The Fifth Woman

by Unknown

  “You still owe me 19 kronor,” said the bookseller with a smile.

  “For what?”

  “This summer you woke me up at 6 a.m. because the police needed a map of the Dominican Republic. The officer who came over to get it paid 100 kronor. But it cost 119.”

  Wallander went to take out his wallet. The bookseller put up his hand to stop him.

  “It’s on me,” he said. “I was just kidding.”

  “Holger Eriksson’s poems,” Wallander said, “which he published himself. Who bought them?”

  “He was an amateur, of course,” the bookseller answered. “But he wasn’t a bad poet. The problem was, he wrote only about birds. Or rather, that was the only thing he was any good at writing about. Whenever he tried some other subject, it didn’t work.”

  “So who bought them?”

  “He didn’t sell many copies through the bookshop. Most of these regional writers don’t generate a lot of sales, you know. But they’re important for another reason.”

  “So who did buy them?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Maybe an occasional tourist? I think some bird lovers discovered his books. Maybe collectors of regional literature.”

  “Birds,” Wallander said. “That means he never wrote anything that people might get upset about.”

  “Of course not,” the bookseller said in surprise. “Did someone say that he had?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  Wallander left the bookshop and went back up the hill to the police station.

  When he entered the conference room and sat down in his usual place, he put on his new glasses. A certain merriment was evident in the room, but no-one said a word.

  “Who’s missing?” he asked.

  “Svedberg,” Höglund said. “I don’t know where he’s got to.”

  She had barely finished her sentence when Svedberg tore open the door of the conference room.

  “I’ve found Mrs Svensson,” he said. “The woman we think was Runfeldt’s last client.”

  “Good,” Wallander said, feeling the suspense rise.

  “I thought that she might have been to the florist’s shop,” Svedberg continued. “She might have gone to see Runfeldt there. I took along the photograph we developed. Vanja Andersson remembered seeing a picture of the same man in the back room. She also knew that a woman named Svensson had been to the shop a couple of times. Once she bought flowers to be delivered. The rest was simple. Her address and phone number were on file. She lives on Byabacksvägen in Sövestad. I went out there. She runs a little vegetable shop. I took along the picture and told her the truth, that we believed she had hired Runfeldt as a private detective. She admitted at once that I was right.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “I left her there. I thought it’d be better if we interviewed her together.”

  “I’ll talk to her this evening,” Wallander said. “Let’s keep this meeting as brief as possible.”

  They were there for half an hour. During the meeting Chief Holgersson came in and sat down at the table. She kept silent. Wallander reported on his trip to Älmhult. He concluded by telling them what he thought, that they couldn’t ignore the possibility that Runfeldt had murdered his wife. They should wait for a copy of the investigative report made at the time. Afterwards they would decide how to proceed.

  When Wallander stopped talking, no-one had anything to say. They all could see that he might be right, but what it meant for the investigation was far from clear.

  “The trip was important,” said Wallander after a moment. “I also think the trip to Svenstavik could be productive.”

  “With a stop in Gävle,” said Höglund. “I don’t know whether it means anything, but I asked a good friend in Stockholm to go to a special bookshop and get me a few issues of a paper called Terminator. They came today.”

  “What kind of paper is that?” Wallander asked.

  “It’s published in the US,” she said. “It’s a poorly disguised trade paper, you might say. For people looking for contracts as mercenaries or bodyguards, or any kind of assignments as soldiers. It’s not a pleasant paper. For one thing, it’s extremely racist. But I found a little classified ad that should interest us. There’s a man in Gävle who offers to arrange assignments for what he calls ‘battle-ready and unbiased men’. I called our colleagues in Gävle. They knew who he was, but have never dealt with him directly. They thought he had contact with men in Sweden who have been mercenaries.”

  “This could be important,” Wallander said. “He’s someone we definitely need to talk to. It should be possible to combine a trip to Svenstavik and Gävle.”

  “I’ve checked the map,” she said. “You can fly to Östersund, then rent a car. Or ask for help from our colleagues up there.”

  Wallander closed his notebook.

  “Get someone to make me a reservation,” he said. “If possible, I’d like to go tomorrow.”

  “On Saturday?” Martinsson asked.

  “It won’t make a difference to the people I have to see,” Wallander said. “There’s no time to waste if we can help it. I suggest that we break up the meeting now. Who wants to come along to Sövestad?”

  Before anyone could reply, Chief Holgersson tapped her pencil on the table.

  “Just a minute,” she said. “I don’t know whether you realise that there’s going to be a meeting of people who have decided to form a national organisation of citizen militia here in Ystad. I think it’d be good if we discussed as soon as possible how we’re going to handle this.”

  “The national police board has sent out flyers about these militia,” said Wallander. “I think it’s very clear what Swedish law says about vigilante activities.”

  “No doubt you’re right,” she replied. “But I have a strong feeling that things are changing. I’m afraid that pretty soon we’re going to see a burglar get shot and killed by someone from one of these groups. And then they’ll start shooting each other.”

