The Fifth Woman

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 here,” 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 Lodinge. 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 Sovestad 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 Sovestad.

“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 Malmo. 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 Almhult,” 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 Vastra 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 Loderup 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 Hoor. 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 Hoor, 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. Gosta 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.

Once more he went back to the door of Runfeldt’s block of flats. He comes out to the street. Puts down his suitcase, if it happens in the morning. What does he do then? He waits for a taxi. But when it arrives he has already disappeared.

Wallander stopped mid-stride. Runfeldt waits for a taxi. Could another taxi have arrived? A fake taxi? All Runfeldt knew was that he had ordered a taxi, not which one would come. Or who the driver would be. The driver helps him with his suitcase. He gets into the car and they drive off towards Malmo. But they get no further than Marsvinsholm. Could it have happened like that? Could Runfeldt have been held prisoner near the woods where he was found? But the suitcase was found on the road to Hoor in the opposite direction. In the direction of Holger Eriksson’s farm.

Wallander didn’t know what to think. The only thing that was perfectly clear was that whatever had happened outside Runfeldt’s front door had been planned by someone who knew that he was about to leave for Nairobi.

When he got back to the station, he saw Nyberg’s car badly parked outside the entrance. The suitcase had arrived.

They had spread out a plastic sheet on the conference table and placed the suitcase on it. The lid was still closed. Nyberg was having coffee with Svedberg and Hansson. Wallander saw that they were waiting for him. Martinsson was on the phone. Wallander could tell that he was talking to one of his children. He handed him his car keys.

“How long was the suitcase lying there?” Wallander asked.

Nyberg’s answer surprised him.

“A couple of days,” Nyberg replied. “Not more than three.”

“So it was kept somewhere else for a long time,” Hansson said.

“Why does the killer wait until now to get rid of it?” Wallander asked.

No-one had an answer. Nyberg pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened the lid. He was about to take out the top layer of clothing when Wallander asked him to wait. He leaned over the table. Something had caught his attention, he wasn’t sure what.

“Do we have a photograph of this?” he asked.

“Not of the open suitcase,” Nyberg replied.

“Let’s take one,” Wallander said. Something about the way the suitcase was packed had caught his attention.

Nyberg instructed Svedberg to climb up on a chair and take the pictures, and they unpacked the suitcase. Runfeldt had planned to travel to Africa with little baggage. There were no unexpected items inside. They found his travel documents in a side pocket. There was also a large sum of money in dollars. In the bottom of the case they found several notebooks, literature about orchids, and a camera. They stood in silence and surveyed the various items. Wallander searched his mind for what had caught his attention. Nyberg had opened the toilet bag. He studied the name on a pill bottle.

“Anti-malaria pills,” he said. “Runfeldt knew what he’d need in Africa.”

Wallander looked carefully at the case, and saw something wedged into the lining of the lid. Nyberg pried it loose. It was a blue plastic name tag holder.

“Maybe Runfeldt went to conferences,” Nyberg suggested.

“He was going on a photographic safari,” Wallander said. “But of course it might be left there from a previous trip.” He picked up a paper napkin from the table and held it around the pin on the back of the holder, and brought it up close to his eyes. He sniffed, noticing a subtle fragrance. He held it out to Svedberg, who was standing next to him.

“Do you know what this smells like?”

“After-shave lotion?”

Wallander shook his head.

“No,” he said. “It’s perfume.”

They took turns sniffing it. They all agreed that it was a woman’s perfume. Wallander was even more puzzled. And he had a feeling that he recognised the plastic holder.

“Who’s seen this type of holder before?” he asked.

“Isn’t that the kind used by the Malmo local authority?” Martinsson said. “Everyone who works in the hospital here has one like it.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Wallander said. “A plastic holder that smells of perfume is inside Runfeldt’s luggage.”

At that moment he realised what had troubled him when the lid of the suitcase was opened.

“I’d like Ann-Britt here,” he said. “Sick children or not. Maybe her amazing neighbour could help out for half an hour? The police will pay the bill.”

Martinsson dialled the number.

“She’s on her way,” he said.

