The White Lioness

Chapter Six

Peter Hanson was a thief.

He was not a particularly successful criminal, but he usually managed to execute the assignments allocated to him by his employer and customer, a fence in Malmo by the name of Morell.

That very day, the morning of Walpurgis Eve, April 30, Morell’s stock was at a pretty low ebb with Hanson. He planned to take the day off, like everyone else, and maybe treat himself to a trip to Copenhagen. Late the previous night, however, Morell called to say he had an urgent job for Peter Hanson.

“I want you to get hold of four water pumps,” Morell said. “The old-fashioned sort. The kind you can see outside every cottage in the countryside.”

“Surely it can wait until after the holiday,” Peter Hanson objected. He was already asleep when Morell called, and he did not like being woken up.

“It can’t wait,” said Morell. “There’s a guy who lives in Spain, and he’s driving there the day after tomorrow. He wants those pumps in the car with him. He sells them to other Swedish residents down there. They are sentimental, and pay good money to have old Swedish water pumps outside their haciendas.”

“How the hell am I going to get hold of four water pumps?” Peter Hanson asked. “Have you forgotten it’s a holiday? Every summer cottage will be occupied tomorrow.”

“That’s your problem,” Morell replied. “Start early enough and you’ll manage it.”

Then he turned threatening.

“If you don’t, I’ll be forced to go through my papers and work out how much your brother owes me,” he said.

Peter Hanson slammed down the phone. He knew Morell would take that as a positive reply. As he had been woken up and would not be able to get to sleep again for ages, he got dressed and drove down to town from Rosengard, where he lived. He went into a bar and ordered a beer.

Peter Hanson had a brother called Jan-Olof. He was Peter Hanson’s big misfortune in life. Jan-Olof played the ponies at Jagersro, at the Tote, and occasionally also at other trotting tracks up and down the country. He did a lot of betting, and he did it badly. He lost more than he could afford, and ended up in Morell’s hands. As he could not provide any guarantees, Peter Hanson had been forced to step in as a living guarantee.

Morell was first and foremost a fence. In recent years, however, he had realized that, like all other businessmen, he would have to make up his mind how to develop his future activities. Either he would have to specialize and concentrate on a smaller field, or he could broaden his base. He chose the latter.

Although he had a big network of customers who could give very precise information about the goods they ordered, he decided to go in for loan-sharking as well. That way, he figured he could increase his turnover considerably.

Morell was just turned fifty. After twenty years in the fraud business, he had changed course and since the end of the 1970s had built up a successful receiving empire across southern Sweden. He had about thirty thieves and drivers on his secret payroll, and every week truckloads of stolen goods would be transported to his warehouse in the Malmo free port, ready for moving on to foreign importers. He collected stereos, televisions, and mobile telephones from Smaland. Caravans of stolen cars came rolling up from Halland and were passed on to expectant buyers in Poland and, nowadays, the former East Germany. He could see an important new market ready to be opened up in the Baltic states, and he had already delivered a few luxury cars to Czechoslovakia as well. Peter Hanson was one of the least important cogs in his organization. Morell was still doubtful about how good he was, and used him mostly for the occasional one-off deal. Four water pumps was an ideal assignment for him.

That was why Peter Morell was sitting cursing in his car on the morning of Walpurgis Eve. Morell had ruined his holiday. He was also worried about the assignment he had taken on. There were too many people on the move for him to be confident of working undisturbed.

Peter Hanson was born in Horby, and knew Skane inside out. There was not the tiniest of side roads in this part of the country he had not been on, and his memory was good. He had been working for Morell for four years now, ever since he was nineteen. He sometimes thought about all the things he had loaded into his rusty old van. He once rustled two young bulls. Orders for pigs were common around Christmas time. Several times he had acquired a few tombstones, and wondered what kind of a sick person ordered those. He had carried off front doors while the house owner was asleep upstairs, and dismantled a church spire with the assistance of a crane operator brought in for the purpose. Water pumps were nothing unusual. But it was an unfortunate choice of day.

He decided to start in the area to the east of Sturup airport. He banished all thought of Osterlen. Every single second home would be occupied today.

If he was going to make it, he’d have to concentrate on the area between Sturup, Horby, and Ystad. There were quite a few empty houses around there, and with luck he might be able to work undisturbed.

