An Event in Autumn: A Kurt Wallander Mystery Read online

  Wallander had delved into population registers and in the end discovered the only one of Ludvig Hansson’s four children who was still alive. It was a woman by the name of Kristina, who was born in 1937. Wallander established that she was an afterthought, born to Ludvig and his wife Alma several years after the rest of her siblings. Kristina had eventually married and changed her surname to Fredberg. She now lived in Malmö, and Wallander felt a pang of excitement when he picked up the telephone and rang her.

  It was a young woman who answered. He said his name and informed her that he was a police officer, and asked to speak to Kristina. The woman asked him to wait.

  Kristina Fredberg had a friendly voice. Wallander explained the situation, and said he needed to talk to her in connection with the investigation into the discovery that had been made in the garden.

  “I’ve read about it in the newspaper,” she said. “I find it hard to believe that such a thing could happen in the garden where I played as a child. Have you no idea at all whose body it is?”

  “No.”

  “I hardly think I have anything of significance to tell you.”

  “I need to create a picture. An overall picture.”

  “You’re welcome to come around whenever you like,” she said. “I have all the time in the world. I’m a widow. My husband died two years ago. He had cancer. It went quickly.”

  “Was it your daughter who answered the phone?”

  “Lena. She’s my youngest. The entry code number is 1225.”

  They agreed that Wallander would drive to central Malmö to meet her that same day. Without really knowing why, he telephoned Linda and asked her if she would like to accompany him. She had the day off after working two successive nights, and he woke her up. But, unlike her father, she seldom became angry when her beauty sleep was interrupted. They agreed that he would collect her an hour later, at eleven o’clock.

  It was wet and windy when they drove out to Malmö. Wallander listened to a cassette recording of La bohème. As Linda was not especially keen on opera he had turned the volume down. When they came to Svedala, Wallander switched the music off altogether.

  “Nobelvägen,” he said. “She lives right in the center.”

  “Have we time to stay on for a bit afterward?” asked Linda. “I want to do some shopping. It’s ages since I’ve been to any decent shops.”

  “What kind of shopping?”

  “Clothes. I want to buy a sweater. As consolation.”

  “Consolation for what?”

  “For feeling rather lonely.”

  “How are things with you and Stefan?”

  “It’s going well. But one can feel lonely at times, even so.”

  Wallander said nothing. He knew all too well what Linda was talking about.

  He parked the car at Triangeln. The wind was bitter while they were finding their way to the house. Wallander had written the entry code number on the back of his hand.

  Kristina Fredberg’s apartment was on the top floor. There was no elevator. Wallander was panting heavily by the time they reached the top of the stairs. Linda stared sternly at him.

  “You’ll have a heart attack if you don’t start exercising soon.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my heart. I’ve been on an exercise bike with wires attached to my body, and the result was good. And my average blood pressure is 135 over 80. That’s also good. And my blood lipids are as they should be. Well, almost. I have my diabetes under control. In addition to all that I have my prostate checked once a year. Will that do, or would you like all that information in writing?”

  “You’re mad,” said Linda. “But quite funny. Ring the doorbell now.”

  Kristina Fredberg looked distinctly youthful. Wallander found it difficult to believe that she was sixty-five years old. He’d have guessed just over fifty if he hadn’t known.

  She invited them into her living room. A tray with coffee and biscuits was on the table. They had just sat down when a woman of Linda’s age came in through the door. She introduced herself as Lena. Wallander couldn’t remember when he had last seen such a beautiful woman. She looked like her mother, and spoke like her, with the same voice and a smile that gave Wallander a forbidden urge to touch her.

  “Do you mind if I sit in and listen?” she asked. “From pure curiosity.”

  “Not at all,” said Wallander.

  She sat down on the sofa next to her mother. Wallander couldn’t resist looking at her legs. Then he noticed that Linda was frowning at him. Why did I ask her to come with me? he wondered. To give her even more reason to criticize me?

  Kristina Fredberg served coffee. Wallander took out his notebook and pencil. But needless to say, he had forgotten his glasses. He put the notebook back into his pocket.

  “You were born in 1937,” he said. “You were the youngest of four siblings.”

  “I was an afterthought, yes. I don’t think I was really wanted. More of a mistake.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “It’s the sort of thing children sense. But nobody ever said anything.”

  “And you grew up there at the house in Löderup?”

  “Yes and no. Until 1942, in November, we lived there all the year round. Then Mum and I and my brothers and sister moved to Malmö for a few years.”

  “Why?”

  Wallander noticed that she hesitated very slightly before answering.

  “My mother and father had fallen out. But they didn’t divorce. I don’t know what happened. We lived in a flat in Limhamn for a few years. Then, in the spring of 1945, we moved back to Löderup. They had become reconciled. When she was older, I tried to ask my mother why they had fallen out, but she didn’t want to talk about it. I asked my siblings as well. We don’t think anything special happened. The marriage just suddenly fell apart. My mother moved out and took her children with her. But then they became friends again and remained together until she died. I remember my parents as people who liked one another. What happened when I was a little girl during the war is now just a vague memory. An unpleasant memory.”