“Why do you want her?” Hansson asked.

“There’s something I want her to do with this suitcase,” Wallander said. “That’s all.”

“Should we put everything back in?” Nyberg asked.

“That’s exactly what I want her to do,” Wallander replied.

They looked at him in surprise, but no-one said a word. Hansson sniffled. Nyberg sat down on a chair and rested his foot. Martinsson disappeared into his office, presumably to call home. Wallander left the conference room and went to look at the map of the Ystad police district. He studied the roads between Marsvinsholm, Lodinge, and Ystad.

Somewhere there is always a centre, he thought. A junction between various events. A criminal only rarely returns to the scene of the crime. On the other hand, a killer often passes the same point many times.

Hoglund came rushing down the hall. Wallander felt guilty for having asked her to come in. But this time he felt he had a good reason for doing so.

“Has something happened?” she asked.

“You know that we found Runfeldt’s suitcase?”

“I heard.”

They went into the conference room.

“Everything lying here on the table was inside,” said Wallander. “I want you to put on some gloves and then pack everything.

“In any particular order?”

“In whatever order comes naturally to you. You’ve told me several times that you always pack your husband’s suitcases. You’re experienced, in other words.”

She did as he asked. Wallander was grateful that she didn’t ask any questions. They watched her. Out of long habit, she selected each item briskly and packed the suitcase. Then she took a step back.

“Should I close the lid?”

“That’s not necessary.”

They all stood around the table and looked at the results. It was as Wallander had suspected.

“How could you know how Runfeldt had packed his suitcase?” Martinsson wondered.

“Wait with your comments,” Wallander interrupted him. “I saw a traffic officer sitting in the canteen. Go and get him.”

The traffic officer, whose name was Laurin, came into the room. They had unpacked the suitcase again. Laurin looked tired. Wallander knew that they were working on a drink-driving campaign. He asked Laurin to put on a pair of latex gloves and pack the suitcase. Laurin didn’t ask any questions either. Wallander saw that he did not do it sloppily but handled the items of clothing with care. When he was done, Wallander thanked him. He left the room.

“Completely different,” Svedberg said.

“I’m not trying to prove something,” said Wallander. “I don’t think I can, either. But when Nyberg opened the lid of the suitcase I had a feeling that something wasn’t right. It’s always been my experience that men and women pack suitcases in different ways. It seemed to me that this suitcase had been packed by a woman.”

“Vanja Andersson?” Hansson suggested.

“No,” Wallander replied. “Not her. It was Runfeldt himself who first packed the suitcase. We can be quite sure of that.”

Hoglund was the first one to understand.

“So you’re saying it was repacked later? By a woman?”

“I’m just trying to think out loud. The suitcase has been lying outside for only a few days. Runfeldt has been gone for a much longer time than that. Where was the suitcase all that time? It might also explain something missing from the contents.”

The team remained silent.

“There’s no underwear in the suitcase,” Wallander continued. “I think it’s very odd that Runfeldt would pack for a trip to Africa without taking a single change of underwear.”

“It’s hardly likely he would have done that,” Hansson said.

“Which in turn means that someone repacked his suitcase,” Martinsson said. “A woman, perhaps. And during the repacking all of Runfeldt’s underwear disappeared.”

Wallander could feel the tension in the room.

“There’s one more thing,” he said slowly. “Runfeldt’s underwear has disappeared, but at the same time a foreign object wound up inside the suitcase.”

He pointed at the blue plastic holder. Hoglund was still wearing gloves.

“Smell it,” Wallander said to her.

She did as he asked.

“A woman’s perfume,” she said.

Nyberg was the one who finally broke the silence.

“Does this mean that there’s a woman mixed up in all these atrocities?”

“We have to consider it as a possibility,” Wallander replied. “Even if nothing directly indicates it. Apart from this suitcase.”

They were all silent again for a long time.

It was 7.30 p.m. on Sunday, 16 October.

She had arrived at the underpass just after 7 p.m. It was cold, and she stamped her feet to stay warm. There was still some time before the man would turn up. At least half an hour, maybe more. But she always arrived with time to spare. With a shudder she remembered the few occasions in her life when she had come late, kept people waiting, stepped into rooms where people stared at her. She would never arrive late again. She had arranged her life around a timetable that allowed margins for error.

