The Fifth Woman (16 page)

When Wallander woke up on the morning of Monday, 3 October, the first thing he thought was that he needed to speak to Sven Tyrén again. Whether he had dreamed this he couldn’t tell, but he was sure that he needed to. As he waited for his coffee to brew, he called information and got Tyrén’s home number. Tyrén’s wife answered the phone, and told him that her husband had already left. Wallander called him on his mobile. In the background Wallander could hear the muffled sound of his truck’s engine.

Tyrén told him he was on the road outside Högestad. He had two deliveries to make before he went back to the terminal in Malmö. Wallander asked him to come to the station as soon as he could. When Tyrén asked whether they had caught the person who killed Eriksson, Wallander explained that was just a routine conversation. They were still in the early stages of the investigation. They were bound to catch the murderer. It might happen soon, but it could also take time. Tyrén promised to be at the station by 9 a.m.

“Please don’t park in front of the driveway,” Wallander added.

Tyrén muttered something inaudible in reply.

At 7.15 a.m. Wallander arrived at the station. Walking towards the glass doors, he changed his mind and turned left, to the prosecutor’s office, which had its own entrance.

Per Åkeson was sitting behind his desk, which was piled high with work as always. The entire office was a chaotic jumble of papers and files, but appearances were deceptive. Åkeson was an extraordinarily efficient and methodical prosecutor, and Wallander enjoyed working with him. They had known each other for a long time, and over the years they had developed a relationship that went beyond the purely professional. Sometimes they would share confidences and seek each other’s advice or help. Still, there was a boundary that they never overstepped. They would never really be close friends; they were not enough alike for that.

Åkeson nodded amiably when Wallander stepped into the room. He got up and moved a box of documents, making room on a chair. Wallander sat down, and Åkeson told the switchboard to hold his calls.

“I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” he said. “Thanks for the card, by the way.”

Wallander had forgotten about the postcard he had sent Åkeson from Rome, a view of the Forum Romanum.

“It was a great holiday for both of us.”

“I’ve never been to Rome. How does that proverb go? See Rome and then die? Or is it Naples?”

Wallander didn’t know. “I’d been hoping for a peaceful autumn. So I come home and find an old man impaled in a ditch.”

Åkeson grimaced. “I’ve seen some of the photographs. And Chief Holgersson told me about it. Have you got anything to go on?”

“Maybe,” Wallander said, and gave him a brief summary of what they had found in Eriksson’s safe. Wallander knew that Åkeson respected his ability to lead an investigation. He seldom disagreed with his conclusions or the way he handled a case.

“Of course it sounds like pure insanity to set out sharpened bamboo stakes in a ditch,” Åkeson said. “On the other hand, these days it’s getting harder and harder to distinguish between what’s insane and what’s normal.”

“How’s it going with Uganda?” Wallander asked.

“You mean the Sudan,” said Åkeson.

Åkeson had applied for a position with the UN High Commission on Refugees. He wanted to get away from Ystad for a while, to see something else before it was too late. Åkeson was several years older than Wallander. He was over 50.

“Of course, the Sudan,” Wallander said. “Have you talked about it with your wife yet?”

Åkeson nodded.

“I got up the courage last week. She was considerably more understanding than I could have hoped. I got the distinct feeling she wouldn’t mind getting me out of the house for a while. I’m still waiting for official notification, but I’d be surprised if I didn’t get the post. As you know, I have my connections.”

Åkeson had a highly developed knack for acquiring inside information. Wallander had no idea how he did it. He was always well informed, for instance, as to what was being discussed in the various committees in Parliament, or in the most elite and confidential circles of the national police board.

“If all goes well, I’ll be leaving in the new year,” he said. “I’ll be gone for at least two years.”

“Let’s hope we solve the Eriksson case before then. Do you have any directives you want to give me?”

“You should be telling me what you want.”

Wallander thought for a moment before replying.

