The Fifth Woman

by Henning Mankell

  Ekberg put down the photograph and the magnifying glass.

  “Of course I know who Harald Berggren is.”

  Wallander gave a start. He didn’t know what kind of answer he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that.

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s dead. He died seven years ago.”

  That was a possibility Wallander had considered. Even so, it came as a disappointment.

  “What happened?”

  “He committed suicide. Which isn’t unusual for people with a great deal of courage who have experienced fighting in combat units under difficult conditions.”

  “Why did he commit suicide?”

  Ekberg shrugged. “I think he’d had enough.”

  “Enough what?”

  “What is it you’ve had enough of when you take your own life? Life itself. The boredom. The weariness that hits you every morning when you look at your face in the mirror.”

  “What happened?”

  “He lived in Sollentuna, north of Stockholm. One Sunday morning he stuck his revolver in his pocket and took a bus to the end of the line. He went into the woods and shot himself.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I just know. And that means that he couldn’t have been involved with a murder in Skåne. Unless he’s a ghost. Or set a time bomb for someone that just went off.”

  Wallander had left the diary behind in Skåne. Now he thought that this might have been a mistake.

  “Harald Berggren wrote a diary in the Congo. We found it in the safe belonging to a car dealer named Holger Eriksson, one of the men who was murdered. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  Ekberg shook his head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my memory.”

  “Can you think of any reason why the diary would have ended up there?”

  “No.”

  “Can you think of any reason why these two men might have known each other more than seven years ago?”

  “I only met Berggren once. The year before he died. I was living in Stockholm at the time. He came to visit me one evening. He was restless. He told me he was spending his time travelling around the country, working a month here and a month there, while he waited for a new war to start. He had a profession, after all.”

  Wallander realised that he had overlooked that possibility. Even though it was in the diary, on one of the very first pages.

  “You mean the fact that he was a mechanic?”

  For the first time Ekberg looked surprised.

  “How do you know that?”

  “It was in the diary.”

  “A car dealer might have had use for a mechanic. Maybe Harald passed through Skåne and met this Eriksson.”

  Wallander nodded. It was a possibility.

  “Was Berggren homosexual?” Wallander asked.

  Ekberg laughed.

  “Very,” he said.

  “Is that common among mercenaries?”

  “It’s not unusual. I presume it also occurs among policemen, doesn’t it?”

  Wallander didn’t reply.

  “Does it occur among human resources consultants?” he asked instead.

  Ekberg was standing next to the jukebox. He smiled at Wallander.

  “It does.”

  “You advertise in Terminator. You offer your services. But it doesn’t say what those services are.”

  “I arrange contacts.”

  “What sort of contacts?”

  “With various employers who might possibly be of interest.”

  “Combat assignments?”

  “Sometimes. Bodyguards, transport protection. It varies. If I wanted to, I could supply the newspapers with amazing stories.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “I have the trust of my clients.”

  “I’m not part of the newspaper world.”

  Ekberg had sat back down in his chair.

  “Terre Blanche in South Africa,” he said. “The leader of the neo-Nazi party among the Boers. He has two Swedish bodyguards. That’s one example. But if you mention it in public I’ll deny it, of course.”

  “I won’t say a word,” Wallander said.

  “Can I have the photograph?” Ekberg asked. “I have a little collection.”

  “Keep it,” Wallander said, getting to his feet. “We’ve got the original.”

  “Who has the negative?”

  “I wonder that myself.”

  After Wallander was already out the door it struck him that there was one more question.

  “Why do you do all this, anyway?”

  “I get postcards from all over the world,” he said. “That’s all.”

  Wallander understood that this was the best answer he was going to get.

  “I don’t believe it. But I might call you up, if I have any more questions.”

  Ekberg nodded. Then he shut the door.

  When Wallander reached the street it was sleeting. It was 11 a.m. He decided that he had nothing else to do in Gävle. He got into his car. Berggren hadn’t killed Eriksson, or Runfeldt for that matter. What could have been a lead had dissolved into thin air.

