The Fifth Woman (47 page)

The weary mood lifted for a moment. Wallander seized the opportunity and stood up. It was important to know when to end a meeting. Now was the time. They wouldn’t make any more progress. They needed sleep.

Wallander went to his office. He leafed through the steadily growing stack of phone messages. Instead of putting on his jacket, he sat down in his chair. Footsteps disappeared down the hall. Soon it was quiet. He twisted the lamp down to shine on the desk. The rest of the room was dark.

It was 12.30. Without thinking he grabbed the phone and dialled Baiba in Riga. She had irregular sleeping habits, just as he did. Sometimes she went to bed early, but just as often she stayed up half the night. She answered almost at once. She was awake. As always he tried to hear from her tone of voice whether she was glad he had called. He never felt sure ahead of time. This time he sensed that she was wary. He was instantly insecure. He wanted reassurance that everything was the way it should be. He asked her how she was, told her about the exhausting investigation. She asked a few questions. Then he didn’t know how to continue. Silence began wandering back and forth between Ystad and Riga.

“When are you coming over?” he asked at last.

Her response surprised him, even though it shouldn’t have.

“Do you really want me to come?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You never call. And when you do call, you say you really don’t have time to talk to me. So how are you going to have any time to spend with me if I come to Ystad?”

“That’s not how it is.”

“Then how is it?”

Where his reaction came from, he had no idea. Not then or later. He tried to stop his own impulse, but he couldn’t. He slammed the receiver down hard and stared at the phone. Then he got up and left the station. Even before he got to reception, he regretted it. But he knew Baiba well enough to know that she wouldn’t answer if he called her back.

He stepped out into the night air. A police car rolled past and vanished in the direction of the water tower. There was no wind. The night air was chilly, the sky clear.

He didn’t understand his own reaction. What would have happened if she had been there, right next to him?

He thought about the murdered men. It was as if he suddenly saw something he hadn’t seen before. Part of himself was hidden in all the brutality that surrounded him. He was a part of it. Only the degree was different. Nothing else.

He shook his head. He knew he ought to call Baiba early in the morning. It didn’t have to be so terrible. She understood. Fatigue could make her irritable too.

It was 1 a.m. He should go home to bed, ask an officer to drive him home. But instead he started walking. Somewhere a car skidded, tyres screeching. Then silence. He walked down the hill towards the hospital.

The investigative team had sat in the meeting for seven hours. Nothing had really happened, and yet the evening had been eventful. Clarity arises in the spaces in between, Rydberg had said once when he was quite drunk. Wallander, who was at least as drunk, had understood. He’d never forgotten it, either. They were sitting on Rydberg’s balcony. Five, maybe six years ago. Rydberg was not yet ill. It was an evening in June, right before Midsummer. They were celebrating something, Wallander had forgotten what it was.

Clarity arises in the spaces in between.

He had reached the hospital. He stopped. He hesitated, but only briefly. Then he walked round the side of the hospital and rang the night bell. When a voice answered he said who he was and asked whether the midwife Ylva Brink was on duty. She was.

She met him outside the glass doors of her ward. He could see by her face that she was nervous. He smiled, but her unease didn’t diminish. Maybe his smile didn’t look genuine. Or the light was bad. They went inside. She asked if he’d like some coffee. He shook his head.

“I’ll only stay for a moment,” he said. “You must be busy.”

“Yes,” she replied. “But I can spare a few minutes. If it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“It probably could,” Wallander replied. “But I was passing on my way home.”

They went into the office. A nurse on her way in stopped when she saw Wallander.

“It can wait,” she said and left.

Wallander leaned against the desk. Ylva Brink sat down.

“You must have wondered,” he began, “about the woman who knocked you down. Who she was. Why she was here. Why she did what she did. You must have thought long and hard about it. You’ve given us a good description of her face. Maybe there’s some detail you thought of afterwards.”

“You’re right, I’ve been thinking about it. But I’ve told you everything I can remember about her face.”

He believed her.

“It doesn’t have to be her face. She might have had a certain way of moving. Or a scar on her hand. A human being is a combination of so many different details. We think we can trust our memory, and that all of the details are there, just like that. Actually it’s just the opposite. Imagine an object that can almost float, that sinks through water extremely slowly. That’s the way memory works.”

She shook her head.

“It happened so fast. I don’t remember anything except what I’ve already told you. And I’ve really tried.”

Wallander nodded. He hadn’t really expected anything else.

“What has she done?” Ylva asked.

“She knocked you down. We’re looking for her. We think she might have some important information for us. That’s all I can tell you.”

A clock on the wall read 1.27 a.m. He put out his hand to say goodbye, and they left the office.

Suddenly she stopped him.

“There might be something else,” she said hesitantly.

“What is it?”

“I didn’t think about it then, when I went towards her and she knocked me down. It wasn’t until afterwards.”

“What?”

“She was wearing a perfume that was special.”

“In what way?”

She gave him almost an imploring look.

“I don’t know. How does one describe a scent?”

“That’s one of the hardest things to do. But give it a try.”

He could see that she was making a real effort.

“No,” she said. “I can’t find the words. I just know that it was special. Maybe you could say that it was harsh.”

“More like after-shave lotion?”

She looked at him in surprise.

“Yes,” she said. “How did you know that?”

“It was just a thought.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Since I can’t express myself clearly.”

“Oh no,” he replied. “This could turn out to be valuable. We never know ahead of time.”

They parted at the glass doors. Wallander took the lift down and left the hospital. He walked fast. Now he had to get some sleep. He thought about what she had said. If there were any traces of perfume left on the name tag holder, she would be asked to smell it early the next morning. He already knew that it would be the same. They were looking for a woman. Her perfume was special. But would they ever find her?

