by Unknown
Wallander handed the phone to Höglund, who set a time for the meeting of the investigative team. Wallander didn’t remember until she hung up that he had a note that was written by Svedberg. A report of a woman acting strangely in the Ystad hospital maternity ward.
Höglund went home to her children. When Wallander was alone he called his father. They decided that he would go out on Sunday morning. The pictures that his father had taken with his ancient camera had been developed.
Wallander devoted the rest of Saturday evening to writing up a summary of Eriksson’s murder. As he worked he mulled over Runfeldt’s disappearance. He was uneasy and restless and found it difficult to concentrate. The feeling that they were skirting something very big was growing stronger. The feeling of anxiety wouldn’t let up. By 9 p.m. he was so tired that he couldn’t think any longer. He shoved his notebook aside and called his daughter Linda. The phone rang into a void. She wasn’t home. He put on a heavy jacket and walked to a Chinese restaurant on the square. The place was unusually packed, even for a Saturday night. He indulged in a carafe of wine. After he’d eaten, he walked home in the rain, his head aching.
That night he dreamed that he was in a huge dark place, it was very hot, and somewhere in the dense night Berggren was pointing a gun at him.
He woke early. It was clear again. He got into his car at 7.15 a.m. and drove out to Löderup to see his father. In the morning light, the curves of the countryside were sharp and clear. Wallander thought he would try to tempt his father and Gertrud to come with him down to the beach. Soon it would be too cold to go.
He thought with displeasure about the dream he’d had. As he drove he also decided that at the investigative team’s meeting that afternoon they would have to make a schedule of the order in which various questions were to be answered. Locating Berggren was important. Especially if it turned out that that trail led to a dead end.
His father was standing on the steps waiting for him. They went into the kitchen, where Gertrud had set out some breakfast. They looked through the photographs. Some of them were blurred, and in some the subject was only partly inside the frame, but since his father was obviously pleased and proud of them, Wallander nodded appreciatively.
One picture stood out from the rest. It was taken by a waiter on their last night in Rome. They had just finished their dinner. Wallander and his father were squeezed close together. A bottle of red wine stood on the white tablecloth. Both of them were smiling straight at the camera.
For an instant the faded photograph from Eriksson’s diary flashed into Wallander’s mind, but he pushed it away. Right now he wanted to look at himself and his father. He realised that the picture confirmed once and for all what he had discovered on the trip. They were a lot alike. They even looked alike.
“I’d like to have a copy of this picture,” Wallander said.
“I’ve already taken care of it,” his father replied contentedly, handing him an envelope.
After breakfast they went to his father’s studio. He had nearly finished a landscape with a grouse in it. The bird was always the last thing he painted.
“How many pictures have you painted in your life?” Wallander asked.
“You ask me that every time you come here,” his father said. “How am I supposed to keep track? What would be the point? The main thing is that they’re all the same.”
Long ago Wallander had realised that there was only one explanation for his father painting the same subject over and over. It was his way of keeping at bay all the things that were changing around him. In his paintings he even controlled the path of the sun. It was motionless, locked in time, always at the same height above the forested ridges.
“It was a great holiday,” Wallander said as he looked at his father, who was busy mixing colours.
“I told you it would be,” said his father. “If it wasn’t for me you would have gone to your grave without ever seeing the Sistine Chapel.”
Wallander wondered briefly whether to ask about the solitary walk he’d taken on that night in Rome, but decided not to. It was nobody’s business but his father’s.
Wallander suggested that they drive down to the sea. To his surprise his father agreed at once. Gertrud preferred to stay home. They got into Wallander’s car and drove down to Sandhammaren. There was almost no breeze. They headed for the beach. His father took him by the arm when they passed the last cliff. The sea spread itself out before them. The beach was almost deserted. In the distance they could see some people playing with a dog. That was all.
“It’s beautiful,” his father said.
Wallander sneaked a look at him. Rome seemed to have made a fundamental change in his mood. Maybe it would also have a positive effect on the insidious disease the doctors had diagnosed. But he would never fully understand what the holiday had meant to his father. It had been the journey of a lifetime, and Wallander had been given the honour of accompanying him.
Rome was his father’s Mecca.
They took a long walk on the beach. Wallander wondered whether to bring up the old days. But there was no hurry, they had time. Suddenly his father stopped short.
“What is it?” Wallander asked.
“I’ve been feeling bad for a few days,” he said. “But it’ll pass.”
“Do you want to go home?”
“I said it’ll pass.”
They were on the beach more than two hours before his father thought they had walked enough. Wallander, who had forgotten the time, knew that he’d have to hurry so he wouldn’t be late for the meeting at the police station.
After he dropped off his father in Löderup he returned to Ystad with a feeling of relief. Maybe now they could regain the contact they had lost when Wallander had decided to become a policeman. His father had never accepted his choice of profession, but he’d never explained what he had against it. Wallander wondered whether he might finally get an answer to the question he had spent far too much of his life worrying about.