  “So your father remained living at the farm in Löderup during those years, did he?”

  “He had animals that needed looking after. My elder brother said that he employed two farmhands. One of them came from Denmark, as a refugee. But nobody knows any details. My father wasn’t very talkative.”

  Wallander thought for a moment. There was an obvious question to ask.

  “So he hadn’t met another woman?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I just know.”

  “Can you explain in a little more detail?”

  “My mother would never have moved back to the house if my father had had a lover. And it wouldn’t have been possible to keep it secret.”

  “My experience is that you can have secrets no matter where you live.”

  Wallander noticed that Linda raised her eyebrows with interest.

  “No doubt you can. But not from my mother. Her intuition was something I’ve never come across in any other person.”

  “Apart from me,” said her daughter Lena.

  “That’s right. You’ve inherited it from your grandmother. Nobody can hide the truth from you either.”

  Kristina Fredberg sounded convincing. Wallander was sure that she was not intentionally trying to conceal anything that could be of value to the police. But could she really be so certain about what her father had been doing when he lived alone at the farm for those three years during the war?

  “Those farmhands,” he said. “One came from Denmark, did he? What was his name?”

  “Jörgen. I remember that. But he’s dead. He had some illness or other—something to do with his kidneys, I believe. He died in the fifties.”

  “But there was a second one?”

  “So my brother Ernst maintained. I never heard a name.”

  “Perhaps there are pictures? Or records of wage payments?”

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bsp; “I think my father paid cash in hand. And I’ve never seen any photographs.”

  Wallander served himself some more coffee.

  “Could the other farmhand have been a woman?” asked Linda suddenly.

  As usual Wallander was annoyed when he felt that she was trespassing on his territory. She was welcome to be present and learn a thing or two, but she should avoid taking any initiatives without consulting him first.

  “No,” said Kristina Fredberg. “There were no female farmhands in those days. Housekeepers, perhaps; but not farmhands. I’m absolutely convinced that my father did not have an affair with any other woman. I don’t know who it is lying buried in the garden. The very thought makes me shudder. But I’m sure my father had nothing to do with what happened. Even if he lived there at the time.”

  “Why are you so sure? Please forgive me for asking the question.”

  “My father was a friendly, peaceful man. He never touched another person. I can’t remember him ever smacking one of my brothers. He simply lacked the ability to get angry. Surely you must have a streak of uncontrolled fury in order to kill another human being? I think so in any case.”

  For now, Wallander had only one question left to ask.

  “Your brothers and sister are dead—but is there anybody else you think I ought to talk to? Somebody who might have some memory of this?”

  “It’s all so long ago. Everybody from my parents’ generation died ages ago. As you say, my brothers and sister are also dead. I’ve no idea who else might be able to help you.”

  Wallander stood up. He shook hands with the two women. Then he and Linda left the apartment.

  When they came out into the street below, she stood in front of him.

  “I don’t want a dad who starts drooling at the sight of a pretty young girl who is younger than I am.”

  Wallander reacted vehemently.

  “What are you trying to suggest? I didn’t drool. I thought she was pretty, yes. But don’t try to tell me that I did anything improper. If you do, you can take the train back to Ystad. And you can move out of my apartment and live somewhere else.”

  Wallander strode off. She didn’t catch up with him until he reached the car. She stood in front of him again.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I don’t want you to tell me how to behave. I don’t want you forcing me to be somebody I’m not.”

  “I’ve said I’m sorry.”

  “I heard you.”

  Linda wanted to say something else, but Wallander held up his hand. That was enough. There was no need to say any more.

  They drove back to Ystad. They didn’t start talking again until after they had passed Svaneholm. Linda agreed with him that, despite everything, something must have happened during the years when Ludvig Hansson was living alone on his farm.

  Wallander tried hard to envisage what it might have been, but he could see nothing. Only that hand sticking up out of the ground.

  The wind was even stronger now. It struck him that winter was just around the corner.

  CHAPTER 15

  The following day, Friday, November 8, Wallander woke up early. He was sweaty. He tried to remember what he had been dreaming about—it was something to do with Linda, perhaps a rerun of the confrontation they had had the previous day. But his memory was empty. The dream had closed all the doors surrounding it.

  It was ten minutes to five. He lay there in the darkness. The rain was pounding against his bedroom window. He tried to go back to sleep, but failed. After tossing and turning until six o’clock, he got up. He paused outside Linda’s door: she was asleep, snoring softly.

  He made some coffee and sat down in the kitchen. The rain was coming and going. Without really thinking about it, he decided to begin his working day by making another visit to the property where they had found the skeleton. He had no idea what he hoped to gain by doing so, but he often returned to crime scenes, not least to reassess his first impressions.