  We’ll have to start all over again, Wallander thought. We’ll have to go back to the beginning and cross out Harald Berggren. We’ll forget about shrunken heads and diaries. Then what will we see? It ought to be possible to find Harald Berggren on a list of Eriksson’s former employees. And we should also be able to find out if Eriksson was homosexual.

  The top layer of the investigation had yielded nothing. They would have to dig deeper.

  Wallander started the engine and drove straight to Arlanda Airport. When he arrived he had some trouble finding the place to turn in the rental car. By 2 p.m. he was sitting on a sofa in the departure hall waiting for his plane. He leafed distractedly through a newspaper someone had left behind.

  The plane left Arlanda on time. Wallander fell asleep almost as soon as they took off and woke on the descent to Sturup Airport. Next to him sat a woman darning a sock. Wallander looked at her in amazement.

  As he got off the plane, he remembered he’d have to call Älmhult to find out how his car was doing. He’d have to take a taxi to Ystad. But as he headed for the airport exit, he discovered Martinsson waiting for him. He knew something must have happened.

  Not another one, he thought. Anything but that.

  Martinsson saw him coming.

  “What’s happened?” asked Wallander.

  “You must have had your mobile phone turned off,” said Martinsson. “It’s been impossible to get hold of you.”

  Wallander waited. He held his breath.

  “We found Runfeldt’s suitcase,” Martinsson said.

  “Where?”

  “It was left in plain view on the side of the road to Höör.”

  “Who found it?”

  “A man who stopped to take a piss. He saw the suitcase, opened it, and found papers inside with Runfeldt’s name on them. He had read about the murder, so he called us. Nyberg is there now.”

  Good, thought Wallander. Another lead.

  “Then let’s go there,” he said.

  “Don’t you want to go home first?”

  “No. If there’s anything I don’t want to do, it’s that.”

  Suddenly Wallander was in a hurry.

  CHAPTER 23

  The suitcase was lying where it had been found. Since this was right by the side of the road, many drivers had stopped out of curiosity at the sight of the two police cars and the group of people. Nyberg was busy taking moulds and photographs of tyre tracks left at the site. One of his assistants held his crutch while he knelt down and pointed at something lying on the ground. He looked up when Wallander approached.

  “How was Norrland?” he asked.

  “I didn’t find a suitcase,” Wallander replied. “But it was beautiful. And cold.”

  “With a little luck we’ll be able to say exactly how long it’s been lying he
re,” Nyberg said.

  Wallander couldn’t see any name tag, or any label for “Special Tours” on the case.

  “Have you talked to Vanja Andersson?” he asked.

  “She’s already been here,” Martinsson replied. “She recognised it as Runfeldt’s. Besides, we’ve already opened it. The missing night-vision binoculars were right on top. It’s definitely his bag.”

  Wallander thought for a moment. They were on the E13, south of Eneborg. Close by was the intersection where you could take the turn-off to Lödinge. In the opposite direction you could head south around Krageholm Lake and end up not far from Marsvinsholm. Wallander realised that they stood almost equidistant between the two murder sites.

  The suitcase lay on the eastern side of the road. If it had been put there by someone driving a car, then the car must have been on its way north from the Ystad area. But it could also have come from Marsvinsholm, turned off at the Sövestad intersection, and then driven north. Wallander tried to evaluate the alternatives. Nyberg was right: it would be helpful to know how long the suitcase had been lying where they’d found it.

  “When can we remove it?” he asked.

  “We can take it back to Ystad within an hour,” Nyberg replied. “I’m almost done here.”

