The Fifth Woman

by Henning Mankell

  He turned into a policeman again, starting by quickly reading a report on Höglund’s conversation with the woman who delivered the post to Eriksson. Höglund wrote well, without awkward sentences or irrelevant details, but there was nothing that seemed to have direct significance for the investigation. The last time Eriksson had hung out the little sign on his letter box that meant he needed to talk to the postwoman was several months ago. As far as she could remember, it had had something to do with money orders. She hadn’t noticed anything unusual at Eriksson’s farm recently, or seen any strange cars or people in the area.

  Wallander put the report aside, pulled over his notebook, and wrote some notes on the investigation. Someone had to interview Anita Lagergren at the travel agency in Malmö. When had Runfeldt reserved his trip? What was this orchid safari all about? They had to chart his life, just as they had to for Eriksson. It was especially important that they talked to his children. Wallander also wanted to know more about the equipment Runfeldt had bought. What exactly was it for? Why would a florist have these things? He was convinced that it was crucial to an understanding of what had happened. Wallander pushed the notebook away and sat hesitantly with his hand on the telephone. It was 8.15 a.m., and it was possible that Nyberg was asleep. But it couldn’t be helped. He dialled his mobile phone. Nyberg answered at once, still out in the woods. Wallander asked him how it was going.

  “We’ve got dogs here,” Nyberg said. “They’ve picked up the scent from the rope at the logging site. But that’s not so strange, since it’s the only way up here. I think we can assume that Runfeldt didn’t walk. There must have been a car.”

  “Any tyre tracks?”

  “Quite a few. But I can’t tell you which is which yet.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The rope is from a factory in Denmark.”

  “Denmark?”

  “I should think it could be bought just about anywhere that sells rope. Anyway, it seems new. Bought for the occasion,” said Nyberg, to Wallander’s disgust.

  “Have you been able to find any sign that he resisted being tied to the tree? Or that he tried to work his way loose?”

  “No. I haven’t found any traces of a struggle nearby, the ground wasn’t disturbed. And there are no marks on the rope or the tree trunk. He was tied up there, and he stood still.”

  “How do you interpret that?”

  “There are two possibilities,” Nyberg replied. “Either he was already dead, or at least unconscious, when he was tied up, or else he chose not to resist. But that’s hard to believe.”

  Wallander thought about it.

  “There’s a third possibility,” he said finally. “Runfeldt simply didn’t have the strength to put up any resistance.”

  That was also a possibility, and maybe the most likely, Nyberg agreed.

  “Let me ask one more thing,” Wallander said. “I know you can’t be certain, but we always imagine how something might have happened. Nobody guesses more often than policemen do, even though we might deny that we do. Was there more than one person there, do you think?”

  “There are plenty of reasons why there should have been more than one person. Dragging a man into the woods and tying him up isn’t that easy. But I doubt that there was.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, to be honest.”

  “Go back to the ditch in Lödinge. What sort of feeling did you have there?”

  “The same. There should have been more than one. But I’m not sure.

  “I have that feeling too,” Wallander said. “And it bothers me.”

  “At any rate, I think we’re dealing with a person of great physical strength,” Nyberg said. “There are plenty of indicators.”

  Wallander had no more questions.

  “Otherwise nothing else at the scene?”

  “A couple of beer cans and a false nail. That’s it.”

  “A false nail?”

  “The kind that women use. But it could have been here quite a while.”

  “Try to get some sleep,” Wallander said.

  “And when would I have time for that?” Nyberg answered. Wallander could hear him suddenly getting annoyed. He hung up, and the phone rang instantly. It was Martinsson.

  “Can I come and see you?” he asked. “When are we supposed to have another meeting?”

  “Nine o’clock. We’ve got time.”

  Wallander hung up. Martinsson must have come up with something. He could feel the tension. What they needed most of all right now was a breakthrough.

  Martinsson came in and sat down. He got straight to the point.

  “I’ve been thinking about all that mercenary stuff. And Berggren’s diary. This morning when I woke up it struck me that I’ve actually met a person who was in the Congo at the same time as Harald Berggren.”

  “As a mercenary?” asked Wallander in surprise.

  “No. As a member of the Swedish UN contingent that was supposed to disarm the Belgian forces in Katanga province.”

  Wallander shook his head. “I was 12 or 13 when all that happened. I don’t remember much about it. Actually, nothing except that Dag Hammarskjöld was in a plane crash.”

  “I wasn’t even born,” Martinsson said. “But I remember something about it from school.”

  “Who was it you met?”

  “Several years ago I was going to meetings of the People’s Party,” Martinsson continued. “There was often coffee afterwards. I got an ulcer from all the coffee I drank in those days.”

  Wallander drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk.

  “At one of the meetings I wound up sitting next to a man of about 60. How we got to talking about it I don’t know, but he told me he’d been a captain and adjutant to General von Horn, who was commander of the Swedish UN force in the Congo. I remember him mentioning that there were mercenaries involved.”

  Wallander listened with growing interest.

