It took them almost 20 minutes to reach the next boundary marker. Hansson pointed to the map. They were now at the southwest corner. The property stretched another 500 metres, but Eriksson hadn’t bought this section until 1976. They walked east, now approaching the ditch and the hill with the bird tower. Wallander felt his uneasiness growing. He thought he could sense the same silent reaction from the others.
It was turning into an image of his life, he thought. My life as a policeman during the last part of the 20th century in Sweden. An early morning, dawn. Autumn, fog, a damp chill. Four men slogging around in the mud. They approach a ditch where a man was trapped, impaled on bamboo stakes. At the same time they’re searching for the burial site of a Polish woman who disappeared 27 years ago.
I’m going to end up trudging around in this mud until I collapse. Out there in the fog people are huddled around their kitchen tables, organising vigilante militias. Anyone who takes a wrong turn in the fog runs the risk of being beaten to death.
He was carrying on a conversation with Rydberg as he walked along. He saw Rydberg sitting on his balcony towards the end of his illness. The balcony hovered before Wallander’s eyes like an airship in the fog. Rydberg didn’t speak, but listened to Wallander with a wry smile, his face already heavily marked by illness.
They reached the pungee pit. A torn remnant of crimescene tape was caught under one of the collapsed planks. We didn’t clean up very well, Wallander thought. The bamboo stakes were gone. He wondered where they were. In the basement of the police station? At the forensic laboratory in Linkoping? The tower was on their right, barely visible in the fog.
Wallander took a few steps to the side and nearly slipped in the mud. Nyberg stood staring into the ditch. Hamren and Hansson were discussing a detail on the map in low voices.
Someone keeps an eye on Holger Eriksson and his farm, thought Wallander, an idea developing slowly in his mind. This person knows what happened to Krista Haberman, a woman, missing for 27 years, declared dead — a woman who is buried here somewhere. Eriksson’s time is being measured out. A grave with sharpened stakes is prepared. Another grave in the mud.
He went over to Hamren and Hansson. He told them what he’d just been thinking. Nyberg had disappeared in the fog.
“Let’s assume that the killer knew where Krista Haberman was buried. On several occasions we’ve talked about the murderer having a language — that he or she is trying to tell us something. We’ve only had partial success in breaking the code. Eriksson was killed with what can only be described as deliberate brutality. His body was intended to be found. It’s also possible that this place was chosen for another reason, as a challenge to us to keep searching right here. And if we do, we’ll also find Krista Haberman.”
Nyberg reappeared out of the fog. Wallander repeated what he’d said. They made their way over the ditch and up to the tower. The woods below were shrouded in fog.
“Too many roots,” Nyberg said. “I don’t think it’s that grove of trees.”
They turned around and continued eastwards until they were back where they had started. It was close to 8 a.m., and the fog was just as thick. Hoglund called to say that the keys were on the way. Everyone was cold and wet. Wallander didn’t want to keep them there unnecessarily. Hansson would devote the next few hours trying to find out who had worked the land.
“An unexpected change 27 years ago,” Wallander emphasised. “That’s what we want to know about. But don’t mention that we think there’s a body buried here. Then there’ll be an invasion.”
Hansson nodded. He understood.
“We’ll go over this again sometime when there’s no fog,” Wallander continued. “But I think it’s useful to have been out here already.”
They all left. Wallander remained behind. He got into his car and turned on the heater. It didn’t seem to be working. The repairs had cost an incredible amount of money, but apparently didn’t cover the heating system. He wondered when he’d have the time and money to trade it in for another car. When was this one going to fall apart again?
He waited, thinking about the women. Krista Haberman, Eva Runfeldt, and Katarina Taxell. Plus the fourth one who didn’t have a name. What was the common point of contact? He had a feeling it was so close that he was looking at it without seeing it.
He went back over his thoughts. Abused, maybe murdered women. A vast stretch of time arched like a vault over the whole thing.
As he sat in his car he realised that there was one other possible conclusion. They hadn’t seen everything. The events they were trying to understand were part of something bigger. It was important for them to find the connection between the women, but they also had to consider the possibility that the connection was coincidental. Someone was making choices. But what were the choices based on? Circumstances? Coincidences? Available opportunities? Eriksson lived alone on a farm. Didn’t socialise, watched birds at night. He was someone it was possible to get near. Runfeldt was leaving on an orchid safari for two weeks. That provided an opportunity. He also lived alone. Eugen Blomberg took walks by himself in the evening.
Wallander shook his head at his own thoughts. He couldn’t make any progress. Was he thinking in the right direction or not? He didn’t know.
It was cold in the car. He got out to move around. The keys should be arriving soon. He walked across the courtyard, remembering the first time he had come here, the flock of rooks in the ditch. He looked at his hands. His tan was gone. Even the memory of the sun in the garden of the Villa Borghese was gone. And so was his father.
He let his gaze wander over the courtyard. The house was well cared for. Once a man named Holger Eriksson sat here and composed poems about birds. One day he got into a dark blue Chevrolet and drove all the way to Jamtland. Was he driven by passion? Or something else? Krista Haberman was a beautiful woman. Did she go with him willingly? She must have.