She was quite calm. The man didn’t deserve to live. She couldn’t feel hatred towards him. The woman who had suffered so much misfortune could do the hating. She was just standing here in the dark, waiting to do what was necessary.

She had hesitated over whether she should postpone this. The oven was empty, but her work schedule was complicated over the next few weeks and she didn’t want to risk having him die inside it. It would have to be done quickly. And she had no hesitations about how it would be done. The woman who had finally given her his name had talked about a bathtub filled with water. About how it felt to be forced under the water and almost give up breathing, bursting apart from the inside.

She had thought about Sunday school. The fires of hell that awaited the sinner. The terror was still with her. No-one knew how sin was measured. And no-one knew when the punishment would be dealt out. She had never been able to talk about this terror with her mother.

She had wondered about her mother’s last moment alive. The police officer, Francoise Bertrand, had written that everything would have happened very fast. She probably didn’t suffer. She was probably hardly aware of what was happening to her. But how could Bertrand know that? Had she omitted part of the truth that was too unbearable?

A train passed overhead. She counted the cars. Then everything was quiet again.

Not with fire, she thought. But with water. With water the sinner shall perish.

She looked at her watch, and noticed that the laces on one of her running shoes were undone. She bent down and retied it, hard. She had strong fingers. The man she was waiting for, the one she had been tailing for the past few days, was short and overweight. He wouldn’t cause her any problems. It would be over in a flash.

A man with a dog passed through the underpass on the opposite side. His footsteps reverberated against the footpath, reminding her of an old black-and-white movie. She did what was simplest: pretended to be waiting for someone. She was positive that later he wouldn’t remember her. All her life she had taught herself not to be noticed, to make herself invisible. Only now did she realise that it had been in preparation for her future.

The man with the dog disappeared. Her car was parked on the other side of the underpass. The traffic was sparse, even though they were in the centre of Lund. Only the man with the dog and a cyclist had passed. She was ready. Nothing would go wrong.

She saw the man. He came walking along the same side of the street where she was standing. In the distance she could hear a car. She doubled over, as if she was in pain. The man stopped by her side and asked her if she was sick. She fell to her knees, and he did what she had expected. He stepped close and leaned forward. She told him that she was ill. Could he help her to her car? It was right nearby. He put a hand under her arm. She sagged against him. He had to strain to hold her up, just as she had anticipated. He wasn’t strong. He helped her over to her car, and asked if he could do anything else, but she said no.

He opened the door for her. She reached for the rag. To prevent the ether from evaporating, she had put it in a plastic bag. It took her only a few seconds to get it out. The street was still deserted. She turned around and pressed the rag hard against his face. He fought back, but she was stronger. When he started to collapse to the ground, she held him up with one arm as she opened the back door. It was easy to shove him inside. She got into the driver’s seat. A car passed, followed closely by another cyclist. She leaned over to the back seat and pressed the rag against his face. Soon he was unconscious. He wouldn’t wake up in the time it took her to drive to the lake.

She took the road through Svaneholm and Brodda to reach the lake. She turned off near the empty camping ground on the shore, turned off the lights and got out of the car. She listened. Everything was quiet. She pulled the unconscious man out onto the ground. From the boot of the car she took out a sack. The weights inside it clattered against some rocks. It took longer than she had expected to get him into the sack and tie it.

He was still unconscious. She carried the sack out onto the small jetty that jutted into the lake. A bird fluttered past in the dark. She placed the sack at the very end of the jetty. Now there was only a short wait remaining. She lit a cigarette. In the light from the glow she studied her hand. It was steady.

After 20 minutes the man in the sack started to come to life. He began to move around.

She thought about the bathroom. The woman’s story. And she remembered cats being drowned when she was little. They floated away in the sack, still alive, desperately fighting to breathe and survive.

He started shouting. Now he was struggling inside the sack. She put out her cigarette on the jetty. She tried to think, but her mind was empty. She shoved the sack into the water with her foot and walked away.