The Fifth Woman

CHAPTER 16

The terror sank into Wallander like a claw. When the thought came it was already too late. Svedberg had opened the door. In that brief instant when terror replaced time, Wallander waited for the explosion to come. But all that happened was that Svedberg felt with one hand along the wall and muttered, wondering where the light switch was. Afterwards, Wallander felt embarrassment at his fear. Why would Runfeldt have booby-trapped his cellar?

Svedberg turned on the light. They entered the room and looked around. Since it was under ground, there was only a thin row of windows along the top of the wall. The first thing Wallander noticed was that the windows had iron gratings on the inside. That was unusual, something Runfeldt must have added himself.

The room was set up as an office. There was a desk, and filing cabinets along the walls. On a small table next to the wall stood a coffee maker and some cups. The room had a telephone, fax machine, and photocopier.

“Should we look around or wait for Nyberg?” Svedberg asked.

Wallander heard him, but waited to reply. He was still trying to understand his first impressions. Why had Runfeldt rented this room? Why hadn’t Vanja Andersson known about it? And most important: what did he use the room for?

“No bed,” Svedberg continued. “It doesn’t seem to be a love nest.”

“No woman could get romantic down here,” Hoglund said.

Wallander still hadn’t answered Svedberg. The most important question was why Runfeldt had kept this office secret. It was an office, there was no doubt about that.

He let his gaze wander along the walls. There was another door. He nodded to Svedberg, who walked over and tried the handle. The door was open. He looked inside.

“It looks like a darkroom,” Svedberg said.

Wallander wondered if there could be a simple reason for this space. Runfeldt took a lot of photographs. He had a big collection of orchid photographs from all over the world in his flat. Wallander and Hoglund went and looked over Svedberg’s shoulder. It was indeed a tiny darkroom. Wallander decided they didn’t have to wait for Nyberg. They could go through the room themselves.

The first thing he looked for was a suitcase, but there wasn’t one. Next he sat down at the desk and started leafing through the papers on the desk. Svedberg and Hoglund concentrated on the filing cabinets. Wallander remembered vaguely that Rydberg, way back in the beginning, on one of those frequent evenings when they sat on his balcony drinking whisky, had said that the work of a policeman and an auditor was quite similar. They spent a good deal of their time going through papers. If that’s correct, then right now I’m auditing a dead man, he thought.

Wallander pulled out one of the desk drawers and found a laptop computer. Wallander’s computer literacy was limited. He often had to ask for help with the computer in his office. Both Svedberg and Hoglund were comfortable with computers and viewed them as essential working tools.

“Let’s see what’s hiding in here,” he said, lifting the computer onto the desk.

He got up from the chair. Hoglund sat down. After a moment the screen lit up. Svedberg was still going through one of the filing cabinets.

“No passwords,” she muttered. “I’m in.”

Wallander leaned forward to watch, so closely that he could smell the discreet perfume she wore. He thought about his eyes. He couldn’t wait any longer. He had to get reading glasses.

“It’s a directory,” she said. “A list of names.”

“See if Harald Berggren is on it,” Wallander said.

She shot him a look of astonishment.

“You think?”

“I don’t think anything. But we can try.”

Svedberg had left the filing cabinet and now stood next to Wallander while Hoglund searched through the directory. Then she shook her head.

“Holger Eriksson?” Svedberg suggested.

Wallander nodded. She searched. Nothing.

“Just browse through the directory at random,” said Wallander.

“Here’s a man named Lennart Skoglund,” she said. “Should we try him?”

“That’s Nacka, damn it!” Svedberg exclaimed. “There’s a famous soccer player named Lennart Skoglund,” said Svedberg. “His nickname is Nacka. Haven’t you heard of him?”

Wallander nodded. Hoglund didn’t know who he was.

“Lennart Skoglund sounds like a common name,” Wallander said. “Let’s look him up.”

She pulled up the record on him. Wallander squinted his eyes and managed to read the brief text.

Lennart Skoglund. Started June 1994. Ended 19 August 1994. No steps taken. Case closed.

“What does that mean?” Svedberg wondered.

“It’s almost like one of us had written it,” Hoglund said.

At that instant Wallander knew what the explanation might be. He thought about the technical equipment Runfeldt had bought. And about the darkroom, and the secret office. The whole thing had seemed improbable, yet now, as they stood leaning over the directory, likely.

Wallander stretched his back.