“Chief Holgersson thinks that we ought to call in Mats Ekholm. You remember him from this summer, the man who does psychological profiles? He hunts insane people by trying to classify them. He’s pretty talented.”

Åkeson remembered him, of course.

“But I think we should wait,” Wallander said, “until we are sure that we’re dealing with an insane person.”

“If you think we should wait, then so be it,” Åkeson said, getting to his feet. He pointed at the box.

“I have a particularly complicated case today,” he excused himself. “I have to prepare.”

Wallander got up.

“What is it you’re actually going to do in the Sudan?” he asked. “Do refugees really need Swedish legal advice?”

“Refugees need all the help they can get,” Åkeson replied as he accompanied Wallander to reception. “Not just in Sweden.”

Suddenly he said, “I was in Stockholm for a few days while you were in Rome. I ran into Anette Brolin. She asked me to say hello to everyone down here. But especially to you.”

Wallander gave him a wary look, but didn’t reply. A few years earlier, Anette Brolin had filled in for Åkeson. Despite the fact that she was married, Wallander and she had spent a night together. It was something he preferred to forget.

He walked out of the prosecutor’s wing. There was a gusty wind blowing and the sky was grey. Wallander guessed that it was no more than 8°C. He ran into Svedberg in reception, and remembered the note.

“I took one of your notes with me by mistake the other day,” he said.

Svedberg looked surprised. “I didn’t notice anything missing.”

“Something about a woman in the maternity ward at the hospital.”

“Oh, you can bin that,” Svedberg answered. “It was just someone who saw a ghost.”

“You bin it if you want to,” Wallander said. “I’ll put it on your desk.”

“We’re still talking to people in the area around Eriksson’s farm,” Svedberg said. “I’m going to see the postman.”

Wallander nodded. They went their separate ways.

By the time Wallander entered his office he had already forgotten about Svedberg’s note. He took Berggren’s diary from his inside jacket pocket and put it in a desk drawer. He left the photograph of the three men posing by the termite mound lying on his desk. As he waited for Tyrén he read quickly through a stack of papers the other investigators had left for him. At 8.45 a.m. he went to get some coffee. Höglund passed him in the hall and told him that Runfeldt’s disappearance had been formally recorded and was being given priority.

“I spoke to one of his neighbours,” she said. “A teacher who seemed reliable. He claimed he had heard Runfeldt in his flat on Tuesday night. But not after that.”

“Which suggests that he left that night,” said Wallander, “although not for Nairobi.”

“I asked the neighbour whether he had noticed anything unusual about Runfeldt. But he seems to have been a reserved man with regular, discreet habits. Polite but no more than that. And he seldom had visitors. The only thing out of the ordinary was that Runfeldt sometimes came home very late. The teacher lives in the flat below his, and the building is not well insulated.”

Wallander stood there with his cup in his hand, thinking about what she had said.

“We have to find out what the stuff in that box means,” he said. “Could someone call the mail-order company today? And have our colleagues in Borås been informed? What was the name of that company? ‘Secure’? Nyberg knows. We need to discover whether Runfeldt bought other things from them. He must have placed the order because he was going to use it for something.”

“Bugging equipment,” she said. “Fingerprints. Who uses things like that?”

“We do.”

“But who else?”

Wallander saw that she was thinking of something in particular.

“Of course a bugging device could be used for unauthorised purposes.”

“I was thinking more of the fingerprints.”

Wallander nodded. Now he got it.

“A private investigator,” he said. “A private eye. The thought crossed my mind too. But Runfeldt is a florist whose only passion is orchids.”

“It was just an idea,” she said. “I’ll call the mail-order company myself.”

Wallander went back to his office. The telephone rang. It was Ebba. Tyrén was waiting in reception.

“He didn’t park his truck across the driveway, did he?” Wallander asked. “Hansson will have a fit.”

“I don’t see a truck,” Ebba said. “Are you coming to get him? And Martinsson wants to talk to you.”

“Where is he?”

“In his office, I should think.”