Just beyond Krageholm, on a little dirt road winding through the woods and eventually hitting the main road at Sovde, he found his first pump. The house had almost collapsed, and was well hidden from view. The pump was rusty, but intact. He started working it loose from the wooden base with a crowbar, but the wood was rotten. He dropped the crowbar and tugged at the pump, easing it away from the boards over the well itself. He began to think that maybe it wouldn’t be impossible to find four pumps for Morell after all. Three more deserted houses, and he could be back in Malmo by early afternoon. It was still only ten past eight. Maybe he would be able to nip over to Copenhagen that evening after all.

Then he broke loose the rusty pump.

As a result, the wooden boards crumbled and fell away.

He glanced down into the well.

There was something down there in the darkness. Something light yellow.

He realized to his horror that it was a human head with blond hair.

There was a woman lying there.

A corpse doubled up, twisted, deformed.

He dropped the pump and ran away. He drove off at a crazy speed, getting away from the deserted house as fast as possible. After a few kilometers, just before he got to Sovde, he braked, opened the car door, and threw up.

Then he tried to think. He knew he had not imagined it all. There was a woman down the well.

A woman lying in a well must have been murdered, he thought.

Then it occurred to him he’d left his fingerprints on the water pump he’d broken off.

His fingerprints were in the files.

Morell, he thought, all confused. Morell’s the man to sort this one out.

He drove through Sovde, far too fast, then took a left southwards towards Ystad. He would drive back to Malmo and let Morell see to everything. The guy leaving for Spain would have to go without his pumps.

Just before he got to the turnoff for the Ystad garbage dump, his journey came to an end. He went into a skid as he tried to light a cigarette with his shaking hands, and could only partially correct it. The van crashed into a fence, smashed through a row of mailboxes, and came to a stop. Peter Hanson was wearing a seat belt, which prevented him from shooting through the windshield. Even so, the crash dazed him, and he remained in his seat, in shock.

A man mowing his lawn had seen what happened. He first ran over the road to make sure nobody had been badly injured, then he hurried back to his house, called the police, and stood by the car to make sure the man behind the wheel did not try to run away. He must be drunk, he assumed. Why else would he lose control on a stretch of straight road?

A quarter of an hour later, a patrol car arrived from Ystad. Peters and Noren, two of the most experienced cops in the district, had taken the call. Once they had established that no one was injured, Peters started directing traffic past the scene of the accident, while Noren sat beside Peter Hanson in the back of the police car, to try and find out what happened. Noren made him blow into the booze bag, but the result was negative. The man seemed very confused, and not in the least interested in explaining how the accident happened. Noren was starting to think the man was mentally deranged. He was talking disjointedly about water pumps, a fence in Malmo, and an empty house with a well.

“There’s a woman in the well,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” said Noren. “A woman in a well?”

“She was dead,” mumbled Hanson.

Noren suddenly started to feel uneasy. What was the man trying to say? That he’d found a dead woman in a well at a deserted house?

Noren told the man to stay in the car. Then he hurried out into the road where Peters was keeping the traffic moving and waving on curious drivers who slowed down and showed signs of stopping.

“He claims he’s found a dead woman in a well,” said Noren. “With blond hair.”

Peters dropped his arms to his side.

“Louise Akerblom?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s true.”

“Get hold of Wallander,” said Peters. “Right away.”

The mood among the detectives in the Ystad police station this Walpurgis Eve morning was expectant. They had gathered in the conference room at eight, and Bjork rushed through the business. He had other things besides a missing woman to think about on a day like this. It was traditionally one of the most unruly days in the whole year, and there was a lot to do in preparation for the fun and games they could expect that evening and into the night.

The whole meeting was devoted to Stig Gustafson. Wallander had set his troops looking for the former marine engineer all Thursday afternoon and evening. When he reported on his conversation with Pastor Tureson, everybody thought they were on the threshold of a breakthrough. They also realized that the severed finger and the blown-up house would have to wait. Martinson had even been of the view that it was pure coincidence after all. That there simply was no connection between the incidents.

“This kind of thing has happened before,” he said. “We’ve raided an illegal home distillery, and found an Aladdin’s cave in a neighbor’s house when we stopped to ask the way”

By Friday morning they still had not succeeded in finding out where Stig Gustafson lived.

“We have to crack this today,” said Wallander. “Maybe we won’t find him. But if we get his address, we can establish whether he’s gone off in a hurry.”

At that very moment, the telephone rang. Bjork grabbed the receiver, listened briefly, then handed it to Wallander.