“The question is whether Runfeldt was interested in other things besides orchids. The question is whether Runfeldt might also have been a private detective. Go through everything you find here. Keep your eyes peeled and don’t forget Eriksson. And I want one of you to get hold of Vanja Andersson. Without knowing it, she might have seen or heard things that have to do with this little operation. I’m going back to the station to talk to Runfeldt’s children.”

“What do we do about the press conference?” Hoglund asked. “I promised to be there.”

“It’s better if you stay here.”

Svedberg offered his car keys to Wallander, who shook his head.

“I’ll get my own car. I need a walk anyway.”

When he reached the street he regretted it at once. The wind was strong and it seemed to be getting colder all the time. He hesitated a moment, wondering whether to go home and get a warmer jumper. But he was in a hurry, and he was uneasy. They had made some new discoveries, but they didn’t fit into the picture. Why had Runfeldt been a private detective? Wallander hurried through town and got his car. The fuel gauge was showing empty, but he didn’t have time to get petrol. His uneasiness made him impatient.

He reached the police station just before 4.30 p.m. Ebba handed him a pile of phone messages, which he stuffed into his jacket pocket. When he got to his office he called Chief Holgersson. She reminded him about the press conference. Wallander promised to take care of it. It wasn’t something he liked to do. He was too easily annoyed by what he regarded as impertinent questions from the reporters. On several occasions there had been complaints about his lack of cooperation, even from Stockholm. This had brought home to Wallander that he was known outside his own circle of colleagues and friends. For better or worse, he had become part of Sweden’s national police force.

He gave the chief a quick outline of the discovery of Runfeldt’s office, not mentioning his idea that Runfeldt had been operating as a private detective. Then he hung up and called Hansson. Runfeldt’s daughter was in his office. They agreed to meet briefly out in the hall.

“I’ve interviewed the son,” Hansson said. “He’s back at the Hotel Sekelgarden.”

Wallander nodded.

“Any luck?”

“Not much. He confirmed the picture of Runfeldt as a man passionately interested in orchids.”

“And his mother? Runfeldt’s wife?”

“A tragic accident. You want the details?”

“Not now. What does the daughter say?”

“I was just about to talk to her. It took some time with the son. I’m trying to do this as thoroughly as I can. The son lives in Arvika, by the way, and the daughter in Eskilstuna.”

Wallander looked at his watch. He should be preparing for the press conference, but he could talk to the daughter for a few minutes first.

“Do you have any objections if I start by asking her a few questions?”

“No, go right ahead.”

“I don’t have time to explain right now, and the questions might sound strange to you.”

They went into Hansson’s office. The woman sitting there was young — Wallander guessed no more than 23 or 24. He could see that she resembled her father. She stood up when he came in, and Wallander smiled and shook her hand. Hansson leaned against the doorframe while Wallander sat in his chair.

Hansson had written down a name, Lena Lonnerwall. Wallander gave Hansson a quick glance, and he nodded. He took off his jacket and put it on the floor next to the chair. She followed his movements with her eyes the whole time.

“I should start by saying how sorry we are at what’s happened,” he said. “My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

Wallander could see that she was composed. She wasn’t about to burst into tears, he noted with some relief.

“Your name is Lena Lonnerwall and you live in Eskilstuna,” Wallander said. “You are the daughter of Gosta Runfeldt.”

“That’s correct.”

“All the other personal information that is unfortunately necessary will be taken by Inspector Hansson. I have only a few questions. Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your profession?”

“I’m a basketball coach.”

Wallander pondered her answer.

“Does that mean you’re a PE teacher?”

“It means I’m a basketball coach.”

Wallander nodded. He left the follow-up questions to Hansson. He had never met a female basketball coach before.

“Your father was a florist?”

“Yes.”

“All his life?”

“In his youth he went to sea. When he and my mother got married he stayed ashore.”

“And your mother was drowned?”

“That’s right.”

The instant of hesitation that preceded her reply hadn’t escaped Wallander.

“How long ago did that happen?”

“About ten years ago. I was just 13.”

Wallander sensed that she was anxious. He continued cautiously.

“Can you give me a little more detail about what happened, and where?”

“Does this really have something to do with my father?”

“It’s police routine to ask for background information,” said Wallander, trying to sound authoritative. Hansson stared at him in amazement from his place by the door.

“I don’t know that much about it,” she said.

Wrong, thought Wallander. You know, but you don’t want to talk about it.

“Tell me what you do know,” he said.

