months ago.”

  She stood her ground.

  “We wrote letters, but we didn’t meet.”

  “The whole thing seems rather strange.”

  “He wrote letters. I answered them. He wanted us to meet again. I didn’t.”

  “Because you had met another man?”

  “Because I was pregnant.”

  “And you won’t tell us the father’s name?”

  “No.”

  Wallander cast a glance at Svedberg, who was staring at the floor. Birch was looking out the window. Wallander knew they were both on tenterhooks.

  “Who do you think might have killed Eugen Blomberg?”

  Wallander sent off the question at full force. Birch moved at the window. The floor creaked under his weight. Svedberg switched to staring at his hands.

  “I don’t know who would have wanted to kill him.”

  The child started fretting again. She got up at once and left them. Wallander looked at the others. Birch shook his head. Wallander tried to evaluate the situation. It would create big trouble if he took a woman with a three-day-old baby in for interrogation. And she wasn’t suspected of a particular crime. He made a quick decision. They huddled at the window once again.

  “I’ll stop the questions there,” Wallander said. “But I want her put under surveillance. And I want to know everything you can possibly dig up on her. She seems to have a business that sells hair products. I want to know all about her parents, her friends, what she did earlier in her life. Run her through all the databases. I want her life completely mapped out.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Birch said.

  “Svedberg will stay here in Lund. We need someone who’s familiar with the earlier murders.”

  “Actually, I’d prefer to go home,” Svedberg said. “You know that I don’t do well outside Ystad.”

  “I know that,” Wallander answered. “I’m afraid that right now it can’t be helped. I’ll ask someone to relieve you when I get back to Ystad. But we can’t have people driving back and forth unnecessarily.”

  Suddenly the woman was standing at the door, holding the baby. Wallander smiled. They went over and looked at the boy. Svedberg, who liked children even though he didn’t have any of his own, started playing with him.

  Something struck Wallander. He thought back to when Linda was a baby, when Mona had carried her around and when he had done it himself, always terrified of dropping her. Then it came to him. She wasn’t holding the baby against her body. It was as if the baby was something that didn’t really belong to her. He was getting angry, but he managed to hide it.

  “We won’t trouble you any longer,” he said. “But we’ll be in touch again, no doubt.”

  “I hope you catch the person who murdered Eugen,” she said.

  Wallander looked at her carefully. Then he nodded.

  “Yes, we’re going to solve this. I can promise you that.”

  When the three men reached the street, the wind had picked up.

  “What do you think of her?” Birch asked.

  “She’s not telling the truth, of course,” Wallander said. “But it didn’t seem like she was lying, either.”

  Birch gave him a quizzical look.

  “How am I supposed to take that? That it’s as though she was lying and telling the truth at the same time?”

  “Something like that. What it means I don’t know.”

  “I noticed a little detail,” Svedberg said suddenly. “She said she hoped we caught ‘the person’, not ‘the man’ who murdered Eugen Blomberg.”

  Wallander nodded. He had noticed it too.

  “Does that necessarily mean anything?” Birch asked sceptically.
<
br />   “No,” Wallander said. “But both Svedberg and I noticed it. And that might mean something in itself.”

  They decided that Wallander would drive back to Ystad in Svedberg’s car. He promised to send someone to relieve Svedberg in Lund as soon as he could.

  “This is important,” he told Birch once again. “Katarina Taxell had a visit at the hospital from this woman. We have to find out who she is. The midwife she knocked down gave a good description.”

  “Give me the description,” said Birch. “She might show up at her home too.”

  “She was quite tall,” said Wallander. “Ylva Brink herself is five-nine. She thought this woman was about five-eleven. Dark, straight, shoulder-length hair. Blue eyes, pointed nose, thin lips. She was stocky without looking overweight. No prominent bust. The power of her blow shows that she’s strong. And we can assume that she’s in good physical shape.”

  “That description fits quite a few people,” Birch said.

  “All descriptions do,” Wallander said. “Even so, you know right away when you find the right person.”