At 2.30 p.m. they closed the door to the conference room. Even Chief Holgersson showed up. Seeing her there reminded Wallander that he still hadn’t called Per Åkeson. He wrote a note to himself in his notebook.
He reported on finding the shrunken head and Harald Berggren’s diary. There was general agreement that this really did look like a lead. After they divided up the various tasks, Wallander shifted the discussion to Gösta Runfeldt.
“We have to assume that something has happened to Runfeldt,” he said. “We can’t rule out either an accident or foul play. Naturally there’s always the possibility that it’s a voluntary disappearance. On the other hand, I think we can discount the likelihood of any sort of connection between Eriksson and Runfeldt. There’s nothing to suggest that this is the case.”
Wallander wanted the meeting to be as short as possible. After all, it was Sunday. He knew that his colleagues were putting a lot of effort into completing their assignments, but he also knew that sometimes the best way to work meant taking a break. The hours he had spent with his father that morning had given him renewed energy. When he left the police station just after 4 p.m., he felt more rested than he had in days. His anxiety seemed to have abated a little.
If they did find Harald Berggren, there was a good chance they would find the solution. The murder was too well planned not to have been carried out by someone extremely unusual. Berggren might be just that killer.
On his way home Wallander stopped and bought groceries. He couldn’t resist the impulse to take out a video. It was a classic, Waterloo Bridge. He had seen it in Malmö with Mona in the early years of their marriage, but he had only a vague recollection of what it was about.
He was in the middle of the movie when Linda called. When he heard it was her he said he’d call her right back. He turned off the video and sat down in the kitchen. They talked for almost half an hour. She didn’t apologise for not having called in such a long time. He didn’t mention it either. He knew they were a lot alike. They could both be a
bsentminded, but they knew how to concentrate if there was a task to be done. She told him that everything was fine, both the job in the restaurant and her drama classes. He didn’t press her on that subject. He had a strong impression that she still doubted her talent.
Just before they finished their conversation, he told her about his morning on the beach.
“It sounds like you had a wonderful day together,” she said.
“We did. It feels as if something has changed.”
When they hung up, Wallander went out on the balcony. There was almost no wind, a rare thing in Skåne. For a moment all his worries were gone. Now he had to get some sleep. Tomorrow he’d get down to work again. When he turned out the light in the kitchen, the diary was in his mind again. He wondered where Harald Berggren was at that very moment.
CHAPTER 11
When Wallander woke up on the morning of Monday, 3 October, the first thing he thought was that he needed to speak to Sven Tyrén again. Whether he had dreamed this he couldn’t tell, but he was sure that he needed to. As he waited for his coffee to brew, he called information and got Tyrén’s home number. Tyrén’s wife answered the phone, and told him that her husband had already left. Wallander called him on his mobile. In the background Wallander could hear the muffled sound of his truck’s engine.
Tyrén told him he was on the road outside Högestad. He had two deliveries to make before he went back to the terminal in Malmö. Wallander asked him to come to the station as soon as he could. When Tyrén asked whether they had caught the person who killed Eriksson, Wallander explained that was just a routine conversation. They were still in the early stages of the investigation. They were bound to catch the murderer. It might happen soon, but it could also take time. Tyrén promised to be at the station by 9 a.m.
“Please don’t park in front of the driveway,” Wallander added.
Tyrén muttered something inaudible in reply.
At 7.15 a.m. Wallander arrived at the station. Walking towards the glass doors, he changed his mind and turned left, to the prosecutor’s office, which had its own entrance.
Per Åkeson was sitting behind his desk, which was piled high with work as always. The entire office was a chaotic jumble of papers and files, but appearances were deceptive. Åkeson was an extraordinarily efficient and methodical prosecutor, and Wallander enjoyed working with him. They had known each other for a long time, and over the years they had developed a relationship that went beyond the purely professional. Sometimes they would share confidences and seek each other’s advice or help. Still, there was a boundary that they never overstepped. They would never really be close friends; they were not enough alike for that.
Åkeson nodded amiably when Wallander stepped into the room. He got up and moved a box of documents, making room on a chair. Wallander sat down, and Åkeson told the switchboard to hold his calls.
“I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” he said. “Thanks for the card, by the way.”
Wallander had forgotten about the postcard he had sent Åkeson from Rome, a view of the Forum Romanum.
“It was a great holiday for both of us.”
“I’ve never been to Rome. How does that proverb go? See Rome and then die? Or is it Naples?”
Wallander didn’t know. “I’d been hoping for a peaceful autumn. So I come home and find an old man impaled in a ditch.”
Åkeson grimaced. “I’ve seen some of the photographs. And Chief Holgersson told me about it. Have you got anything to go on?”
“Maybe,” Wallander said, and gave him a brief summary of what they had found in Eriksson’s safe. Wallander knew that Åkeson respected his ability to lead an investigation. He seldom disagreed with his conclusions or the way he handled a case.
“Of course it sounds like pure insanity to set out sharpened bamboo stakes in a ditch,” Åkeson said. “On the other hand, these days it’s getting harder and harder to distinguish between what’s insane and what’s normal.”