They drive back to Skane. Then she disappears. Eriksson lives alone. He digs a grave. She’s gone. The investigation never catches up with him. Until now, when Hansson finds a connection.
Wallander was standing and looking at the deserted kennel. At first he wasn’t aware of what he was thinking. The image of Krista Haberman slowly slipped away. He frowned. Why wasn’t there a dog? No-one had asked that question before. He hadn’t either. When had the dog disappeared? Did that have any significance at all? These were questions he wanted to have answered.
A car braked outside the house. A moment later a boy who couldn’t be more than 20 came into the courtyard. He walked over to Wallander.
“Are you the policeman that needs the key?”
“Yes, I am.”
The boy regarded him doubtfully.
“How can I be sure? You could be anybody.”
Wallander felt annoyed, but he realised that the boy’s doubts were justified. He had mud all over his trousers. He took out his identification. The boy nodded and gave him the set of keys.
“I’ll see to it that they get back to Lund,” Wallander said.
The boy nodded. Wallander heard the car roar off as he looked through the keys for the one to the front door. He thought fleetingly about what Jonas Hader had said about the red Golf outside Katarina Taxell’s building. Don’t women gun their engines? Mona drives faster than I do. Baiba always stamps on the accelerator. But maybe they don’t gun their engines.
He opened the door and went inside. It smelled musty. He sat down on a bench and pulled off his muddy gumboots. When he went into the main room he noticed to his surprise that the poem about the woodpecker was still on the desk. The night of 21 September. Tomorrow it would be a month since then. Were they really any closer to a solution? They had two more murders to solve. And the mystery of woman who had disappeared, who might be buried out in Eriksson’s fields.
He stood motionless in the silence. The fog outside the windows was still dense. He felt uneasy. The objects in the room were watching him. He walked over to the wall where the two aerial photographs
hung in their frames. He searched his pockets for his glasses, put them on and leaned forwards. One of the photographs was black-and-white, the other a faded colour shot. The black-and-white picture was taken in 1949, two years before Holger Eriksson had bought the farm. The colour photograph was from 1965.
Wallander opened a curtain to let in more light, and saw a lone deer grazing among the trees in the garden. He stood quite still. The deer raised its head and looked at him. Then it calmly went on grazing. Wallander stayed where he was. He had a feeling that he would never forget that deer. How long he stood there and watched it, he didn’t know. Finally a sound that he himself didn’t notice caught the deer’s attention. It vanished. Wallander kept on looking out the window for a time and then went back to the two photographs. The plane carrying the camera had come in from due south. All the details were clear. In 1965 Eriksson hadn’t yet built his tower, but the hill was there and so was the ditch. He couldn’t make out a bridge. He followed the contours of the fields. The picture was taken early in the spring. The fields had been ploughed, but nothing was growing yet. The pond was quite clear in the photograph. A grove of trees stood next to a narrow tractor path separating two of the fields. He frowned. He couldn’t remember those trees. This morning he wouldn’t have seen them because of the fog, but he didn’t remember them from his previous visits. The trees looked tall. He studied the house, which was in the centre of the picture. An outbuilding that might have been used as a pigsty had been torn down. The approach road was wider. But otherwise everything was much the same. He took off his glasses and sat down in a leather armchair. Silence surrounded him.
A Chevrolet goes to Svenstavik. A woman comes back to Skane. Then she vanishes and 27 years later the man who may have gone to Svenstavik to get her is murdered. Now they were looking for no less than three different women. Krista Haberman, Katarina Taxell, and one without a name. One who drives a red Golf, smokes handrolled cigarettes and might wear false nails.
He wondered whether two of the women could be in fact be one and the same, whether Krista Haberman, in spite of everything, was still alive. If so, she would be 65 years old by now, and the woman who knocked down Ylva Brink was a lot younger.
It didn’t add up. Nothing did.
He looked at his watch. It was 8.45 a.m. He stood up and left the house. The fog was still just as thick. He thought about the deserted kennel. Then he locked up and drove away.
At 10 a.m. Wallander called the investigative team together for a meeting. Martinsson was still away, but he had promised to come in that afternoon after he had been at Terese’s school. Hoglund said that he’d called her late the night before. She thought he sounded drunk, which was out of the ordinary. Wallander felt vaguely jealous. Why had Martinsson called her and not him? It was the two of them who had worked together all these years.
“He still seems determined to quit,” she said. “But I got the feeling that he also wished I would talk him out of it.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Wallander said.
They closed the door to the conference room. Per Akeson and Chief Holgersson were the last ones to arrive. Wallander had a feeling that they had just completed their own meeting. Lisa Holgersson took the floor as soon as the room was quiet.
“The whole country is talking about the citizen militia,” she said. “From now on Lodinge is firmly on the map. We’ve had a request for Kurt to participate in a discussion programme on TV tonight, to be broadcast from Goteborg.”
“Not on your life,” Wallander replied, horrified. “What would I say?”
“I’ve turned them down on your behalf already,” she replied with a smile. “But I’m thinking of asking for a favour in return later on.”
Wallander realised that she was referring to the lectures at the police academy.