“It’s Noren,” he said. “He’s at a car accident somewhere outside of town.”

“Somebody else can take it,” said Wallander, annoyed.

He took the receiver nevertheless, and listened to what Noren had to say. Martinson and Svedberg were well acquainted with Wallander’s reactions and adept at picking up the slightest change in his mood, and they could see right away that the call was important.

Wallander replaced the receiver slowly, and looked at his colleagues.

“Noren’s at the junction with the road leading to the garbage dump,” he said. “There’s been a minor car accident. They have a guy who claims he’s found a dead woman stuffed down a well.”

They waited anxiously to hear what Wallander had to say next.

“If I understood it rightly,” said Wallander, “this well is less than five kilometers from the property Louise Akerblom was going to inspect. And even closer to the pond where we found her car.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then they all got to their feet at the same time.

“Do you want a full-scale call-out right away?” asked Bjork.

“No,” said Wallander. “We’ve got to get it confirmed first. Noren warned us not to get overexcited. He thought the man seemed very confused.”

“So would I have been,” said Svedberg. “If I’d first of all found a dead woman in a well, then driven off the road.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” said Wallander.

They left Ystad in patrol cars. Wallander had Svedberg with him, while Martinson had a car to himself. When they got to the northern exit road, Wallander switched on the siren. Svedberg stared at him in surprise.

“There’s hardly any traffic,” he said.

“Even so,” said Wallander.

They stopped at the turnoff to the garbage dump, put the ashen Peter Hanson in the back seat, and followed his directions.

“It wasn’t me,” he said, over and over again.

“Who did what?” asked Wallander.

“I didn’t kill her,” he said.

“What were you doing there, then?” asked Wallander.

“I was only going to steal the pump.”

Wallander and Svedberg exchanged glances.

“Morell called late last night and ordered four water pumps,” muttered Hanson. “But I didn’t kill her.”

Wallander was lost. The penny suddenly dropped for Svedberg, and he explained.

“I think I get it,” he said. “There is a notorious fence in Malmo called Morell. He’s notorious because our colleagues in town have never been able to pin anything onto him.”

“Water pumps?” Wallander was suspicious.

“Antique value,” said Svedberg.

They drove into the yard in front of the deserted house. Wallander had time to register that it looked like a nice day for the holiday. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, not a puff of wind, and it must be at least 60 degrees, even though it was only nine o’clock.

He contemplated the well and the broken-off pump lying beside it. Then he took a deep breath, went up to the well, and looked down.

Martinson and Svedberg were waiting in the background, with Peter Hanson.

Wallander could see right away that it was Louise Akerblom.

Even in death, there was a fixed smile on her face.

He suddenly felt very ill. He turned away quickly and sat on his haunches.

Martinson and Svedberg approached the well. Both of them jerked back violently.

“Damn,” said Martinson.

Wallander swallowed and forced himself to breath deeply. He thought of Louise Akerblom’s daughters. And of Robert Akerblom. He wondered how they would be able to keep on believing in a good and all-powerful God when their mother and wife had been murdered and shoved down a well.

He stood up and went back to the well.

“It’s her,” he said. “No doubt about it.”

Martinson ran to his car, called Bjork, and requested a full-scale emergency call-out. They would need the fire brigade to get Louise Akerblom’s body out of the well. Wallander sat down with Peter Hanson on the dilapidated veranda, and listened to his story. He occasionally asked questions, and nodded when Peter Hanson answered. He could tell already that Hanson was telling the truth. In fact, the police had reason to be grateful that he had set out that morning to steal old water pumps. If he hadn’t, it could have been a very long time before they found Louise Akerblom.

“Take down his personal details,” said Wallander to Svedberg, when he had finished talking to Peter Hanson. “Then let him go. But make sure that Morell guy backs up his story.”

Svedberg nodded.

“Who’s the prosecutor on duty?” Wallander wondered.

“I think Bjork said it was Per Akeson,” replied Svedberg.

“Get hold of him,” said Wallander. “Tell him we’ve found her. And that it’s murder. I’ll give him a report later this afternoon.”

“What do we do about Stig Gustafson?” asked Svedberg.

“You’ll have to keep on hunting him by yourself for the time being,” said Wallander. “I want Martinson to be here when we get her up and make the first examination.”

“I’ll be only too glad to miss that,” said Svedberg.