“It was in the winter. For some reason they took a drive out to Almhult to take a walk one Sunday. She fell through a hole in the ice. My father tried to save her. But it was no use.”

Wallander sat motionless. He was thinking about what she had said. Something was related to the investigation they were working on. Then it occurred to him what it was. It wasn’t about Runfeldt, but about Eriksson. A man falls into a hole in the ground and is impaled. Lena Lonnerwall’s mother falls through a hole in the ice. Wallander’s instinct told him that there was a connection, but he couldn’t say what it was. Or why the woman sitting across from him didn’t want to talk about her mother’s death.

He left the accident and moved on.

“Your father had a florist’s shop, and he had a passion for orchids.”

“That’s the first thing I remember about him. The way he told me and my brother about flowers.”

“Why was he such a passionate orchid lover?”

“Why does anyone become passionate about something? Can you answer that?”

Wallander shook his head without replying.

“Did you know that your father was a private detective?”

Over by the door Hansson gave a start. Wallander kept his gaze steady on the woman in front of him. Her astonishment seemed genuine.

“My father was a private detective?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know that?”

“That can’t be true.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t understand. I don’t even know exactly what a private detective is. Do we really have them in Sweden?”

“That’s a different question altogether,” Wallander said. “But your father spent time doing business as a private detective.”

“Like Ture Sventon? That’s the only Swedish detective I’ve ever heard of.”

“Forget about the comic books,” Wallander said. “I’m serious about this.”

“I am too. I’ve never heard a word about my father being involved in anything like this. What did he do?”

“It’s too early to tell.”

Wallander was now convinced that she didn’t know what her father had been up to. Of course Wallander might be completely wrong, yet he was almost certain that he was right. The secret room on Harpegatan might lead them on to other secret rooms, but it had shaken up the entire investigation. Everything had been set in motion again.

He got up from the chair. “That’s all for now,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

She gave him a sombre look.

“Who did it?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Wallander said. “But I’m convinced we’ll catch whoever killed your father.”

Hansson followed him out to the hall. “Private detective? Is that some sort of joke?”

“No,” Wallander said. “We found a secret office that belonged to Runfeldt. You’ll hear more about it later.”

Hansson nodded. “Ture Sventon wasn’t a comic book character,” he said. “He was in a series of mystery novels.”

But Wallander had already left. He got a cup of coffee and closed the door to his office. The phone rang. He hung it up without answering. He was dying to get out of that press conference. He had too many other things to think about. With a grimace he pulled over a notebook and wrote down the most important things to tell the press.

He leaned back and looked out the window. The wind was howling.

If the killer speaks a language, than we can attempt to answer him, he thought. If it’s the way I think it is, he wants to show other people what he’s doing. So we have to acknowledge that we’ve seen, but that we haven’t let ourselves be scared off.

He made some more notes. Then he got up and went into Chief Holgersson’s office. He told her what he had been thinking. She listened carefully and agreed that they would do as he suggested.

The press conference was held in the largest conference room in the station. Wallander felt as though he’d been dragged back to last summer, and that tumultuous press conference that he had stormed out of in a rage. He recognised many of the same faces.

“I’m glad you’re handling this,” Chief Holgersson whispered. “I’ll make the opening remarks. The rest is yours.”

They went up to the dais at one end of the room. Lisa Holgersson welcomed everyone and then handed over to Wallander, who could already feel himself starting to sweat.

He gave a thorough description of the murders of Holger Eriksson and Gosta Runfeldt. He told them that these were among the most savage crimes he and his colleagues had ever investigated. The only significant information he held back was the discovery that Runfeldt had probably worked as a private detective. He also didn’t mention that they were looking for a man who had once been a mercenary in a remote African war and called himself Harald Berggren.

Instead he said something completely different, something that he and Lisa Holgersson had agreed on. He said that the police had some clear leads to follow. He couldn’t go into details at this time, but there were clues and indications. The police were on a specific track that they couldn’t talk about yet, for reasons crucial to the investigation.

He’d had this idea when it had seemed to him that the investigation had been shaken up. Movement deep down inside, almost impossible to register, but there nevertheless. The thought that came to him was quite simple. When there is an earthquake, people flee from the epicentre in a hurry. The killer wanted the world to see that the murders were sadistic and well planned. The investigators could confirm that they were aware of this, but they could also give a more detailed answer. They had seen more than what may have been intended.

Wallander wanted to get the killer moving. A person in motion was easier to see than one who kept still and hid in his own shadow. Wallander realised that the whole tactic could backfire. The killer might make himself invisible, but it was worth a try.

