The Fifth Woman (45 page)

“Let’s get him,” Wallander said.

Just as they reached the front door it was opened by a stocky man with a pot belly. Wallander glanced at Hansson, who nodded.

“Inspector Wallander of the Ystad Police,” he introduced himself. “Get your jacket. You’re coming with us.”

“Where the hell to?”

The man’s arrogance almost made Wallander lose control. Hansson noticed this and poked him in the arm.

“You’re coming to Ystad,” Wallander said with icy calm. “And you damn well know why.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Bengtsson said.

“Yes, you have,” Wallander said. “In fact, you’ve done way too much. If you don’t get your jacket you’ll have to come along without it.”

A small, thin woman appeared at the man’s side.

“What’s going on?” she yelled in a high-pitched, piercing voice. “What did he do?”

“You keep out of this,” the man said, shoving her back inside the house.

“That does it, handcuff him,” Wallander said.

Hansson stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“Why?”

Wallander’s patience was at an end. He turned to one of the officers and took his handcuffs. He told Bengtsson to stick out his hands, and snapped the cuffs on him. It happened so fast that Bengtsson didn’t think to resist. At the same time there was a flash from a camera. A photographer who had just hopped out of his car had taken a picture.

“How the hell does the press know we’re here?” Hansson asked.

“No idea,” Wallander said. Ebba was reliable and fast. “Let’s go.”

The woman came outside again. Suddenly she jumped on Hansson and started hitting him with her fists. The photographer took more pictures. Wallander escorted Bengtsson to the car.

“You’re going to get shit for this,” Bengtsson said.

Wallander smiled. “Maybe. But nothing compared to what you’re going to get. You want to start with the names right now? The men who were with you last night?”

Bengtsson said nothing more. Wallander pushed him hard into the back seat. Hansson had finally managed to get away from the hysterical woman.

“Goddamn it, she’s the one who should be in the kennel.”

He was shaking. He had a deep scratch on one cheek.

“We’re leaving now,” Wallander said. “Get in the other car and drive over to the hospital. I want to know if Davidsson heard any names. Or whether he saw anyone who could have been Eskil Bengtsson.”

Hansson nodded and left. The photographer came over to Wallander.

“We got an anonymous tip-off,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“A number of individuals attacked and battered an innocent man last night. They seem to be part of some sort of citizen militia. The man was guilty of nothing more than taking a wrong turn. They claimed he was a burglar. They almost beat him to death.”

“And the man in the car?”

“He’s suspected of having participated,” Wallander said. “We know that he’s behind this militia. We’re not going to have vigilantes in Sweden. Here in Skåne or anywhere else in the country.”

The photographer wanted to ask another question, but Wallander raised his hand to stop him.

“There’ll be a press conference later. We’re leaving now.”

Wallander told the officers that he wanted sirens on the way back too. Several cars full of curiosity-seekers had stopped outside the farmhouse. Wallander squeezed into the back seat next to Eskil Bengtsson.

“Shall we start with the names?” he asked. “It’ll save a lot of time. Both yours and mine.”

Bengtsson didn’t answer. Wallander could smell the strong odour of his sweat.

It took Wallander three hours to get Bengtsson to admit that he had taken part in the assault on Davidsson. Then everything happened quickly. Bengtsson told him the names of the three other men who’d been with him. Wallander had them all brought in at once. Åke Davidsson’s car, which had been left in an abandoned shed, was discovered. Just after 3 p.m. Wallander convinced Åkeson to keep the four men in custody. He went straight from his talk with Åkeson to the room where several reporters were waiting. Chief Holgersson had already informed them of the events of the previous night. For once Wallander was actually looking forward to meeting the press. Although he knew that the chief had already given them the background, he recounted the sequence of events for them.

“Four men have just been indicted by the prosecutor,” he said. “We have absolutely no doubt that they are guilty of assault. But what’s even more serious is that there are another five or six men involved in the group, a vigilante guard out in Lödinge. These are individuals who have decided to put themselves above the law. We can see what that leads to in this case: an innocent man, with poor eyesight and high blood pressure, is almost murdered when he gets lost. Is this the way we want it to be? That you might be risking your life when you make a wrong turn? Is that how things stand? That from now on we’re all thieves, rapists, and killers in one another’s eyes? I can’t make it any plainer. Some of the people who are lured into joining these illegal and dangerous militias probably don’t understand what they’re getting involved with. They can be excused if they resign immediately. But those who joined and were fully conscious of what they were doing, are indefensible. These four men that we arrested today unfortunately belong to the latter group. We can only hope they receive sentences that will serve as deterrents to others.”

