The Fifth Woman
Page 33
“We need to take a good look at this,” Wallander said. “When was the first time it happened?”
“The night of 30 September.”
“And it made her nervous?”
“She came over here the following day, a Saturday. I talked with her for a while. That’s when I made these notes.”
“When was the second time?”
“The night of 13 October. Ylva happened to be working that night too. That’s when she was knocked to the ground. I was called out there in the morning.”
“What happened?”
“The woman showed up again. When Ylva tried to stop her, she was knocked down. Ylva said it felt like being kicked by a horse.”
“She’d never seen this woman before?”
“Just that one other time.”
“She was wearing a uniform?”
“Yes. But Ylva was positive she wasn’t on the nursing staff.”
“How could she be sure? There must be a lot of people she wouldn’t recognise who work at the hospital.”
“She was positive. I’m afraid that I didn’t ask her why.”
“This woman had an interest in the maternity ward between 30 September and 13 October,” Wallander said. “She made two visits late at night, not hesitating to knock down a midwife. So what was she really up to?”
“That’s what Ylva wants to know too.”
“She has no answer?”
“They went over the ward both times, but everything was in order.”
Wallander looked at his watch. It was almost 10.45 p.m.
“I want you to call your cousin,” he said. “Even if you have to wake her up.”
Svedberg nodded. Wallander pointed at his phone. He knew that Svedberg, generally forgetful, had a good memory for phone numbers. He dialled the number. It rang and rang. No answer.
“If she’s not home, that means she’s working,” Svedberg said.
Wallander jumped up.
“Even better,” he said. “I haven’t been back to the maternity ward since Linda was born.”
“The old wing was torn down,” Svedberg said. “The whole place is new.”
It took them only a few minutes to drive to the hospital. Wallander remembered the night several years ago when he’d woken up with violent pains in his chest and thought he was having a heart attack. Since then the hospital had been remodelled. They rang the bell and a guard came at once and opened the door. Wallander showed him his identification, and they took the stairs to the maternity ward. A woman was waiting for them at the door to the ward.
“My cousin,” Svedberg said. “Ylva Brink.”
Wallander shook her hand, catching a glimpse of a nurse in the background. Ylva took them to a small office.
“It’s calm right now,” she said. “But that can change at any minute.”
“I’ll get right to the point,” Wallander said. “I know that all information on patients is confidential, and I’m not intending to challenge that rule. The only thing I want to know is whether between 30 September and 13 October a woman gave birth here whose initials were K.A. K as in Karin and A as in Andersson.”
The woman looked uneasy.
“Has something happened?”
“No,” Wallander said. “I just need to identify someone, that’s all.”
“I can’t tell you,” she said. “That information is confidential unless the patient has signed a release form allowing details about her to be divulged. I’m certain that the rule must also apply to initials.”
“My question will be answered sooner or later,” Wallander said. “My problem is that I need to know right now.”
“I still can’t help you.”
Svedberg had been sitting in silence. Wallander saw that he was frowning.
“Is there a men’s room here?” he asked.
“Around the corner.”
Svedberg nodded to Wallander.
“You said that you needed to go.”
Wallander understood. He got up and left the room.
He waited for five minutes before he went back. Ylva Brink was not there. Svedberg stood leaning over several papers lying on the desk.
“What did you say to her?” Wallander asked.
“That she shouldn’t embarrass the family,” Svedberg replied. “I also explained that she could spend a year in jail.”
“For what?” Wallander asked in surprise.
“Obstructing the discharge of official duties.”
“There isn’t such an offence, is there?”
“She doesn’t know that. Here are all the names. I think we’d better read fast.”
They went through the list. None of the women had the initials K.A. Wallander realised it was as he had feared. Another dead end.
“Maybe those weren’t someone’s initials,” Svedberg said thoughtfully. “Maybe K.A. means something else.”
“What would that be?”
“There’s a Katarina Taxell here,” Svedberg replied, pointing. “Maybe the letters K.A. are just an abbreviation of Katarina.”
Wallander looked at the name. He went through the list again. There was no other name with the combination K.A. No Karin, no Karolina.
“You may be right,” he said. “Write down the address.”
“It’s not here,” he said. “Only her name. Maybe you’d better wait downstairs while I talk to Ylva one more time.”
“Stick with the line that she shouldn’t embarrass the family,” Wallander said. “Don’t mention bringing charges. That could cause us trouble later on. I want to know if Katarina Taxell is still here. I want to know if she’s had any visitors. I want to know if there’s anything special about her. Family relationships, that sort of thing. But especially, I want to know where she lives.”
“This is going to take a while,” Svedberg said. “Ylva is busy with a birth.”
“I’ll wait,” Wallander said. “All night if I have to.”
He took a biscuit from a plate and left the ward. When he passed the casualty ward downstairs he caught sight of a drunk man, covered in blood, who was being brought in from an ambulance. Wallander recognised him. His name was Niklasson, and he owned a junkyard outside Ystad. Normally he was sober, but occasionally he went on binges and got into fights.