He had also received Chief Holgersson’s permission to say something that was not altogether true. They had no leads. All they had were unrelated fragments.

When Wallander finished, the questions began. He was ready for most of them. He had heard and replied to them before, and he would keep on hearing them as long as he was a policeman.

Not until it was almost over, when Wallander had started to grow impatient and Chief Holgersson had signalled to him to wind it up, did everything turn in another direction. The man who raised his hand and then stood up had been sitting far back in a corner. Wallander didn’t see him and was just about to adjourn the conference when Holgersson drew his attention to the fact that there was one more question.

“I’m from the Anmarkaren,” the man said. “I have a question.”

Wallander searched his memory. He’d never heard of a magazine called the Anmarkaren. His impatience was growing.

“What magazine did you say you were from?”

“The Anmarkaren.”

“I have to admit that I’ve never heard of your magazine, but what’s the question?”

“The Anmarkaren has roots that go way back,” the man replied, unfazed. “There was a magazine in the early 19th century with that name. A magazine of social criticism. We plan to publish our first issue shortly.”

“One question,” Wallander said. “When you come out with the first issue I’ll answer two questions.”

There was tittering in the room. The man had the air of a preacher about him. Wallander wondered whether the Anmarkaren might be religious. Or pseudo-religious, he thought. New-age spirituality has finally reached Ystad. The southern plain of Sweden has been conquered, and Osterlen is all that’s left.

“What do the Ystad police think about the fact that the residents of Lodinge have decided to set up a citizen militia?” asked the man in the corner.

Wallander couldn’t see his face clearly.

“I haven’t heard that the people of Lodinge have considered committing any collective stupidities,” Wallander replied.

“Not only in Lodinge,” the man continued calmly. “There are plans to start a people’s movement across the whole country. An umbrella organisation for the citizen militia that will protect the populace, which will do everything the police don’t want to do. Or can’t do. One of the starting points will be the Ystad district.”

There was a sudden silence in the room.

“And why was Ystad selected for this honour?” asked Wallander. He was still not sure whether to take the man seriously.

“Within the past few months there have been a large number of brutal murders. The police succeeded in solving the crimes from this summer, but now it seems to have started again. People want to live their lives. The Swedish police have capitulated to the criminal elements that are creeping out of their holes today. That’s why the citizen militia is the only way to solve the problem of security.”

“It doesn’t solve anything for people to take the law into their own hands,” Wallander replied. “There can only be one response to this from the Ystad police. And it is clear and unequivocal. No-one can misunderstand it. We will regard all private initiatives to establish a citizen militia as illegal, and participants will be prosecuted.”

“Should I interpret that to mean you are against it?” the man asked.

Now Wallander could see his pale, emaciated face. He decided to memorise it.

“Yes,” he said. “You can interpret it this way: we are opposed to any attempt to organise a citizen militia.”

“Don’t you wonder what the people in Lodinge are going to say about that?”

“I may wonder, but I’m not afraid of the answer,” he said quickly, and adjourned the press conference.

“Do you think he was serious?” Chief Holgersson asked when they were alone in the room.

“Maybe. We should keep an eye on what’s happening in Lodinge. If it’s true that people are starting to demand a citizen militia publicly, then there’s been a change in the situation. And we might have problems.”

It was 7 p.m. Wallander said goodbye to Holgersson and went back to his office. He sat down in his chair. He needed to think. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had so little time for reflection and summarising during a criminal investigation.

The phone rang. He picked it up at once. It was Svedberg.

“How did the press conference go?”

“A little worse than usual. How’s it going with you two?”

“I think you ought to come over here. We found a camera with a roll of film in it. Nyberg’s here. We thought we should develop it.”

“Can we establish that he worked as a private detective?”

“We think so. But there’s something else too.”

Wallander waited tensely for the rest.

“We think the film contains pictures from his last case.”

Last, thought Wallander. Not latest.

“I’m coming,” he said.

Clouds raced across the sky. As he walked towards his car, he wondered if the migrating birds flew in wind this strong. On the way to Harpegatan he stopped and filled his car with petrol. He felt drained. He wondered when he would have time to look for a house. And think about his father. He wondered when Baiba would come to visit. He looked at his watch. Was it time or his life that was passing? He was too tired to decide which. He started the engine. His watch said 7.40 p.m.

A few minutes later he parked on Harpegatan and went down to the basement.