He drove off in one of the cars.

Wallander took a few more deep breaths before approaching the well once more.

He did not want to be on his own when he informed Robert Akerblom where they found his wife.

It took two hours to get Louise Akerblom’s corpse out of the well. The ones who did the work were the same two young firemen who had dragged the pond two days before, when her car had been found. They pulled her up using a rescue harness, and put the body in an investigation tent that had been raised alongside the well. As they were pulling up the body, it became clear to Wallander how she died. She had been shot in the forehead. Once again he was struck by the thought that nothing in this investigation was straightforward. He still had not met Stig Gustafson, if he really was the one who killed her. But would he have shot her from the front? There was something that didn’t add up.

He asked Martinson for his first reaction.

“A bullet straight into the forehead,” said Martinson. “That doesn’t make me think of uncontrolled passion and unhappy love. It makes me think of a cold-blooded execution.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” said Wallander.

The firemen pumped the water out of the well. Then they went down again, and when they came back up they had with them Louise Akerblom’s purse, her briefcase, and one of her shoes. The other was still on her foot. The water was pumped into a hastily constructed plastic pool. Martinson found nothing else of interest when they filtered it.

The firemen went back one more time to the bottom of the well. They shone powerful lamps all around, but found nothing apart from a cat’s skeleton.

The doctor looked pale when he emerged from the tent.

“It’s terrible,” she said to Wallander.

“Yeah,” he replied. “We know the most important thing, namely that she was shot. I want the pathologists in Malmo to find out two things for me right away: first the bullet, second a report on any other injuries which might suggest she had been beaten or held prisoner. Anything you can find. And of course, whether she’s been subjected to sexual assault.”

“The bullet’s still in her head,” said the doctor. “I can’t see any exit hole.”

“One other thing,” said Wallander. “I want her wrists and ankles examined. I want to know if there is any sign of her having been put in handcuffs.”

“Handcuffs?”

“That’s right,” said Wallander. “Handcuffs.”

Bjork had been staying in the background while they worked to lift the corpse out of the well. Once the body had been placed on a stretcher and driven off to the hospital in an ambulance, he took Wallander aside.

“We have to inform her husband,” he said.

“We,” thought Wallander. You mean, I’ll have to do it.

“I’ll take Pastor Tureson with me,” he said.

“You’ll have to try and find out how long it will take him to inform all her close relatives,” Bjork continued. “I’m very much afraid we won’t be able to keep this quiet for very long. And then, I really don’t understand how you could just let that thief go. He can run to some evening tabloid or other and earn himself a fortune if he spills the beans on this story.”

Wallander was irritated by Bjork’s niggling tone. On the other hand, he had to admit that there was a very real risk.

“Yes,” he said. “That was stupid. My fault.”

“I thought it was Svedberg who let him go,” said Bjork.

“It was Svedberg,” said Wallander. “But it’s my responsibility in any case.”

“Please don’t get angry with me for saying this,” said Bjork.

Wallander shrugged.

“I’m angry at whoever did this to Louise Akerblom,” he said. “And to her daughters. And to her husband.”

They put the house out of bounds, and the investigation continued. Wallander got into his car and called Pastor Tureson. He answered more or less right away. Wallander explained what had happened. Pastor Tureson was silent for quite some time before answering. He promised to wait for Wallander outside the church.

“Will he break down?” asked Wallander.

“He has faith in God,” said Pastor Tureson.

We’ll see about that, thought Wallander. We’ll see if that’s enough.

But he said nothing.

Pastor Tureson was standing on the street, his head bowed.

Wallander found it difficult to gather his thoughts as he drove into town. There was nothing he found more difficult than informing relatives that someone in their family had suddenly died. There was no real difference whether the death was caused by an accident, a suicide, or a violent crime. No matter how hard he tried to express himself carefully and considerately, his words were cruelty itself. It had occurred to him that he was the ultimate herald of tragedy. He remembered what Rydberg, his friend and colleague, had said a few months before he died. There will never be an appropriate way for a cop to tell somebody a sudden death has occurred. That’s why we have to do it ourselves, and never delegate it to anybody else. We’re probably more resilient than the others-we’ve seen more of what nobody ought ever to see.

On the way into town he had also been aware of that persistent feeling that something was completely wrong, absolutely incomprehensible; the whole investigation was totally misguided, and some explanation or other must soon come to light. He would ask Martinson and Svedberg straight up if they felt the same as he did. Was there a link between that severed black finger and Louise Akerblom’s disappearance and eventual death? Or was it just a combination of unpredictable coincidences?