  Wallander knew she was right. But at that moment he couldn’t focus on anything other than the two murder investigations they were working on.

  “I agree it’s important. In the long run, it’s crucial to stamp it out if we don’t want people to be playing at being the police all over the country. Let’s talk about it on Monday when we meet.”

  Holgersson let it go at that. The meeting broke up. Höglund and Svedberg were going to accompany Wallander to Sövestad. It was 6 p.m. by the time they left the station. They took Höglund’s car. Wallander got into the back seat. He wondered whether he still smelled from his visit to Jacob Hoslowski’s house of cats.

  “Maria Svensson,” Svedberg said. “She’s 36 years old and has a little vegetable shop in Sövestad, selling only organic vegetables.”

  “You didn’t ask her why she got in contact with Runfeldt?”

  “After she confirmed the connection, I didn’t ask her anything else.”

  “This should be interesting,” Wallander said. “In all my years on the force, I’ve never met anyone who has hired a private detective.”

  “The photograph was of a man,” Höglund said. “Her husband?”

  “I’ve told you everything I know,” Svedberg answered.

  “Or as little,” Wallander corrected him. “We know almost nothing.”

  They reached Sövestad in about 20 minutes. Wallander had been there once many years ago to cut down a man who had hanged himself. It was the first suicide he had encountered. He thought back on the incident with distaste.

  Svedberg stopped the car in front of a building with a shop in the front and a greenhouse next to it. A sign said “Svensson’s Produce”. They climbed out of the car.

  “She lives in the building,” said Svedberg. “I assume that she’s closed up the shop for the day.”

  “A florist and a greengrocer,” Wallander said. “Does that tell us anything, or is it just a coincidence?”

  He didn’t expect an answer, and didn’t get one. The fr
ont door opened.

  “That’s Maria Svensson,” said Svedberg. “She’s been waiting for us.”

  The woman standing on the steps was wearing jeans and a white blouse. She had clogs on her feet. There was something odd about her appearance. Wallander noted that she wore no make-up. Svedberg introduced them and Maria Svensson invited them in. They sat down in her living room. It occurred to Wallander that there was also something odd about her house. As if she wasn’t interested in the decor.

  “May I offer you coffee?” she asked.

  All three of them declined.

  “As you know, we’ve come to find out a little more about your relationship to Gösta Runfeldt.”

  She gave him a surprised look. “Am I supposed to have had a relationship with him?”

  “As a client,” Wallander said.

  “That’s true.”

  “Gösta Runfeldt has been murdered. It took a while for us to discover that he wasn’t only a florist, but that he also worked as a private detective. So my first question is: how did you get in contact with him?”

  “I saw an ad in Arbetet this past summer.”

  “How did you first meet?”

  “I went to his florist’s shop. Later the same day we met at a café near Stortoget in Ystad.”

  “What was your reason for contacting him?”

  “I’d rather not say,” she said firmly.

  Wallander was surprised because up to that point her answers had been so straightforward.

  “I’m afraid that you’re going to have to tell us,” he said.

  “I can assure you that it has nothing to do with his death. I’m just as horrified and shocked as everybody else by what happened.”

  “Whether it has anything to do with it or not is something for the police to decide,” Wallander said. “You’ll have to answer the question. You can choose to do so here. Then anything that isn’t directly connected with the investigation will just be between us. If we’re obliged to take you in for more formal interrogation, it will be more difficult to stop the details from leaking to the press.”

  She sat in silence for a long time. They waited. Wallander took out the photograph they had developed on Harpegatan. She looked at it without expression.

  “Is this your husband?” Wallander asked.

  She stared at him. Suddenly she laughed.

  “No,” she said. “He’s not my husband. But he stole my lover away from me.”

  Wallander didn’t understand. Höglund got it at once.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Annika.”

  “And this man came between you?”

  She had regained her composure.

  “I was starting to suspect it. I didn’t know what to do. That’s when I thought of contacting a private detective. I had to find out if she was thinking of leaving me. Or switching. Going with a man. In the end I realised that’s what she had done. Gösta Runfeldt came here and told me about it. The next day I wrote to Annika to tell her I never wanted to see her again.”

  “When did he visit you?”

  “September 20th or 21st.”

  “Did you have any contact with him after that?”

  “No. I paid him through his bank account.”

  “What was your impression of him?”

  “He was friendly. He was very fond of orchids. I think we got along well because he seemed just as reserved as I am.”

  Wallander thought for a moment.

  “Can you think of any reason why he was killed? Anything he said or did?”

  “No,” she replied. “Nothing. And I’ve thought hard about it.”

  Wallander glanced at his colleagues and stood up. “Then we won’t disturb you any further. And none of this will get out. I promise.”

  “I’m grateful for that,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to lose customers.”

  They said goodbye at the door. She closed it before they reached the street.