“Ask Tyrén to wait a few minutes while I talk to Martinsson.”

Martinsson was on the phone when Wallander walked in. He ended the conversation. Wallander assumed he’d been speaking to his wife. They talked several times a day, nobody knew what about.

“I got in touch with the forensic medicine division in Lund,” Martinsson told him. “They have some preliminary results. The problem is, they’re having trouble determining the thing that we most want to know.”

“Time of death?”

Martinsson nodded.

“None of the stakes went through his heart. And none of the main arteries was perforated. That means he could have hung there for quite a while before he died. The immediate cause of death can be given as drowning.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wallander asked in surprise. “He was hanging in a ditch, wasn’t he? He couldn’t have drowned there.”

“The doctor I talked to was full of gruesome details,” Martinsson said. “He told me that Eriksson’s lungs were so full of blood that finally he couldn’t breathe. Technically, he drowned.”

“We have to find out when he died,” Wallander said. “Contact them again.”

“I’ll see to it you get the report as soon as it comes in.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it. Considering how stuff keeps disappearing around here.”

He hadn’t meant to criticise Martinsson. When he was out in the hall he realised that his words could have been misconstrued. But by then it was too late to do anything about it. He went out to reception and greeted Tyrén, who was sitting on a vinyl sofa, staring at the floor. He was unshaven and had bloodshot eyes. The smell of oil and petrol was strong. They went to Wallander’s office.

“Why haven’t you arrested whoever killed Holger?” Tyrén asked.

“If you can tell me who did it, I’ll drive out and arrest him right now,” Wallander answered, trying to hide his irritation.

“I’m not a policeman.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. If you were, you wouldn’t have asked such a stupid question.”

When Tyrén opened his mouth to protest, Wallander held up his hand. “I’m the one asking the questions.”

“Am I under suspicion for something?”

“Not a thing. But I’ll ask the questions. And you have to answer them. That’s all.”

Tyrén shrugged his shoulders. Wallander sensed that he was on his guard. He could feel his instincts sharpening. His first question was the only one he had prepared.

“Harald Berggren,” he said. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

Tyrén looked at him.

“I don’t know any Harald Berggren. Should I?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Think!”

“I don’t have to think. If I’m sure, I’m sure.”

Wallander pushed the photograph across the desk and pointed. Tyrén leaned forwards.

“See if you recognise any of these men. Look closely. Take your time.”

Tyrén picked up the photograph in his grubby fingers. He looked at it for a long time. Wallander was beginning to feel vaguely hopeful when Tyrén put it back on the table.

“No.”

“You looked at it for a long time. Did you think you recognised one of them?”

“You told me to take my time. Who are they? Where was it taken?”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never seen them before.”

Instinct told him that Tyrén was telling the truth.

“They’re mercenaries,” he said. “It was taken in Africa more than 30 years ago.”

“The Foreign Legion?”

“Not exactly, but almost. Soldiers who fight for whoever pays the most.”

“Got to make a living somehow.”

Wallander gave him a puzzled look, but he didn’t ask Tyrén to explain himself.

“Did you ever hear that Eriksson had contact with mercenaries?”

“Holger Eriksson sold cars. I thought you knew that.”

“He also wrote poems and watched birds,” Wallander said, not hiding his irritation. “Did you or did you not ever hear Eriksson talk about mercenaries? Or about a war in Africa?”

Tyrén stared at him. “Why do policemen have to be so unpleasant?”

“Because we deal with unpleasant things,” Wallander replied. “And please just answer my questions. That’s all. Don’t make comments that have nothing to do with the case.”

“What happens if I do?”

Wallander was on the verge of losing control. But he didn’t care. There was something about this man across the desk that he just couldn’t stand.

“Then I’ll have to call you in for a talk every single day for the foreseeable future. And I’ll have to request a warrant from the prosecutor to search your home.”

“What do you think you’d find there?”

“That’s beside the point. Do you understand what’s at stake now?”