The Fifth Woman Page 18

Wallander wondered briefly whether he would be considered a nice dinner guest. He knew that he tried not to talk about work. But when was the last time he had been invited somewhere for dinner? It was so long ago that he couldn’t even remember.

  “Runfeldt’s children have arrived,” Höglund said. “Hansson is looking after them.”

  They were now in the living room. Wallander looked at the photograph of Runfeldt’s wife.

  “We should find out what happened to her,” he said.

  “She drowned.”

  “I mean the details.”

  “Hansson understands that. He’s usually thorough in his interviews. He’ll ask them about their mother.”

  Wallander knew she was right. Hansson had many bad traits, but one of his best skills was interviewing witnesses. Gathering information. Interviewing parents about their children. Or vice versa, as in this case.

  Wallander told Höglund about his conversation with Hanzell, skipping a lot of the details. The most important part was his conclusion that Berggren might be living under a different name. He had mentioned it when they had spoken earlier. He noticed that she had been thinking more about this.

  “If he changed his name legally we can track it down through the Registry Office,” she said.

  “A mercenary soldier wouldn’t follow such a formal process,” Wallander objected. “But of course we’ll look into it, like everything else. It’ll be time-consuming.”

  He told her about his meeting with the women from Lund and the lawyer at Eriksson’s farm.

  “My husband and I drove through the interior of Norrland once,” she said. “I have a distinct memory of passing through Svenstavik.”

  “Ebba should have called to give me the number of the parsonage,” Wallander remembered, taking his phone out of his pocket. It was turned off. He cursed his carelessness. Höglund couldn’t conceal her amusement. Wallander realised he was acting like a child. Embarrassed, he called the police station. He borrowed a pen and wrote down the number. Ebba had tried to reach him several times.

  At that moment, Svedberg came into the living room with a stack of papers in his hand. Wallander saw that they were receipts.

  “This might be something,” Svedberg said. “Runfeldt has a place on Harpegatan. He pays rent once a month. As far as I can tell, he keeps it totally separate from any payments that have to do with the shop.”

  “Harpegatan?” Höglund asked. “Where’s that?”

  “Over by Nattmanstorg,” Wallander replied. “Right in the centre of town.”

  “Has Vanja Andersson ever mentioned that he had another place?”

  “The question is whether she knew about it,” said Wallander. “I’ll find out right now.”

  Wallander left the flat and walked the short distance to the shop. He bent over and held his breath in the wind. Vanja Andersson was alone. As before, the scent of flowers was strong. A brief feeling of homelessness came over Wallander as he thought about Rome, and his father. But he pushed the thoughts aside. He was a policeman. He would grieve later, not now.

  “I have a question,” he said. “You can probably give me a straight yes-or-no answer.”

  She looked at him with her pale, frightened face. Certain people gave the impression of always being prepared for the worst. Vanja Andersson seemed to be one of those people. Right now he could hardly blame her.

  “Did you know that Mr Runfeldt rented a place on Harpegatan?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Gösta didn’t have any other place but this one.”

  Wallander suddenly felt in a big hurry.

  “That’s all then,” he said. “Thanks.”

  When he got back to the flat, Svedberg and Höglund had gathered all the keys they could find. They took Svedberg’s car to Harpegatan. It was an ordinary block of flats. Runfeldt’s name wasn’t on the list of residents in the entrance.

  “I think it’s in the basement,” said Svedberg.

  They made their way down to the floor below. Wallander noticed the sharp fragrance of winter apples. Svedberg started trying the keys. The twelfth one worked. They went into a hall from which red, steel doors led to what looked like storerooms.

  Höglund was the one who found it.

  “I think this is it,” she said, pointing to a door.

  Wallander and Svedberg went to stand next to her. On the door there was a sticker with a floral motif.

  “An orchid,” Svedberg said.

  “A secret room,” Wallander replied.

  Svedberg tried the keys again. Wallander noticed that an extra lock was set into the door.

  Finally the first lock clicked. Wallander felt the tension inside him swell. Svedberg kept on trying the keys. He had only two left when he looked at them and nodded.

  “Let’s go in,” Wallander said.

  Svedberg opened the door.

  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,” Höglund 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 Höglund 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 Höglund 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 Höglund 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. Höglund sat down. After a moment the scre
en 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 Höglund 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. Höglund 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,” Höglund 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?” Höglund 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 Sekelgården.”

  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 Lönnerwall. 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 Lönnerwall and you live in Eskilstuna,” Wallander said. “You are the daughter of Gösta 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 Älmhult 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 Lönnerwall’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.”