  “I made a few calls this morning. One of my fellow party members knew who that captain was. His name is Olof Hanzell, and he’s retired. He lives in Nybrostrand.”

  “Great,” Wallander said. “Let’s pay him a visit as soon as possible.”

  “I’ve already called him. He said he’d gladly talk to the police if we thought he could help. He sounded lucid and claimed he has an excellent memory.”

  Martinsson placed a slip of paper with a phone number on Wallander’s desk.

  “We have to try everything,” Wallander said. “This morning’s meeting will be short.”

  Martinsson stood up to go. He stopped in the door.

  “Did you see the papers?” he asked.

  “When would I have time for that?”

  “People in Lödinge and other areas have been talking to the press. After what happened to Eriksson they’ve started talking about the need for a citizen militia.”

  “They’ve always done that,” Wallander replied. “That’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Martinsson said. “There’s something different about these stories.”

  “What’s that?”

  “People aren’t speaking anonymously any more. They’re giving their names. That’s never happened before. The idea of a citizen militia is acceptable all of a sudden.”

  Wallander knew that Martinsson was right, but he still doubted that it was more than the usual manifestation of fear when a brutal crime had been committed.

  “There’ll be more tomorrow once the news about Runfeldt gets out. It would probably be a good idea for us to prepare Chief Holgersson for what’s coming.”

  “What’s your impression?” Martinsson asked.

  “Of Lisa Holgersson? I think she seems first-rate.”

  Martinsson stepped back into the room. Wallander saw how tired he was. He had aged rapidly during his years as a policeman.

  “I thought what happened this summer was the exception,” he said. “Now I realise it wasn’t.”

  “There aren’t many simil
arities,” Wallander said. “We shouldn’t draw parallels that aren’t there.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking about. It’s all this violence. As if nowadays it’s not enough to kill, you have to torture your victims as well.”

  “I know. But I can’t tell you how we’re supposed to deal with it.”

  Martinsson left the room. Wallander thought about what he had heard. He decided to talk to Captain Olof Hanzell himself that very day.

  As Wallander had predicted, the meeting was brief. Even though no-one had had much sleep, they all seemed determined and energised. Per Åkeson had shown up to listen to Wallander’s summary. Afterwards he had very few questions.

  They divided up the assignments and discussed what should be given priority. The question of calling in extra manpower was left for the time being. Chief Holgersson had released more officers from other assignments so they could take part in the murder investigations, which would now involve twice as much work. When the meeting neared its conclusion after about an hour, they all had far too much work to handle.

  “One more thing,” Wallander said in closing. “We have to expect that these murders are going to get a lot of press. What we’ve seen so far is just the tip of the iceberg. As I understand it, people out in the surrounding areas have started to talk again about organising night patrols and a citizen militia. We’ll have to wait and see if things develop the way I think they will. For now, it’s easier if the chief and I handle the contact with the press. And I’d be grateful if Ann-Britt could help out at our press conferences.”

  Wallander talked to Chief Holgersson for a while after the meeting. They decided to hold a press conference at 5.30 p.m that day. Wallander went to find Per Åkeson, but he had already left. He went back to his office and called the number Martinsson had given him, remembering as he did so that he still hadn’t put Svedberg’s note on his desk. Captain Hanzell answered the phone. He had a friendly voice. Wallander introduced himself and asked if he could come out and see him that morning. Hanzell said he was welcome to, and gave him directions.

  When Wallander left the station the sky had cleared again. It was windy, but the sun was shining between the scattered clouds. He reminded himself to put a jumper in his car. Though he was in a hurry, he stopped at an estate agent’s and stood looking at the properties for sale in the window. One of the houses looked promising. If he’d had more time he would have gone and asked about it. He went back to his car, wondering whether Linda had managed to get on a plane to Stockholm or was still waiting at Sturup.

  After taking several wrong turns, he finally found the correct address. He parked the car and walked through the gate of a villa that must have been less than ten years old, but still seemed rather dilapidated. The front door was opened by a man dressed in a tracksuit. He had close-cropped grey hair, a thin moustache, and seemed to be in good physical shape. He smiled and held out his hand in greeting. Wallander introduced himself.

  “My wife died years ago,” Hanzell said. “Since then I’ve lived alone. Please forgive the mess. But come on in!”

  The first thing Wallander noticed was a large African drum in the hall. Hanzell followed his gaze.

  “The year I was in the Congo was the journey of my life. I never travelled again. The children were small and my wife didn’t want to. And then one day it was too late.”

  He invited Wallander into the living room, where coffee cups were set out on a table. There too, African mementos hung on the walls. Wallander sat down on a sofa and said yes to coffee. Actually, he was hungry and could use something to eat. Hanzell had put out a tray of biscuits.

  “I bake them myself,” he said, nodding at the biscuits. “It’s a good pastime for an old soldier.”

  Wallander wanted to get to the point. He took the photograph of the three men out of his pocket and handed it across the table.

  “I want to start by asking whether you recognise any of these men. I can tell you that the picture was taken in the Congo at the time that the Swedish UN force was there.”