“How’s it going with Uganda?” Wallander asked.
“You mean the Sudan,” said Åkeson.
Åkeson had applied for a position with the UN High Commission on Refugees. He wanted to get away from Ystad for a while, to see something else before it was too late. Åkeson was several years older than Wallander. He was over 50.
“Of course, the Sudan,” Wallander said. “Have you talked about it with your wife yet?”
Åkeson nodded.
“I got up the courage last week. She was considerably more understanding than I could have hoped. I got the distinct feeling she wouldn’t mind getting me out of the house for a while. I’m still waiting for official notification, but I’d be surprised if I didn’t get the post. As you know, I have my connections.”
Åkeson had a highly developed knack for acquiring inside information. Wallander had no idea how he did it. He was always well informed, for instance, as to what was being discussed in the various committees in Parliament, or in the most elite and confidential circles of the national police board.
“If all goes well, I’ll be leaving in the new year,” he said. “I’ll be gone for at least two years.”
“Let’s hope we solve the Eriksson case before then. Do you have any directives you want to give me?”
“You should be telling me what you want.”
Wallander thought for a moment before replying.
“Chief Holgersson thinks that we ought to call in Mats Ekholm. You remember him from this summer, the man who does psychological profiles? He hunts insane people by trying to classify them. He’s pretty talented.”
Åkeson remembered him, of course.
“But I think we should wait,” Wallander said, “until we are sure that we’re dealing with an insane person.”
“If you think we should wait, then so be it,” Åkeson said, getting to his feet. He pointed at the box.
“I have a particularly complicated case today,” he excused himself. “I have to prepare.”
Wallander got up.
“What is it you’re actually going to do in the Sudan?” he asked. “Do refugees really need Swedish legal advice?”
“Refugees need all the help they can get,” Åkeson replied as he accompanied Wallander to reception. “Not just in Sweden.”
Suddenly he said, “I was in Stockholm for a few days while you were in Rome. I ran into Anette Brolin. She asked me to say hello to everyone down here. But especially to you.”
Wallander gave him a wary look, but didn’t reply. A few years earlier, Anette Brolin had filled in for Åkeson. Despite the fact that she was married, Wallander and she had spent a night together. It was something he preferred to forget.
He walked out of the prosecutor’s wing. There was a gusty wind blowing and the sky was grey. Wallander guessed that it was no more than 8°C. He ran into Svedberg in reception, and remembered the note.
“I took one of your notes with me by mistake the other day,” he said.
Svedberg looked surprised. “I didn’t notice anything missing.”
“Something about a woman in the maternity ward at the hospital.”
“Oh, you can bin that,” Svedberg answered. “It was just someone who saw a ghost.”
“You bin it if you want to,” Wallander said. “I’ll put it on your desk.”
“We’re still talking to people in the area around Eriksson’s farm,” Svedberg said. “I’m going to see the postman.”
Wallander nodded. They went their separate ways.
By the time Wallander entered his office he had already forgotten about Svedberg’s note. He took Berggren’s diary from his inside jacket pocket and put it in a desk drawer. He left the photograph of the three men posing by the termite mound lying on his desk. As he waited for Tyrén he read quickly through a stack of papers the other investigators had left for him. At 8.45 a.m. he went to get some coffee. Höglund passed him in the hall and told him that Runfeldt’s disappearance had been formally recorded and was being given priority.
“I spoke to one of his neighbours,” she said. “A teacher who seemed reliable. He claimed he had heard Runfeldt in his flat on Tuesday night. But not after that.”
“Which suggests that he left that night,” said Wallander, “although not for Nairobi.”
“I asked the neighbour whether he had noticed anything unusual about Runfeldt. But he seems to have been a reserved man with regular, discreet habits. Polite but no more than that. And he seldom had visitors. The only thing out of the ordinary was that Runfeldt sometimes came home very late. The teacher lives in the flat below his, and the building is not well insulated.”
Wallander stood there with his cup in his hand, thinking about what she had said.
“We have to find out what the stuff in that box means,” he said. “Could someone call the mail-order company today? And have our colleagues in Borås been informed? What was the name of that company? ‘Secure’? Nyberg knows. We need to discover whether Runfeldt bought other things from them. He must have placed the order because he was going to use it for something.”
“Bugging equipment,” she said. “Fingerprints. Who uses things like that?”
“We do.”
“But who else?”
Wallander saw that she was thinking of something in particular.
“Of course a bugging device could be used for unauthorised purposes.”
“I was thinking more of the fingerprints.”
Wallander nodded. Now he got it.
“A private investigator,” he said. “A private eye. The thought crossed my mind too. But Runfeldt is a florist whose only passion is orchids.”
“It was just an idea,” she said. “I’ll call the mail-order company myself.”
Wallander went back to his office. The telephone rang. It was Ebba. Tyrén was waiting in reception.
“He didn’t park his truck across the driveway, did he?” Wallander asked. “Hansson will have a fit.”
“I don’t see a truck,” Ebba said. “Are you coming to get him? And Martinsson wants to talk to you.”