“There is a huge debate taking place,” she went on. “We can only hope that something good comes out of it, now that the issues are actually being discussed.”
“It might also force the senior members of the police administration in this country to be a little more self-critical,” Hansson said. “We’re not entirely without blame for the way things have developed.”
“What are you suggesting?” Wallander asked, curious. Hansson rarely participated in discussions about the police force.
“I’m thinking about the scandals in which the police have been involved,” Hansson said. “Maybe they’ve always existed, but not as often as they do now.”
“That’s something we should neither exaggerate nor ignore,” Per Akeson said. “The big problem is the gradual shift in what the police and the courts see as a crime. What would have brought a conviction yesterday is suddenly considered a trifle today, and the police often don’t even bother to investigate. I think that’s offensive to the national sense of justice, which has always been strong in this country.”
“They’re probably related,” Wallander said. “But I have strong doubts that a discussion of the citizen militia will have any effect on this, even though I’d like to believe otherwise.”
“I’m thinking of prosecuting these men with as serious charges as I can,” Akeson said. “The assault was vicious, that’s something I can emphasise. There were four men involved and I think I can convict at least three of them. I should also tell you that the chief prosecutor wants to be kept informed. I consider that quite surprising, but it indicates that at least this is being taken seriously at a high level.”
“Ake Davidsson sounds intelligent and articulate in an interview in Arbetet,” said Svedberg. “He’s not going to have any permanent injuries by the way.”
“Then there’s Terese and her father,” Wallander said. “And the boys at the school.”
“Is it true that Martinsson is thinking of resigning?” Akeson asked.
“That was his first reaction,” Wallander replied. “Which seems both reasonable and natural. But I’m not sure he’s really going to go through with it.”
“He’s a good policeman,” Hansson said. “Doesn’t he know that?”
“Yes,” Wallander said. “The question is whether that’s enough. Other things can come up when something like this happens. Especially with our workload.”
“I know,” Chief Holgersson said. “And that’s not going to get any better.”
Wallander remembered that he still hadn’t done what he had promised Nyberg: talk to Holgersson about his workload. He made a note of it.
“We’ll have to take up this discussion later,” he said.
“I just wanted to inform you,” Holgersson said. “That’s all, except that Bjork called to wish you luck. He was sorry to hear about what happened to Martinsson’s daughter.”
“He resigned in time,” Svedberg said. “What did we give him as a leaving present? A fishing rod? If he was still working here, he wouldn’t have time to use it.”
“He probably has a lot on his hands now too,” Holgersson said.
“Bjork was a good chief,” Wallander said. “Now let’s move on.”
They started with Hoglund’s timetable. Next to his notepad Wallander had placed the plastic bag containing the Swedish Railways timetable that he had found in Katarina Taxell’s desk.
Hoglund had done a thorough job. The times of the various events were mapped out and listed in relation to each other. Wallander knew that this was an assignment he wouldn’t have done as well. In all probability he would have been sloppy. All policemen are different, he thought. It’s only when we can work with something that brings out our strengths that we’re of any real use.
“I don’t really see a pattern emerging,” Hoglund said as she neared the end of her presentation. “The pathologists in Lund have established the time of Eriksson’s death as late on the evening of 21 September. Runfeldt also died at night. The times of death correspond, but one can’t draw any conclusions from this. There’s no correspondence in terms of the days of the week. If we add the two visits to the Ystad maternity ward and the murder of Blomberg, there might
be a fragment of a pattern.”
She broke off and looked around the table. Neither Wallander nor anyone else seemed to understand what she meant.
“It’s almost pure mathematics,” she said. “But it seems as if our killer acts according to a pattern that is so irregular that it’s interesting. On 21 September Eriksson dies. On the night of 30 September, Katarina Taxell is visited at the Ystad maternity ward. On 11 October Gosta Runfeldt dies. On the night of 13 October the woman is back at the maternity ward and knocks down Svedberg’s cousin. Finally, on 17 October Eugen Blomberg is found dead. To this we can also add the day that Runfeldt probably disappeared. There is no regularity whatsoever. Which might be surprising, since everything else seems to be minutely planned and prepared. This is a killer who takes the time to sew weights into a sack that are carefully balanced to the victim’s weight. So we could say that perhaps the irregularity is caused by something out of the killer’s control. And then we have to ask: what?”
Wallander wasn’t quite following her.
“One more time,” he said. “Slowly.”
She repeated what she had said. This time Wallander understood what she meant.
“Maybe we can just say that it doesn’t have to be a coincidence,” she concluded. “I won’t try to stretch it further than that.”
Wallander started to see the picture more clearly.
“Let’s assume that there is a pattern,” he said. “Then what’s your interpretation? What factors affect a killer’s timetable?”
“There could be various explanations. The killer doesn’t live in Skane, but makes regular visits here. Or perhaps he or she has a job that follows a certain rhythm.”
“So you think these dates could be days off? If we could follow them for another month, would it be clearer?”
“That’s possible. The killer has a job that follows a rotating schedule. The days off don’t always occur on Saturdays and Sundays.”
The Fifth Woman kw-6 Page 40