The Fifth Woman (28 page)

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.

Åkeson nodded without saying anything. In all the years Wallander had worked with him, he had never known Åkeson 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 Älmhult ten years ago, he decided to follow his intuition. When he finished eating he called the Hotel Sekelgården. 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 Älmhult. 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 Älmhult. 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 Sekelgården 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 Höör did Wallander tell him where they were going.

It started to rain just after they left Höör. By then Wallander had begun to doubt the whole undertaking. Was it really worth the trouble of driving all the way to Älmhult? 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 reluctance 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 Småland 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?”

“What else did he say?”

“He asked me to try to get hold of my sister.”

“So he called you first?”

“Yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“We came down to Skåne. Just like now. The funeral was a week later. I spoke to a policeman. He said that the ice must have been unexpectedly thin. My mother wasn’t a big person.”

“Is that what he said? The police officer you spoke to? That the ice must have been ‘unexpectedly thin’?”

“I have a good memory for detail. Maybe that’s why I’m an accountant.”

They passed a café and decided to stop. During the brief meal, Wallander asked Runfeldt about his work in international accounting. He listened without paying much attention. Instead, he went over their conversation in his mind. Something was important, but he couldn’t quite pin it down. As they were about to leave the café, his phone rang. It was Martinsson. Runfeldt stepped aside to give Wallander some privacy.

“We seem to be out of luck,” Martinsson said. “Of the officers who were working in Älmhult ten years ago, one is dead and the other has retired to Örebro.”

Wallander was disappointed. Without a reliable informant, the trip would lose much of its purpose.

“I don’t even know how to find the lake,” he complained. “Aren’t there any ambulance drivers? Wasn’t the fire department called in to pull her out?”

“I’ve located the man who offered to help Gösta Runfeldt,” said Martinsson. “I know his name and where he lives. The problem is that he doesn’t have a phone.”

“Is there really somebody in this country today who doesn’t have a phone?”

“Apparently. Do you have a pen?”

Wallander searched his pockets. As usual he didn’t have either a pen or paper. He waved over Runfeldt, who handed Wallander a gold-plated pen and one of his business cards.

“Jacob Hoslowski,” Martinsson said. “He’s an eccentric man who lives alone in a cottage not far from Stång Lake, which is due north of Älmhult. I talked to a woman at the Town Hall who said that there’s a sign to Stång Lake next to his driveway. But she couldn’t give me exact directions. You’ll have to stop at a house and ask.”

“Do we have somewhere to stay overnight?”

“IKEA has a hotel, and you have rooms reserved.”

“Doesn’t IKEA sell furniture?”

“Yes, they do. But they also have a hotel. The IKEA Inn.”

“Anything happening?”

“Everyone’s really busy, but it sounds as if Hamrén’s coming down from Stockholm to help out.”

Wallander remembered the two police detectives from Stockholm who had assisted them during the summer. He had nothing against having them again.

“Not Ludwigsson?”

“He was in a car accident; he’s in hospital.”

“Serious?”

“I’ll find out, but I didn’t get that impression.”

Wallander hung up and returned the pen.

“It looks valuable,” he said.

“Being an accountant for Price Waterhouse is one of the best jobs around,” Runfeldt said. “At least in terms of salary and future prospects. Wise parents today advise their children to become accountants.”

“What’s the average salary?” asked Wallander.

“Most people who are employed above a certain level have individual contracts. Which are confidential, of course.”

Wallander took this to mean that the salaries were extremely high. His own salary as a detective with many years of experience was quite low. If he had taken a position in the private sector, he could have earned at least double what he was on now, but he had made his choice, he would stay with the police, at least as long as he could survive on his salary.

They reached Älmhult at 5 p.m. Runfeldt asked if it was really necessary to stay the night. Wallander didn’t have a good answer. Runfeldt could have taken the train back to Malmö. But Wallander told him that they wouldn’t be able to visit the lake until the following day because it would soon be dark, and he wanted Runfeldt to go with him.

After they checked into the hotel, Wallander set off at once to find Jacob Hoslowski’s house. He stopped at the road sign posted at the entrance to the town and made a note of Stång Lake’s location, then headed away from town. It was already dusk. He turned left and then left again. The forest was dense. The open landscape of Skåne was far behind him. He stopped when he saw a man mending a gate near the road. The man gave him directions, and Wallander drove on. The engine started to knock. His Peugeot was getting old. He wondered how he could afford a new one. He had bought this car after his first one had blown up on the E65 one night. It had also been a Peugeot. Wallander had the feeling that his next car would be the same make. The older he got, the harder it was for him to break his habits.

When he reached the next turn-off, Wallander drove down a rough dirt road. After 100 metres he stopped and parked, afraid that he might get stuck. He got out of the car and started walking. There was a rustling in the trees that stood close together along the narrow road. He walked briskly to keep warm.

The house stood right on the side of the road. It was an old-fashioned cottage. The yard was full of old cars. A solitary rooster was sitting on a stump, staring at him. There was a light in one window. Wallander saw that it was a kerosene lamp. He wondered whether he should postpone his visit until the following day, but he had come so far. He went up to the front door. The rooster sat motionless on the stump. He knocked. After a moment he heard a shuffling sound and the door opened. The man standing there in the dim light was younger than Wallander had expected, maybe about 40. Wallander introduced himself.