  Hanzell took the photograph and put on a pair of reading glasses. Wallander remembered the visit he would have to make to the optician. Hanzell took the photograph over to the window and looked at it for a long time. Wallander listened to the silence that filled the house. He waited. Then Hanzell came back from the window. Without a word he laid the photograph on the table and left the room. Wallander ate another biscuit. He had almost decided to go and look for Hanzell when he returned with a photograph album in his hand, went back to the window, and starting leafing through it. Wallander kept waiting. Finally Hanzell found what he was looking for. He came back to the table and handed the open album to Wallander.

  “Look at the picture at the lower left,” Hanzell said. “It’s not very clear, I’m afraid. But I think it might interest you.”

  Wallander looked. He gave an inward start. The photographs showed some dead soldiers. They lay lined up with bloody faces, arms blown off, their torsos torn apart by bullets. The soldiers were black. Behind them stood two white men holding rifles. They stood posing as if for a hunting photograph. The dead soldiers were their trophies.

  Wallander recognised one of the white men at once. It was the one standing on the left in the photograph he had found stuffed into the binding of Harald Berggren’s diary. There was absolutely no doubt.

  “I thought I recognised him,” Hanzell said. “But I couldn’t be sure. It took me a while to find the right album.”

  “Who is he? Terry O’Banion or Simon Marchand?”

  He saw Hanzell react with surprise.

  “Simon Marchand,” he replied. “I must admit I’m curious how you knew that.”

  “I’ll explain in a minute. But first tell me how you got hold of these pictures.”

  Hanzell sat down.

  “How much do you know about what was going on in the Congo in those days?” he asked.

  “Practically nothing.”

  “Let me give you some background. I think it’s necessary so you can understand.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Wallander said.

  “Let me start in 1953. At that time there were four independent countries in Africa that were members of the UN. Seven years later that number had climbed to 26. Which means that the entire African continent was in turmoil. Decolonisation had entered its most dramatic phase. New countries were proclaiming their independence in a steady stream. The birth pangs were often severe. But not always as severe as they were in the Belgian Congo. In 1959, the Belgian government worked out a plan for making the transition to independence. The date for the transfer of power was set for 30 June 1960. The closer that day came, the more the unrest in the country grew. Tribes took different sides, and acts of politically motivated violence happened every day. But independence came, and an experienced politician named Kasavubu became president, while Lumumba became prime minister. Lumumba is a name you’ve heard before, I presume.”

  Wallander nodded doubtfully.

  “For a few days it looked as though there would be a peaceful transition from colony to independent state, in spite of everything. But then Force Publique, the country’s regular army, mutinied against their Belgian officers. Belgian paratroopers were dropped in to rescue their own men. The country quickly sank into chaos. The situation became uncontrollable for Kasavubu and Lumumba. At the same time, Katanga province, the southernmost in the country and the richest because of its mineral resources, proclaimed its independence. Their leader was Moise Tshombe.

  “Kasavubu and Lumumba requested help from the UN. Dag Hammarskjöld, the General Secretary at the time, quickly mustered an interventionist force of UN troops, including troops from Sweden. Our role was to serve as police only. The Belgians who were left in the Congo supported Tshombe in Katanga. With money from the big mining companies, they hired mercenaries. And that’s where this photograph comes in.”

  Hanzell paused and took a sip of coffee.

  “That might give you some i
dea how tense and complex the situation was.”

  “I can see it must have been extremely confusing,” Wallander replied, waiting impatiently for him to continue.

  “Several hundred mercenaries were involved during the conflict in Katanga,” Hanzell said. “They came from many different countries: France, Belgium, the French colonies in Africa. It was only 15 years after the end of the Second World War, and there were still plenty of Germans who couldn’t accept that the war had ended. They took their revenge on innocent Africans. There were also a number of Scandinavians. Some of them died and were buried in graves that can no longer be located. On one occasion an African came to the Swedish UN encampment. He had the papers and photographs of a number of mercenaries who had fallen. But none were Swedes.”

  “Why did he come to the Swedish encampment?”

  “We were known to be polite and generous. He came with a cardboard box and wanted to sell the contents. God knows where he had got hold of it.”

  “And you bought it?”

  “I think I paid the equivalent of ten kronor for the box. I threw most of it away. But I kept a few of the photographs. Including this one.”

  Wallander decided to go one step further.

  “Harald Berggren,” he said. “One of the other men in the photograph is Swedish and that’s his name. He must be either the one in the middle or the one on the right. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  Hanzell shook his head.

  “No. But on the other hand, that’s not so surprising.”

  “Why?”

  “Many of the mercenaries changed their names. Not just the Swedes. You took a new name for the time of your contract. When it was all over and if you were lucky enough to be alive, you could assume your old name again.”

  “So Harald Berggren could have been in the Congo under a different name?’”

  “Exactly.”

  “And that could also mean that he may have been killed under another name?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s almost impossible to say whether he’s alive or dead, and it would be almost impossible to find him, if he didn’t want to be found.”