Wallander knew the two medics bringing him in.
“Is it bad?” he asked them.
“Niklasson is tough,” said the older of the two. “He’ll survive. He got into a fight in a pub in Sandskogen.”
Wallander went out to the car park. It was chilly. They’d also have to find out if there was a Karin or Katarina in Lund. Birch could handle that. It was 11.30 p.m. He tried the doors of Svedberg’s car. It was locked. He wondered if he should go back and ask for the keys. He might have to wait a long time. Instead, he began pacing back and forth in the car park.
Suddenly he was back in Rome again. Ahead of him, in the distance, was his father, out on a secret midnight excursion towards an unknown destination. A son tailing his own father. The Spanish Steps, then the fountain. His eyes glistened. An old man alone in Rome. Did he know that he was going to die soon?
Wallander stopped. He had a lump in his throat. When would he ever have the peace and quiet that he needed to work through his grief over his father? Life tossed him back and forth. He would soon be 50. It was autumn now. Night. And he was walking around in a hospital car park, freezing. What he feared most was that the world would become so hostile and alien that he’d no longer be able to handle it. What would be left then? Retire early? Ask for a desk job? End up spending 15 years going around to schools giving talks about drugs and traffic accidents?
The house, he thought. And the dog. And maybe Baiba too. An outward change is necessary. I’ll start with that. Later we’ll see what happens with me. My workload is too heavy. I can’t continue like this.
It was past midnight. He paced the car park. The ambulance had left. Everything was quiet. He knew there were a lot of things he needed to think throug
h, but he was too tired. The only thing he could manage to do was wait. And keep moving so he wouldn’t freeze.
Finally Svedberg appeared. He was walking fast. Wallander could see that he had news.
“Katarina Taxell is from Lund,” he said.
Wallander felt his excitement rise.
“Is she here?”
“She had her baby on 15 October. She’s gone home already.”
“Do you have the address?”
“I’ve got more than that. She’s a single mother, there’s no father listed in the records. And she didn’t have any visitors while she was here.”
Wallander realised that he was holding his breath. “Then it could be her,” he said. “The woman called K.A.”
They hurried back to the station. At the entrance Svedberg braked hard to avoid hitting a hare that had wandered into town. They sat down in the empty canteen. The phone rang in the duty officers’ room. Wallander filled a cup with bitter coffee.
“She couldn’t be the one who stuffed Blomberg in a sack,” Svedberg said, scratching his scalp with a coffee spoon. “There’s no way that a new mother would go out and kill someone.”
“She’s a link,” Wallander said. “If what I’m thinking is true. She fits in between Blomberg and the person who seems most important right now.
“The nurse who knocked Ylva down?”
“That’s the one.”
Svedberg strained to follow Wallander’s thoughts.
“So you think this nurse showed up at the maternity ward to see her?”
“Yes.”
“But why did she come at night? Why didn’t she come during normal visiting hours? There must be visiting hours, surely? And no-one writes down who visits patients, or who has visitors, do they?”
Wallander saw that Svedberg’s questions were important. He had to answer them before they could continue.
“She didn’t want to be seen,” he said. “That’s the only conceivable explanation.”
“Seen by whom?” Svedberg said stubbornly. “Was she afraid of being recognised? Did she not want even Katarina Taxell to see her? Did she visit the hospital at night to look at a woman asleep?”
“I don’t know,” Wallander said. “It’s strange, I agree.”
“There’s only one conceivable explanation,” Svedberg continued. “She comes at night because she could be recognised in the daytime.”
Wallander pondered this. “So you’re saying that someone who works there during the day might have recognised her?”
“You can’t ignore the fact that she has twice visited the maternity ward at night. And then she gets involved in a situation where it’s necessary to assault my cousin, who was doing nothing wrong.”
“There might be an alternative explanation,” Wallander said
“What’s that?”
“Night could be the only time she is able to visit the maternity ward.”
Svedberg nodded thoughtfully.
“That’s possible, of course. But why?”
“There could be lots of reasons. Where she lives. Her work. Maybe she wants to make these visits in secret.”
Svedberg pushed his coffee cup away.
“Her visits must have been important. She went there twice.”
“We can put together a timetable,” Wallander said. “The first time she came was on the night of 30 September. At the hour when everyone is at their most tired, and least alert. She stays a few minutes and then disappears. Two weeks later she repeats the whole thing. At the same hour. This time she’s stopped by Ylva Brink, who is knocked down. Then she disappears without a trace.”
“Katarina Taxell has her child several days later.”
“And the woman doesn’t come back. On the other hand, Eugen Blomberg is murdered.”
“Do you think a nurse is behind all this?”
They looked at each other without saying anything.
Wallander suddenly realised that he had forgotten to tell Svedberg to ask Ylva Brink about an important detail.