  Wallander nodded to Martinsson, and they walked towards his car. On the drive from the airport, Wallander had told him about the trip. They still didn’t know why Eriksson had bequeathed the money to the church in Svenstavik. On the other hand, they knew that Harald Berggren was dead. Wallander had no doubts that Ekberg had told the truth. Berggren couldn’t have been directly involved in Eriksson’s death. They needed to find out whether he had worked for Eriksson, even though they couldn’t count on this getting them anywhere. Certain pieces of the puzzle were only valuable because they needed to be put in place before the more important pieces could be fitted together properly. From now on Berggren was that kind of piece in the puzzle.

  They got into the car and headed back to Ystad.

  “Maybe Eriksson gave unemployed mercenaries odd jobs?” Martinsson said. “Maybe somebody was after Harald Berggren? Someone who suddenly got it into his head to dig a pungee pit for Eriksson, for some reason or other?”

  “That’s a possibility, of course,” Wallander said dubiously. “But how do we explain what happened to Runfeldt?”

  “We can’t explain it yet. Should we be concentrating on him?”

  “Eriksson died first,” Wallander said. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s the first link in the chain of causality. The problem is not only that we don’t have a motive, but that we’re missing a real starting point.”

  Martinsson was silent for a while. They were driving through Sövestad.

  “Why would his suitcase end up beside this road?” he asked suddenly. “Runfeldt was going in the opposite direction, towards Copenhagen. Marsvinsholm is in the right direction, heading for Kastrup Airport. What really happened?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know too,” Wallander said.

  “We’ve gone over Runfeldt’s car,” Martinsson said. “He had a car park behind the building where he lived. He drove a 1993 Opel. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “The car keys?”

  “In his flat.”

  Wallander asked if anyone had found out whether Runfeldt had ordered a taxi for the morning of his departure.

  “Hansson talked to the taxi company. Runfeldt ordered a taxi for 5 a.m. It was supposed to take him to Malmö. The taxi company noted that he hadn’t shown up. The taxi driver waited. He rang the bell to Runfeldt’s place because he thought he might have overslept, but no-one answered. The driver took off. Hansson said that the person he talked to was quite precise about what had happened.”

  “It seems to have been a well-planned assault,” Wallander said.

  “Which indicates that there was more than one person,” Martinsson said.

  “Whoever it was must have had detailed knowledge of Runfeldt’s plans, and known when he was planning to leave. Who would know that?”

  “The list is rather short. And we already have it, as a matter of fact. I think it was Ann-Britt who put it together. Anita Lagergren at the travel agency knew, and Runfeldt’s children. But the daughter only knew what day he was leaving, not that it was early in the morning. Probably nobody else.”

  “Vanja Andersson?”

  “She thought she knew, but she didn’t.”

  Wallander shook his head slowly. “There must be someone else on that list,” he said. “That’s the person we’re looking for.”

  “We’re going through his client files. Altogether we’ve found 40 or so investigative assignments over the years. In other words, not many. But the person we’re looking for might be among them.”

  “We have to go through them very carefully,” Wallander replied. “It’s going to be a tedious job. But you could be right.”

  “I have the feeling that this is going to take a long time.”

  Wallander thought the same thing.

  “We can always hope we’re wrong, but it’s not very likely.”

  They were approaching Ystad.

  “Apparently they’re going to sell the florist’s shop,” said Martinsson. “The son and daughter have agreed on that. They asked Vanja Andersson if she’d like to take it over but I doubt she has the money.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Bo Runfeldt called. He wanted to know if he and his sister could leave Ystad after the funeral.”

  “When is it?”

  “On Wednesday.”

  “Let them go,” Wallander said. “We can get in touch with them again if we need to.”

  They turned in to the car park.

  “I talked to a mechanic in Älmhult,” Martinsson said. “Your car will be ready by the middle of next week. It’s going to be expensive, but I suppose you knew that. He said he’d have the car delivered here to Ystad.”

  Hansson was sitting in Svedberg’s office when they came in. Wallander told him about his trip. Hansson had a terrible cold, and Wallander suggested that he go home.