It occurred to him that there might also be a third possibility: that somebody had intentionally created the confusion.

But why had this death taken place so suddenly, he asked himself. The only motive we have been able to find so far is unrequited love. But it is a pretty big step from there to accusations of murder. Not to mention being so cold-blooded that the car was hidden in one place while the body was found somewhere else.

Maybe we haven’t found a single stone worth turning over, he thought. What do we do if we find Stig Gustafson is not worth following up?

He thought of the handcuffs. Of Louise Akerblom’s constant smile. Of the happy family that no longer existed.

But was it the image that had collapsed? Or was it the reality?

Pastor Tureson got into the car. He had tears in his eyes. Wallander immediately felt a lump in his throat.

“Well, she’s dead,” said Wallander. “We’ve found her at the site of an empty house some way outside of Ystad. I can’t tell you any more just now.”

“How did she die?”

Wallander thought for a moment before replying.

“She was shot,” he said.

“I have one more question,” said Pastor Tureson. “Apart from wanting to know who could have carried out such a crazy act. Did she suffer a lot before she died?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Wallander. “But even if I did know, I would tell her husband that death came very quickly, and hence painlessly.”

They stopped outside the house. On the way to the Methodist church Wallander had stopped off at the station and taken his own car. He did not want to turn up in a police car.

Robert Akerblom answered almost as soon as they rang the doorbell. He’s seen us, thought Wallander. The moment a car brakes in the street outside, he runs over to the nearest window to see who it is.

He ushered them into the living room. Wallander listened to see if there was any noise. The two girls did not appear to be home.

“I’m afraid I have to tell you your wife is dead,” Wallander began. “We’ve found her at an abandoned house some way outside of town. She was murdered.”

Robert Akerblom stared at him, his face motionless. It seemed he was waiting for more.

“I very much regret this, ” said Wallander. “But the best I can do is to tell you exactly how it is. I’m afraid I shall also have to ask you to identify the body. But that can wait. It doesn’t need to be done today. And it would be all right if Pastor Tureson were to do it.”

Robert Akerblom kept on staring at him.

“Are your daughters at home?” asked Wallander, cautiously. “This must be awful for them.”

He turned to Pastor Tureson, appealing for help.

“We’ll do all we can to help,” said Tureson.

“Thank you for letting me know,” said Robert Akerblom all of a sudden. “All this uncertainty has been so difficult to bear.”

“I am really sorry things have turned out so badly,” said Wallander. “All of us on the case were hoping there would have been some natural explanation.”

“Who?” said Robert Akerblom.

“We don’t know,” said Wallander. “But we shall not rest until we do know.”

“You’ll never know,” said Robert Akerblom.

Wallander looked at him inquiringly.

“Why do you think that?” he said.

“Nobody could have wanted to kill Louise,” said Robert Akerblom. “So how could you possibly find whoever is guilty?”

Wallander did not know what to say. Robert Akerblom had put his finger on their biggest problem.

A few minutes later he stood up. Pastor Tureson accompanied him into the hall.

“You have a few hours in which to contact all the closest relatives,” said Wallander. “Call me if you can’t locate them. We can’t keep this secret for ever.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” said Pastor Tureson.

Then he lowered his voice.

“Stig Gustafson?” he asked.

“We’re still looking,” said Wallander. “We don’t know if it is him.”

“Have you any other leads?” asked Pastor Tureson.

“Could be,” said Wallander, “but I’m afraid I can’t answer that either.”

“For technical reasons?”

“Exactly.”

Wallander could see Pastor Tureson had one more question.

“Well,” he said. “Fire away!”

Pastor Tureson lowered his voice so far that Wallander could hardly hear what he was saying.

“Rape?” he asked.

“We don’t know yet,” said Wallander. “But of course, that’s not an impossibility.”

Wallander felt a strange mixture of hunger and uneasiness when he left the Akerbloms’ house. He stopped on the Osterleden highway and forced down a hamburger. He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten. Then he hurried along to the police station. When he got there he was met by Svedberg, who informed him that Bjork had been forced to improvise a press conference at short notice. As he knew Wallander was busy informing relatives of Louise Akerblom’s death and he didn’t want to disturb him, he had enlisted the help of Martinson.

