The Fifth Woman (27 page)

Just as she was passing the station a woman came out. It was bad luck. The woman stared at her. It was an older woman, presumably one of the midwives.

She kept walking towards the exit doors. The woman yelled and started running after her. She walked faster. But the woman grabbed her left arm and asked who she was and what she was doing there. It was a shame that this woman had to interfere, she thought. She spun around and hit her with the glove. She didn’t want to hurt her badly, and so she took care not to hit her on the temple, which could be fatal. She struck her hard on one cheek – hard enough to knock her out. The woman groaned and fell to the floor.

She turned around to leave, but felt two hands gripping her leg. When she looked back she realised she hadn’t struck hard enough. At the same time she heard a door open somewhere in the distance. She was about to lose control of the situation. She yanked her leg away and bent down to deliver another blow. The woman scratched her in the face. Now she struck without worrying if it was too hard or not, right in the temple. The woman sank to the floor.

She fled through the glass doors, her cheek stinging where the midwife’s nails had torn her skin. No-one called after her. She wiped her face, and her white sleeve showed streaks of blood. She stuffed the glove in her pocket and took off her clogs so she could run faster. She wondered whether the hospital had an internal alarm system. But she got out without being caught. When she reached her car and looked at her face in the rear-view mirror, she saw that she had only a few scratches.

Things hadn’t gone the way she had planned. But you couldn’t always expect them to. What was important was that she had succeeded in persuading the woman to reveal the name of the man who had caused her so much grief.

Eugen Blomberg.

She still had 48 hours to begin her investigation and draw up a plan and a timetable. She was in no hurry. It would take as long as necessary. She didn’t think she’d need more than a week.

The oven was empty. It was waiting.

Just after 8 a.m. on Thursday morning the investigative team was assembled in the conference room. Wallander had asked Åkeson to attend. As he was about to begin, he noticed someone was missing.

“Where’s Svedberg? Didn’t he come in today?”

“He’s been in, but he left again,” Martinsson said. “Evidently there was an assault up at the hospital last night. He said he’d probably be back soon.”

A vague memory flitted through Wallander’s head, but he couldn’t pin it down. Something to do with Svedberg and the hospital.

“This brings the need for additional personnel to a head,” Åkeson said. “We can’t avoid the issue any longer, I’m afraid.”

Wallander knew what he meant. On several earlier occasions he and Åkeson had clashed over whether they should request extra manpower or not.

“We’ll take up that question at the end of the meeting,” Wallander said. “Let’s start with where we actually stand in this mess.”

“Stockholm has called a few times,” Chief Holgersson said, “and I don’t think I need to tell you who it was. These violent events are clouding the image of the friendly local police force.”

A mixture of resignation and mirth swept through the room. But no-one commented on what Lisa Holgersson had said. Martinsson yawned audibly. Wallander seized on that as a starting point.

“We’re all tired. A policeman’s curse is lack of sleep. At least in crises like this.”

He was interrupted by the door opening. Nyberg came in. Wallander knew that he had been talking on the phone to the forensic laboratory in Linköping. He hobbled up to the table using his crutch.

“How’s your foot?” Wallander asked him.

“It’s better than being impaled on bamboo from Thailand,” he replied.

Wallander gave him an inquiring look.

“Do we know that for sure? That it’s from Thailand?”

“We do. It’s imported for making fishing rods and furniture by a company in Bremen. We talked to their Swedish agent. They import more than 100,000 bamboo poles each year. It’s impossible to say where they were purchased, but I just talked to Linköping. They can determine how long the bamboo has been in Sweden.”

Wallander nodded.

“Anything else?” he asked, still facing Nyberg.

“With regard to Eriksson or Runfeldt?”

“Either one.”

Nyberg opened his notebook.

“The planks for Eriksson’s bridge came from the Building Warehouse in Ystad. The murder scene is clean of any objects that might have helped us. On the side of the hill where he had his birdwatching tower there’s a tractor path that we can assume the killer used, if he came by car, which I’m assuming he did. We’ve taken impressions of all the tyre tracks we found. But the whole scene is extraordinarily devoid of clues.”

“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 Höglund. “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. Åkeson stayed behind.

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

Wallander felt a pang of jealousy. Åkeson 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.”

Åkeson 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 Gösta Runfeldt,” Wallander said.

Höglund 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 table, 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 Jämtland. About 50 kilometres from the border of Härjadal.”

“What did Eriksson have to do with that place? He was from Skåne, 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.”