At 7.35 a.m. her shift ended. She was in a hurry, driven by a sudden restlessness. It was a cold, wet morning in Malmö. She hurried towards the car park. Normally she would have driven straight home and gone to bed. Now she knew that she had to go to Lund. She tossed the bag in the back and got in. When she took the steering wheel she could feel that her hands were sweating.

She never had been able to trust Katarina Taxell. The woman was too weak. There had always been the risk that she would cave in. Taxell was the sort of person who bruised easily. So far, she had judged her control over Taxell to be sufficient. Now she was less sure.

I have to get her out of there, she had thought all night long. At least until she begins to put some distance between herself and what happened. It shouldn’t be difficult to persuade her to leave her flat for the time being. There was nothing unusual in a woman developing psychological problems in connection with the birth of a child.

It was raining when she arrived in Lund. Her uneasiness persisted. She parked in a side street and started walking towards the square where Katarina Taxell’s building was. Suddenly she stopped. She took a few wary steps back, as if a predator had abruptly appeared in front of her. She stood next to the wall of a building and observed the front door of Taxell’s block of flats.

There was a car parked outside with a man, or maybe two, sitting in it. She was instantly sure they were policemen. Katarina Taxell was being watched.

The panic came out of nowhere. She couldn’t see it, but she knew that her face was flaming red. She was having palpitations. The thoughts swirled in her head like confused nocturnal animals in a room when a light is turned on. What had Katarina said? Why were they sitting outside her front door?

Or was it only her imagination? She stood motionless and tried to think calmly. She could be certain that Katarina hadn’t told them anything. Otherwise they wouldn’t be watching her. They would have taken her down to the station. So it wasn’t too late after all. But she probably didn’t have much time. Not that she needed much. She knew what she had to do.

She lit a cigarette that she had rolled during the night. According to her timetable, it was at least an hour too early. Now she broke with routine. This day was going to be special. There was no getting around it.

She stood there for several minutes more and watched the car by the front door. Then she put out the cigarette and walked quickly away.

When Wallander woke up just after 6 a.m. on Wednesday morning, he was still tired. His sleep deprivation was huge. The powerlessness was like a lead weight deep in his consciousness. He lay in bed with his eyes open. A human being is an animal who lives to endure, he thought. But right now, it seems I can’t handle it any more.

He sat up on the edge of his bed. The floor was cold beneath his feet. He looked at his toenails. They needed cutting. His whole body needed an overhaul. A month earlier he had been in Rome, storing up new energy. It was all used up. He forced himself to stand up. He went into the bathroom. The cold water was like a slap in the face. Someday he’d have to quit doing this – using cold water to get himself going. He dried off, put on his dressing gown, and went to the kitchen. Always the same routine. The coffee, then the window, the thermometer. It was raining and it was 4°C. Autumn, and the cold already had a firm grip. Someone at the police station had predicted a long winter. That was what he feared.

When the coffee was ready, he sat at the kitchen table, after having picked up the morning paper from outside his door. On the front page was a photograph taken at Lödinge. He took a few sips of coffee. Already he had moved beyond the first and highest threshold of fatigue. His mornings were sometimes like an obstacle course. It was time for him to call Baiba.

She answered on the second ring. It was the way he’d imagined it during the night. Things were different now.

“I’m exhausted,” he excused himself.

“I know,” she replied. “But my question still stands.”

“Whether I want you to come?”

“Yes.”

“There’s nothing that I want more.”

She believed him. Maybe she could come in early November. She would start looking into the possibility that day.

They didn’t need to talk long. Neither of them liked the telephone. Afterwards, when Wallander returned to his cup of coffee, he thought that this time he’d have to have a serious talk with her about whether she would move to Sweden. About the new house. Maybe he’d even tell her about the dog.

He sat there a long time without even opening the newspaper. He didn’t get dressed until almost 7.30 a.m. He had to search for a long time before he found a clean shirt. It was his last. He had to sign up to use the laundry room today. As he was on his way out, the phone rang. It was the garage in Älmhult. He flinched when he heard the total bill for the repairs, but he said nothing. The mechanic promised that the car would be in Ystad later in the day. He had a brother who could drive it down and then take the train home. All he’d be charged for was the price of the train ticket.

When Wallander reached the street, he saw it was raining harder than it had looked. He went back inside and called the police station. Ebba said she would send a squad car to pick him up. Five minutes later it pulled up outside. By 8 a.m. he was in his office.

He had barely managed to take off his jacket when everything seemed to start to happen at once. Höglund was standing in his door. She was pale.

“Did you hear?”

Wallander gave a start. Again? Another man murdered?

“I just got in. What is it?”

“Martinsson’s daughter has been attacked.”

“Terese?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“She was attacked outside her school. Martinsson’s just left. If I understood Svedberg correctly, it had to do with Martinsson being a police officer.”

Wallander was thunderstruck. “Is she seriously hurt?”

“She was pushed and punched in the head, and kicked too, apparently. She wasn’t badly injured, but she’s certainly had a shock.”

“Who did it?”

“Other students. Older than her.”

Wallander sat down in his chair. “That’s outrageous! But why?”

“I don’t know everything that happened. The students have been talking about the citizen militia too, saying that the police aren’t doing anything. That we’ve given up.”

“So they jump on Martinsson’s daughter?”

“Right.”

Wallander felt a lump in his throat. Terese was 13 years old, and Martinsson talked about her constantly.

“Why would they attack an innocent girl?”

“Did you see the paper?” she asked.

“No, why?”

“You ought to. People are talking about Eskil Bengtsson and the others. The arrests are being described as scandalous. They’re claiming that Åke Davidsson fought back. There’s a big story about it with pictures, and placards at the newsstands that say: ‘Whose side are the police on, anyway?’”