“Can you guess how the news leaked out?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Wallander. “Peter Hanson?”

“Wrong! Try again!”

“One of us?”

“Not this time. It was Morell. He saw the chance to squeeze some money from one of the evening papers if he tipped them off. He’s obviously a real bastard. At least the guys in Malmo have something to pin on him now. Ordering somebody to steal four water pumps is a criminal offense.”

“He’ll only get probation,” said Wallander.

They went to the canteen and poured a mug of coffee each.

“How did Robert Akerblom take it?” asked Svedberg.

“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “It must feel like half your life has been taken away. No one can imagine what it’s like unless they’ve been through something similar themselves. I can’t. All I can say just now is that we’ll have to have a meeting as soon as the press conference is over. I’ll be in my office till then, writing a summary.”

“I thought I could try and put together an overview of the tipoffs we’ve had,” said Svedberg. “Somebody might have seen Louise Akerblom on Friday with a man who could be Stig Gustafson.”

“Do that,” said Wallander. “And let us have all you know about the man.”

The press conference dragged on and on, eventually ending after an hour and a half. By then Wallander had tried to compose a summary under various headings and draw up a plan for the next phase of the investigation.

Bjork and Martinson were totally exhausted when they came to the conference room.

“Now I understand how you usually feel,” said Martinson, flopping down into a chair. “The only thing they didn’t ask about was the color of her underwear.”

Wallander reacted immediately.

“That was unnecessary,” he said.

Martinson opened his arms wide in apology.

“I’ll try and give you a summary,” said Wallander. “We know how it all started, so I’ll jump over that bit. Anyway, we’ve found Louise Akerblom. She’s been murdered, shot through the forehead. My guess is she was shot at close range. But we’ll know for sure later. We don’t know if she was subjected to sexual assault. Nor do we know if she was ill-treated or held prisoner. We don’t know where she was killed, either. Nor when. But we can be sure she was dead when she was put down that well. We’ve also found her car. It’s essential we get a preliminary report from the hospital as soon as possible. Not least as to whether there was a sexual assault. Then we can start checking up on known criminals who might have done it.”

Wallander took a slurp of coffee before continuing.

“As for motive and murderer, we only have one track to follow so far,” he went on. “The engineer Stig Gustafson, who’s been persecuting her and pestering her with hopeless declarations of love. We still haven’t found him. You know more about that, Svedberg. You can also give us a summary of the tipoffs we’ve had. Further complications in this investigation are the severed black finger and the house that blew up. Things have been made no easier by the fact that Nyberg found the remains of an advanced radio transmitter in the ashes, and the butt of a handgun used mainly in South Africa, if I understood him properly. In one sense the finger and the pistol are linked by that fact. Not that it helps much. We still don’t know if the two incidents are connected.”

Wallander was through, and looked at Svedberg, who was leafing through the stack of papers he was constantly fiddling with.

“I’ll start with the tipoffs,” he said. “I’m thinking of writing a book one of these days called People Who Want to Help the Police. It’ll make me a rich man. As usual we’ve had curses, blessings, confessions, dreams, hallucinations, and the occasional sensible tip. As far as I can see, though, there’s only one of immediate interest. The warden of the Rydsgard estate is quite certain he saw Louise Akerblom driving past last Friday afternoon. The time is about right. That means we know which route she took. Apart from that there’s very little of interest. Now we know, of course, it’s often a day or two before the best tipoffs come in. They come from sensible people who hesitate before getting in touch. As for Stig Gustafson, we haven’t managed to discover where he’s moved to. But he’s supposed to have an unmarried female relative in Malmo. Unfortunately we don’t know her first name. The Malmo telephone directory is full of Gustafsons, of course. Stacks and stacks of them. We’ll just have to get down to it and divide the list between us. That’s all I have to say.”

Wallander sat in silence for a moment. Bjork looked expectantly at him.

“Let’s concentrate our efforts,” said Wallander at length. “We have to find Stig Gustafson, that’s the first priority. If the only lead we have is that relative in Malmo, then that’s the one we’ll have to follow up. Everybody in this station who’s capable of picking up a phone will have to help. I’ll join in and assist with the telephoning, as soon as I’ve dealt with the hospital.”

Then he turned to Bjork.

“We’d better keep going all evening,” he said. “It’s essential.”

Bjork nodded in agreement.

“Do that,” he said. “I’ll be around if anything important happens.”