“Do you remember the plastic holder we found in Gösta Runfeldt’s suitcase?” he said. “The kind used by the hospital staff?”
Svedberg nodded. He remembered.
“Call the maternity ward,” Wallander said. “Ask Ylva if she remembers whether the woman who knocked her down was wearing a name tag.”
Svedberg got up to use the phone. The conversation was brief.
“She’s positive that she was wearing a name tag,” he said. “Both times.”
“Could she read the name on the tag?”
“She isn’t sure that there was a name.”
Wallander thought a moment.
“She might have lost the badge the first time,” he said. “Somewhere she got hold of a hospital uniform, so she could also have got a new plastic holder.”
“It’d be impossible to find any fingerprints at the hospital,” Svedberg said. “It’s always being cleaned. Besides, we don’t even know if she touched anything.”
“She wasn’t wearing gloves, at least,” Wallander asked. “Ylva would have noticed that.”
Svedberg tapped his forehead with the coffee spoon.
“Maybe so,” he said. “Ylva said that the woman grabbed hold of her when she hit her.”
“She only grabbed her clothes,” Wallander said. “And we won’t find anything on them.”
For a moment he felt discouraged.
“Even so, we should talk to Nyberg,” he said. “Maybe she touched the bed that Katarina Taxell was lying in. We have to try. If we can find fingerprints that match with those that we found in Runfeldt’s suitcase, the investigation would take a big leap forward. Then we could look for the same fingerprints on Eriksson and Blomberg.”
Svedberg pushed across his notes on Katarina Taxell. Wallander saw that she was 33, and self-employed, although it didn’t say what her occupation was. She lived in central Lund.
“We’ll go there first thing tomorrow morning,” he said. “Since the two of us have been working on it tonight, we might as well continue. Now I think it’d be smart for us to get a few hours sleep.”
“It’s strange,” Svedberg said. “First we’re looking for a mercenary soldier, and now we’re looking for a nurse.”
“Who presumably isn’t really a nurse,” Wallander interjected.
“We don’t know that for sure,” Svedberg replied. “Just because Ylva didn’t recognise her doesn’t mean that she’s not a nurse.”
“You’re right. We can’t exclude that possibility.” He got up.
“I’ll drive you home,” Svedberg said. “How is your car?”
“I really should get a new one, but I don’t know how I’m going to afford it.”
One of the duty officers rushed into the room.
“I knew you were here,” he said. “I think something has happened.”
Wallander felt the knot in his stomach. Not again, he thought.
“There’s a man lying badly injured on the side of the road between Sövestad and Lödinge. A lorry driver found him. We don’t know whether he was run over or attacked. An ambulance is on the way out there, but I thought that since it was close to Lödinge . . .”
He never finished his sentence. Svedberg and Wallander were already on their way out of the room.
They arrived just as the medics were lifting the injured man onto a stretcher. Wallander recognised them as the ones he had spoken to outside the hospital earlier.
“Like ships passing in the night,” said one of them.
“Was it a car accident?” Wallander asked him.
“If so, it was a hit-and-run. But it looks more like an assault.”
Wallander looked around. The stretch of road was deserted.
“Who would be walking around here in the middle of the night?” he asked.
The man’s face was covered in blood. He wheezed faintly.
“We’re going now,” the medic said. “We’ve got to hurry. He might have internal injuries.”
“This is probably not related,” Wallander said. “If you drop me off at the hospital, you can go home and get some sleep. At least one of us should be awake in the morning.”
“Where should I pick you up?” Svedberg asked.
“At Mariagatan. Let’s say 6 a.m. Martinsson gets up early. Call him and tell him what happened. Ask him to talk to Nyberg about the plastic holder. And tell him that we’re going to Lund.”
For the second time that night Wallander found himself outside the hospital. When he arrived at the casualty ward, the man was being treated. Wallander sat down and waited. He was exhausted. He couldn’t stop himself from falling asleep. He woke abruptly when someone said his name, and at first he didn’t know where he was. He’d been dreaming that he was walking along dark streets, searching for his father, but he couldn’t find him.
A doctor was standing in front of him. Wallander was instantly wide awake.
“He’s going to make it,” the doctor said. “But he was severely beaten.”
“So it wasn’t a car accident?”
“No. An assault. As far as we can tell, he hasn’t suffered any internal injuries.”
“Did he have any papers on him?”
The doctor gave him an envelope. Wallander took out a wallet, which contained a driver’s licence, among other things. The man’s name was Åke Davidsson. Wallander noticed that he wasn’t supposed to drive at night.
“Can I talk to him?”
“I think it’d be better to wait.”
Wallander decided to ask Hansson or Höglund to follow it up. If this was an assault case, they’d have to leave it in someone else’s hands for the time being. They just didn’t have the time.
Wallander got up to leave.
“We found something that I think might interest you,” the doctor said.
He handed him a piece of paper. Wallander read the scrawled message: “A burglar neutralised by the night guards.”
“What night guards?” he asked.