  “Did the woman say anything? What was her voice like?”

  “She didn’t say a word. She just knocked her to the ground.”

  “Did she notice the woman’s teeth?”

  Wallander looked at Svedberg, who shook his head.

  “Was she wearing make-up?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “What did her hands look like? Was she wearing false nails?”

  “We know for certain that she wasn’t. Ylva said she would have noticed.”

  Birch had made some notes. He nodded.

  “We’ll see what we can come up with,” he said. “We’ll do the surveillance very discreetly. She’s going to be on her guard.”

  They said goodbye. Svedberg gave Wallander his car keys. On the way to Ystad Wallander tried to comprehend why Katarina Taxell didn’t want to reveal that she’d had night-time visits while she was in the Ystad maternity ward. Who was the woman? How was she connected to Taxell and Blomberg? Where did the threads lead from there? What did the chain of events look like that led to his murder?

  He was afraid that he might be on a completely wrong track, leading the investigation way off course. Nothing caused him more torment. Prevented him from sleeping, gave him an upset stomach. The thought that he could be heading at full speed towards the collapse of a criminal investigation. He’d been through it all before, the moment when an investigation suddenly shattered. There would be nothing to do but start again from the beginning. And it would be his fault.

  It was 9.30 a.m. when he parked outside the Ystad police station. Ebba stopped him in reception.

  “It’s total chaos here,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  “Chief Holgersson wants to speak to you right away. It’s about that man you and Svedberg found on the road last night.”

  “I’ll go and talk to her,” Wallander said.

  “Do it now,” Ebba said.

  He went straight to her office. The door was open. Hansson was sitting inside, looking pale. Lisa Holgersson was more upset than he had ever seen her. She motioned him to a chair.

  “I think you should hear what Hansson has to say.”

  Wallander took off his jacket and sat down.

  “I had a long conversation with Ake Davidsson this morning.”

  “How is he?” Wallander said.

  “It looks worse than it really is. It’s still bad, but nowhere near as bad as the story he had to tell.”

  Afterwards he knew that Hansson hadn’t been exaggerating. Wallander listened first in surprise, then with growing indignation. Hansson was clear and to the point. Wallander could hardly believe what he was hearing; it was something he never thought could happen. Now they’d have to live with it. Sweden was steadily changing. Usually these changes were subtle, nothing obvious at the time. But sometimes Wallander, when he observed these changes as a policeman, felt a shudder pass through the entire framework of society. Hansson’s story about Ake Davidsson was one such shudder, and it shook Wallander to the core.

  Ake Davidsson was a civil servant in the social welfare office in Malmo. He was classified as partially disabled because of bad eyesight. After struggling for many years, he had finally got a restricted driver’s licence. Since the late 1970s, Davidsson had a relationship with a woman in Lodinge. It had ended the previous evening. Usually Davidsson would sleep over in Lodinge, since he wasn’t allowed to drive in the dark. But this time he had no choice. He got lost, and finally stopped to ask directions. He was attacked by a night patrol of volunteers who had gathered in Lodinge. They accused him of being a burglar and refused to believe his explanation. His glasses vanished; maybe they were crushed. He was beaten senseless and didn’t wake up until the ambulance men lifted him onto the stretcher.

  There was more.

  “Davidsson is a peaceful man who suffers from high blood pressure. I spoke with some of his colleagues in Malmo, and they were deeply distressed. One of them told me something that Davidsson hadn’t mentioned.”

  Wallander was listening intently.

  “Davidsson is a dedicated and active member of Amnesty International,” Hansson said. “Now that organisation might begin to take an interest in Sweden, if this rise of the citizen militia and attacks on people isn’t stopped.”

  Wallander was speechless. He felt sick and dizzy.

  “These thugs have a leader,” Hansson went on. “His name is Eskil Bengtsson, and he owns a lorry company in Lodinge.”

  “We’ve got to put a stop to this,” Chief Holgersson said. “Even though we’re up to our necks in murder investigations. At least we have to plan what to do.”