  He left Ystad half an hour later, and when he arrived at the house in Löderup it wasn’t yet light. The police tape was still in place, cordoning off the scene. He walked slowly around the house and garden. All the time he was looking out for something he hadn’t noticed before. He had no idea what that might be. Something that didn’t fit in, something that stood out. At the same time he tried to imagine a possible sequence of events.

  Once upon a time a woman lived here, but never left the place. Yet somebody must have wondered what had happened to her. And it is obvious that nobody has ever been here, looking for her. Nobody has suspected anything that has led to the police investigating this property.

  He paused next to the grave, which was now covered by a dirty tarpaulin.

  Why was the body buried just here? The garden is large. Somebody must have thought about alternatives, and made a decision. Here, just here, not anywhere else.

  Wallander started walking again, but stored away in his memory the questions he had formulated. He could hear a tractor in the background. A lone red kite was soaring up above, then swooped down onto one of the fields that surrounded the property. He went back to the grave, and looked around. He suddenly noticed a place next to some currant bushes. At first he didn’t know what had attracted his attention: it was something to do with the relationship of the bushes to one another. A characteristic of the garden as a whole was symmetry: everything was planted in a way that created a pattern. Even though the garden was neglected and very overgrown, he could still see all those patterns. And there was something about the currant bushes that didn’t fit in.

  The bushes were an exception that went against the rule that held sway in the garden as a whole.

  After a few minutes the penny dropped. It wasn’t a pattern that had been broken: it was a pattern that was no longer there. Several currant bushes were in the wrong place, in this garden that was based on a pattern of straight lines.

  He went back and examined the area more closely. There was no doubt about it, some of the bushes were in the wrong place. But as far as he could see the bushes had not been planted at different times—they all seemed to be the same age.

  He thought for a while. The only explanation he could think of was that at some point the bushes had been dug up, and then replanted by somebody with no sense of the garden’s symmetry.

  But then it occurred to him that there might be another explanation. Whoever dug up the bushes and then replanted them might have been in a hurry.

  It was starting to get light now. It was almost eight o’clock. He sat down on one of the moss-covered stone chairs and continued to study the currant bushes. Was he just imagining it all, despite everything?

  After another quarter of an hour he was certain. The haphazard planting of the currant bushes told a story. About somebody who was either careless, or had been in a hurry. Or of course the person might come into both categories.

  He took out his cell phone and rang Nyberg, who had just arrived at the police station.

  “I’m sorry I rang you so late the other day,” said Wallander.

  “If you were really sorry you’d have stopped ages ago ringing me at all hours of the day and night. You’ve frequently rung me at four or five in the morning without having any questions that couldn’t have waited until a decent time of day. I don’t recall you apologizing any of those times.”

  “Perhaps I’ve become a better person.”

  “Don’t talk shit! What do you want?”

  Wallander told him where he was, and about his feeling that something was wrong. Nyberg was a person who would understand the significance of currant bushes planted in the wrong place.

  “I’ll come out there,” said Nyberg when Wallander had finished. “But I’ll be on my own. Do you have a spade in your car?”

  “No. But no doubt there’ll be one in the shed somewhere.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I have my own spade. I just wanted to make sure that you wouldn’t start rooting around
yourself before I got there.”

  “I’ll do nothing at all until you arrive.”

  They hung up. Wallander sat in his car, as he was feeling cold. He listened somewhat absentmindedly to the car radio. Somebody was going on about a new infectious disease that they suspected was spread by common ticks.

  He switched off the radio and waited.

  Nineteen minutes later Nyberg turned into the yard. He was wearing Wellington boots, overalls and a strange old hunting hat pulled down over his ears. He took a spade out of the trunk.

  “I suppose we can be pleased that you didn’t stumble over that hand after the frost had made it impossible to dig in the soil.”

  “Surely the ground doesn’t get frozen before Christmas in these parts? If it ever does.”

  Nyberg mumbled something inaudible in response. They went to the spot in question at the back of the house. Wallander could see that Nyberg had understood the significance of his observations about the currant bushes without needing further explanation. Nyberg tested the ground with the edge of his spade, as if he were looking for something.

  “The soil is pretty tightly packed,” he said. “Which suggests that it’s been a long time since anybody was digging here. The roots from the bushes bind the soil together.”

  He started digging. Wallander stood to one side, watching. After only a few minutes, Nyberg stopped digging and pointed down at the soil. He picked up something that looked like a stone and handed it to Wallander.

  It was a tooth. A human tooth.

  CHAPTER 16

  Two days later, the whole of Karl Eriksson’s garden had been dug up. At the spot where Nyberg had picked up the tooth and handed it to Wallander, they had found a skeleton that Stina Hurlén and other forensic medicine experts had concluded was the remains of a man. He was also in his fifties at the time of death, and had also been lying in that grave for a long time. But there was an injury to his skull that suggested a blow from a heavy instrument.

  There had naturally been an outburst of excitement when news of the discovery of a second skeleton reached the mass media. Large black headlines proclaimed “THE GARDEN OF DEATH” or “DEATH IN THE CURRANT BUSHES.”