  “What did she mean by that last remark?” asked Wallander. “That she was afraid of losing her customers?”

  “People are conservative out in the country,” said Höglund. “Homosexuality is still considered to be something dirty by many people. I think she has all the reason in the world not to want this to get out.”

  They got into the car.

  “Where does that leave us?” Svedberg asked.

  “It doesn’t lead us backwards or forwards,” Wallander said. “The truth about these two investigations is simple. We have a number of loose ends, but we don’t have a single good clue to go on.”

  They sat in the car in silence. For a moment Wallander felt guilty. He felt as if he’d stabbed the investigation in the back. But he knew that what he’d said was the truth.

  They had nothing to go on. Absolutely nothing.

  CHAPTER 21

  That night Wallander had a dream.

  He was walking along a street in Rome with his father. The summer was suddenly over and it was autumn, a Roman autumn. They were talking about something, he couldn’t remember what, and then all of a sudden his father disappeared. One minute he was right next to him, the next he was gone, swallowed up by the swarm of people on the street.

  He woke with a start. In the silence of the night, the dream had seemed perfectly clear. It was his grief over his father’s death, over never being able to go on with the conversation they had begun. He couldn’t feel sorry for his father, only for himself, left behind.

  He couldn’t go back to sleep. He had to get up early anyway.

  When they had gone back to the station after visiting Maria Svensson in Sövestad, there was a message for Wallander that he’d been booked on the 7 a.m. flight from Sturup the next morning, arriving at Östersund at 9.50 a.m, after changing planes at Arlanda Airport. The itinerary gave him the choice of spending Saturday night in Svenstavik or Gävle. A rental car would be waiting for him at the airport in Frösön. He could decide then where to spend the night. He looked at the map of Sweden hanging on the wall in his office next to the big map of Skåne. That gave him an idea. He went into his office and called Linda. He got an answering machine for the first time and left his question for her: could she take the train to Gävle, a trip that wouldn’t take more than two hours, and spend the night there? Then he went looking for Svedberg, finally finding him in the gym where he usually took a sauna on Friday nights. Wallander asked Svedberg to do him a favour, to book two rooms at a nice hotel in Gävle for Saturday night. The next day he could be reached on his mobile phone.

  After that he went home. And when he fell asleep, he dreamt about his father in Rome in the autumn.

  At 6 a.m. the taxi he had ordered was waiting outside. He picked up his tickets at Sturup Airport. Since it was Saturday morning, the plane to Stockholm was no more than half full. The plane to Östersund left on time. Wallander had never been there before. His visits to the country north of Stockholm had been few and far between. He was looking forward to the trip. For one thing, it would give him some distance from the dream he’d had during the night.

  It was a cool morning in Östersund. The pilot had said it was 1°C. The cold feels different, Wallander thought as he drove across the bridge from Frösön through the beautiful landscape. The town lay along the slope of Storsjön. He headed south. It was liberating to be in a rented car, driving through an unfamiliar landscape.

  He reached Svenstavik at 11.30 a.m. He had heard from Svedberg along the way that he was supposed to contact a man named Robert Melander. He was the person in the church administration with whom Eriksson’s lawyer, Bjurman, had been in contact. Melander lived in a red house next to the old district courthouse in Svenstavik. Wallander parked his car in the middle of town. It took him a while to work out that the courthouse was on the other side of the new shopping centre. He left his car where it was and walked. It was overcast but not raining. He entered the front yard of Melander’s house. A Norwegian elkhound was chained to a kennel. The front door stood open. Wallander knocked. No-
one answered, but he thought that he heard sounds from behind the house. He walked around the side and found a large garden with a potato patch and currant bushes. Wallander was surprised to see currants growing so far north. At the back of the house stood a man about Wallander’s age, wearing gumboots. He was sawing branches off the trunk of a tree that lay on the ground. When he caught sight of Wallander, he stopped at once and stretched his back, smiled and put down the saw.

  “You must be the policeman from Ystad,” he said, putting out his hand.

  His dialect is quite melodic, thought Wallander, as he greeted the man.

  “When’d you leave?” asked Melander. “Last night?”

  “This morning.”

  “Imagine, it can go that fast,” said Melander. “I was in Malmö several times back in the 1960s. I’d got it into my head that it might be nice to move around a bit. And there was work at that big shipyard.”

  “Kockums,” said Wallander. “But it doesn’t exist any more.”

  “Nothing exists any more,” replied Melander philosophically. “Back then it took four days to drive down there.”

  “But you didn’t stay,” said Wallander.

  “No, I didn’t,” replied Melander cheerfully. “It was beautiful and pleasant enough in the south. But it wasn’t for me. If I’m going to travel anywhere in my life, it’s going to be north. Not south. You don’t even have snow down there, they tell me.”

  “Occasionally we do,” Wallander replied. “When it does snow, it snows a lot.”

  “There’s lunch waiting for us inside,” said Melander. “My wife works at the welfare centre, but she fixed something for us.”