  “It’s quite simple,” Wallander said, getting to his feet. “We drive out and arrest Eskil Bengtsson. And we also bring in everyone who’s mixed up in this militia. Ake Davidsson will have to identify them, one by one.”

  “But his eyesight is terrible,” Holgersson said.

  “People who don’t see well often have excellent hearing,” Wallander replied. “You said that the men were talking while they were beating him.”

  “I wonder if this will hold up,” she said doubtfully. “What kind of proof have we got?”

  “It holds up for me,” Wallander said. “Of course you can always order me not to leave the station.”

  She shook her head. “Go ahead. The sooner the better.”

  Wallander nodded to Hansson. They went out into the hall.

  “I want two squad cars,” Wallander said, poking Hansson on the shoulder with his finger for emphasis. “They should drive there with lights flashing and sirens going, both when we leave Ystad and when we enter Lodinge. It wouldn’t hurt to let the press know about this either.”

  “We can’t do that,” Hansson said, looking anxious.

  “Of course we can’t,” Wallander said. “We’re leaving in ten minutes. We can talk about your Ostersund work in the car.”

  “I’ve got a kilo of papers left,” Hansson said. “It’s an incredible amount of research. Layer after layer. There’s even a son who took over from his father as investigator.”

  “In the car,” Wallander interrupted him. “Not here.”

  Wallander went out to reception. He said something to Ebba in a low voice. She nodded and promised to do what he’d asked. Five minutes later they were on their way. They left Ystad with lights flashing and sirens on.

  “What are we going to arrest Bengtsson for?” Hansson asked.

  “He’s suspected of aggravated assault,” Wallander replied. “Instigating violence. Davidsson must have been transported to the road, so we’ll try kidnapping too. And inciting a riot.”

  “You’re going to have Akeson on your back for this.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Wallander said.

  “It feels as though we’re on our way to arrest some pretty dangerous men,” Hansson said.

  “You’re right. We’re afte
r dangerous people. Right now I have a hard time thinking of anything that is more dangerous for the rule of law in this country.”

  They pulled up at Eskil Bengtsson’s farmhouse, which lay on the road into the village. There were two trucks and a digger parked nearby. A dog was barking furiously.

  “Let’s get him,” Wallander said.

  Just as they reached the front door it was opened by a stocky man with a pot belly. Wallander glanced at Hansson, who nodded.

  “Inspector Wallander of the Ystad Police,” he introduced himself. “Get your jacket. You’re coming with us.”

  “Where the hell to?”

  The man’s arrogance almost made Wallander lose control. Hansson noticed this and poked him in the arm.

  “You’re coming to Ystad,” Wallander said with icy calm. “And you damn well know why.”

  “I haven’t done anything,” Bengtsson said.

  “Yes, you have,” Wallander said. “In fact, you’ve done way too much. If you don’t get your jacket you’ll have to come along without it.”

  A small, thin woman appeared at the man’s side.

  “What’s going on?” she yelled in a high-pitched, piercing voice. “What did he do?”

  “You keep out of this,” the man said, shoving her back inside the house.

  “That does it, handcuff him,” Wallander said.

  Hansson stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  “Why?”

  Wallander’s patience was at an end. He turned to one of the officers and took his handcuffs. He told Bengtsson to stick out his hands, and snapped the cuffs on him. It happened so fast that Bengtsson didn’t think to resist. At the same time there was a flash from a camera. A photographer who had just hopped out of his car had taken a picture.

  “How the hell does the press know we’re here?” Hansson asked.

  “No idea,” Wallander said. Ebba was reliable and fast. “Let’s go.”

  The woman came outside again. Suddenly she jumped on Hansson and started hitting him with her fists. The photographer took more pictures. Wallander escorted Bengtsson to the car.

  “You’re going to get shit for this,” Bengtsson said.

  Wallander smiled. “Maybe. But nothing compared to what you’re going to get. You want to start with the names right now? The men who were with you last night?”