Svedberg began organizing the hunt for marine engineer Stig Gustafson’s relative in Malmo, while Wallander went back to his office. Before calling the hospital, he dialed his father’s number. It was a long time before he answered. He assumed his father had been in his studio, painting. Wallander could hear right away that he was in a bad mood.

“Hi! It’s me,” he said.

“Who’s me?” asked his father.

“You know full well who it is,” said Wallander.

“I’ve forgotten what your voice sounds like,” said his father.

Wallander gritted his teeth and resisted the temptation to slam down the receiver.

“I’m busy,” he said. “I’ve just found a dead woman in a well. A woman who was murdered. I won’t be able to get out to your place today. I hope you’ll understand.”

To his astonishment his father suddenly sounded friendly.

“I can see you can’t do that,” he said. “It sounds unpleasant.”

“It is,” said Wallander. “I just want to wish you a pleasant evening. And I’ll try and come out tomorrow.”

“Only if you get time,” said his father. “I can’t go on talking any longer right now.”

“Why not?”

“I’m expecting a visitor.”

Wallander could hear he’d been cut off. He was left sitting there with the receiver in his hand.

A visitor, he thought. So Gertrud Anderson goes around to see him even when she’s not working?

He shook his head for a long time.

I must make time to go and see him soon, he thought. It would be a complete disaster if he married her.

He got up and went in to Svedberg. He collected a list of names and telephone numbers, returned to his office, and dialed the first on the list. At the same time he remembered he had to contact the on-duty prosecutor at some point during the afternoon.

Four o’clock came and they still hadn’t traced Stig Gustafson’s relative.

At half past four Wallander called Per Akeson at home. He reported on what had happened so far, and announced that they could now concentrate on tracking down Stig Gustafson. The prosecutor had no objections. He asked Wallander to let him know if anything developed during the evening.

At a quarter past five, Wallander fetched his third list of names from Svedberg. Still no luck. Wallander groaned at the thought of it being Walpurgis Eve. A lot of people were out. They had gone away for the holiday.

Nobody answered the first two numbers he called. The third was to an elderly lady who was quite sure there was no one called Stig in her family.

Wallander opened the window, and could feel a headache coming on. Then he went back to the phone and dialed the fourth number. He let it go on ringing for quite a while, and was just about to replace the receiver when somebody answered. He could hear it was a young woman on the other end. He explained who he was and what he wanted to know.

“Sure,” said the young woman, whose name was Monica. “I have a half-brother called Stig. He’s a marine engineer. Has something happened to him?”

Wallander could feel all his exhaustion and dissatisfaction falling away at a stroke.

“No,” he said. “But we’d like to get in touch with him as soon as possible. Do you know where he lives?”

“Of course I know where he lives,” she said. “In Lomma. But he’s not at home.”

“Where is he, then?”

“He’s in Las Palmas. He’ll be back home tomorrow, though. He’s due to land at Copenhagen at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I think he’s on a Spies package.”

“Excellent,” said Wallander. “I’d be grateful if you could give me his address and phone number.”

She told him what he wanted to know, he apologized for disturbing her evening, and hung up. Then he rushed into Svedberg’s office, collecting Martinson on the way. No one knew where Bjork was.

“We’ll go to Malmo ourselves,” said Wallander. “Our colleagues in town can assist. Run a check at the passport control on everybody disembarking from the various ferries. Bjork will have to fix that.”

“Did she say how long he’d been away?” asked Martinson. “If he had a week’s vacation, that would mean he’d left last Saturday.”

They looked at one another. The significance of Martinson’s point was obvious.

“I think you should go home now,” said Wallander. “At least some of us ought to have had a good night’s sleep before tomorrow. Let’s meet here at eight tomorrow morning. Then we’ll drive to Malmo.”

Martinson and Svedberg went home. Wallander talked to Bjork, who promised to call his counterpart in Malmo and arrange things according to Wallander’s wishes.

At a quarter past six Wallander called the hospital. The doctor was only able to give vague answers.

“There are no visible injuries on the body,” she said. “No bruises, no fractures. Superficially, it doesn’t look as though there was any sexual assault. I’ll have to come back to that, though. I can’t see any marks on her wrists or ankles.”

“That’s fine,” said Wallander. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch again tomorrow.”

Then he left the police station.

He drove out to Kaseberga and sat for a while on the cliff top, staring out to sea.

He was back home soon after nine.