  “Chief Holgersson is sick too,” Svedberg said. “I think she’s got the flu.”

  “Is it flu season already?” Wallander said. “That’s going to give us big problems here.”

  “I’ve only got a cold,” Hansson assured him. “With luck I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  “Both of Ann-Britt’s children are sick,” Martinsson said. “But her husband’s due home tomorrow.”

  Wallander asked them to let him know when the suitcase arrived, and then left the room. He was thinking of sitting down to write up the report about his trip. Maybe even put together the receipts he needed to submit for his travel expenses. But on the way to his office he changed his mind, and turned around and went back.

  “Can I borrow a car?” he asked. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  Several sets of car keys were offered to him. He took Martinsson’s.

  It was dark as he drove down to Västra Vallgatan. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The night would be a cold one, maybe below freezing. He parked outside the florist’s shop and walked down the street towards the building where Runfeldt had lived. He saw lights in the windows. He assumed that Runfeldt’s children were there, going through things in the flat. The police had confirmed that they could pack up and throw out whatever they liked. He suddenly thought about his father, and about Gertrud and his sister Kristina. He hadn’t gone out to Löderup to help them go through his father’s belongings. Even though his help wasn’t really needed, he should still have made an appearance. He couldn’t quite decide whether he had avoided it out of distaste or whether he just hadn’t had time.

  He stopped outside the door to Runfeldt’s building. There was no-one about. He stood at the front door and looked around, trying to map out the sequence of events. Then he crossed the street and did the same thing.

  Runfeldt is on the street, Wallander thought. The exact time
is still not clear. He might have come out of the door in the evening or at night. If so, he wouldn’t have had his suitcase with him. Something else made him leave the flat. On the other hand, if he came out in the morning, he would have the suitcase. The street is deserted. He sets the suitcase down on the footpath. Which direction would the taxi come from? Does he wait outside the door, or across the street? Something happens. Runfeldt and his suitcase disappear. The suitcase turns up along the road to Höör. Runfeldt himself is found tied to a tree, dead, in the woods near Marsvinsholm.

  Wallander studied the doors on either side of the building. Neither of them was deep enough for someone to hide in. He looked at the streetlights. The ones that lit Runfeldt’s door were working.

  A car, he thought. A car was waiting here, right by the door. Runfeldt comes down to the street. Someone gets out of the car. Runfeldt was frightened, he would have made some sound. The neighbours would have heard him. If it was a stranger, maybe Runfeldt was just surprised. The man approaches Runfeldt. Does he knock him down? Threaten him? Wallander thought about Vanja Andersson’s reaction out in the woods: Runfeldt had grown terribly thin in the brief time since his disappearance. This was because he’d been held captive. Starved.

  He carried on. Runfeldt is put into the car by force, unconscious or under duress. Then he is taken away. The suitcase is found on the road to Höör, right beside the road. Wallander’s first thought on arriving at the place where the suitcase lay was that it had been put there deliberately so that it would be found.

  Wallander went back to the door and started again. Runfeldt comes out to the street. He’s about to set out on a journey that he’s been looking forward to. He’s going to Africa to look at orchids. He began pacing back and forth in front of the door. He thought about the possibility that Runfeldt had killed his wife ten years earlier. Made a hole in the ice and pushed her in. He was a brutal man, who abused the mother of his children. Outwardly he’s just a florist with a passion for orchids. And now here he is, taking a trip to Nairobi. Everyone had spoken of his genuine excitement at the holiday. A friendly man who was also a monster.

  Wallander thought about the florist’s shop, and the break-in. Somebody breaks in. Nothing is stolen. Not even a single flower. There’s blood on the floor. Wallander shook his head. There was something he wasn’t seeing. One surface was concealing another. Gösta Runfeldt. Orchid lover, monster. Holger Eriksson. Bird-watcher, poet, and car dealer. He too rumoured to have acted with great brutality. Brutality unites them, thought Wallander. Concealed brutality.