Wallander put force into his words. The reporters immediately bombarded him with questions, but there weren’t many in attendance, and they only wanted details clarified. Höglund and Hansson were standing at the back of the room. Wallander searched through the group for the man from the
Anmärkaren
, but he wasn’t there.

After less than half an hour the press conference was over.

“You handled it extremely well,” Chief Holgersson said.

“There was only one way to handle it,” Wallander replied.

Höglund and Hansson applauded when he came over to them. Wallander was not amused. He was hungry, and he needed some air. He looked at the clock.

“Give me an hour. Let’s meet at 5 p.m. Is Svedberg back yet?”

“He’s on his way.”

“Who’s relieving him?”

“Augustsson.”

“Who’s that?” Wallander asked.

“One of the policemen from Malmö.”

Wallander had forgotten his name. He nodded.

“We’ll meet at 5 p.m.,” he repeated. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

He stopped in reception and thanked Ebba for her help. She smiled.

Wallander walked to the centre of town. It was windy. He sat down in the café by the bus station and had a couple of sandwiches and felt better. His head was empty. On his way back to the police station he stopped and bought a hamburger. He tossed the napkin in the rubbish bin and started thinking about Katarina Taxell again. Eskil Bengtsson no longer existed for him. He knew they’d have another confrontation with the local citizen militia. What had happened to Åke Davidsson was only the beginning.

They gathered in the conference room at the appointed time. Wallander began by telling the group everything that they had discovered about Katarina Taxell. He noticed that everyone in the room was listening with great attention. For the first time during the investigation he felt as though they were getting close to something that might be a breakthrough. This was reinforced by what Hansson had to say.

“The amount of investigative material on Krista Haberman is huge,” he said. “I haven’t had much time, and it’s possible I may have missed something important. But I did find one thing that might be of interest.”

He leafed through his notes until he found the right place.

“At some point in the 1960s Krista Haberman visited Skåne on three occasions. She had made contact with a bird-watcher who lived in Falsterbo. Many years later, long after she’d disappeared, a police officer named Fredrik Nilsson travelled from Östersund to talk to this man in Falsterbo. He took the train the whole way. The man in Falsterbo is named Tandvall. Erik Gustav Tandvall. He confirmed without hesitation that he’d received visits from Krista Haberman. It seemed as though they’d had a relationship. Detective Nilsson didn’t find anything suspicious in this. The relationship between Haberman and Tandvall ended long before she vanished. Tandvall had nothing to do with her disappearance. So he was removed from the investigation and never reappears.”

Up to this point Hansson had been reading from his notes. Now he looked up at everyone listening around the table.

“There was something familiar about the name,” he said. “Tandvall. An unusual name. I got the feeling I’d seen it before. It took me a while before I remembered where. It was in a list of men who had worked as car salesmen for Holger Eriksson.”

There was total silence in the room. The tension was high. Hansson had made an important connection.

“The car salesman’s name wasn’t Erik Tandvall,” he continued. “His first name was Göte, Göte Tandvall. And right before this meeting I got a confirmation that he’s Erik Tandvall’s son. I should probably also mention that Erik Tandvall died several years ago. I haven’t been able to locate the son yet.”

Hansson was done. No-one said anything for a long time.

“So there’s a possibility that Holger Eriksson met Krista Haberman,” Wallander said slowly. “A woman who has disappeared without a trace. A woman from Svenstavik, where there is a church that has received a bequest in accordance with Eriksson’s will.”

Everyone knew what this meant. A connection was finally beginning to emerge.

Just before midnight Wallander realised that they were too tired to do any more. The meeting had been going on since 5 p.m., and they had only taken short breaks to air out the conference room. Hansson had given them the opening they needed. A connection was established. The contours of a person who moved like a shadow among the three men who had been killed were being to appear. Even though they were still cautious about stating that there was a definite motive, they now had a strong feeling that they were skirting the edges of a series of events connected by revenge.

Wallander had called them together to make a unified advance through difficult terrain. Hansson had given them a direction. But they still had no map to follow. At first there was still a lingering feeling of doubt among the team. Could this really be right? That a mysterious disappearance so many years ago, revealed in kilos of investigative materials from police officers in Jämtland who were no longer alive, might help them unmask a killer who had set a trap made of sharpened bamboo stakes in a ditch in Skåne?

It was when the door opened and Nyberg came in, several minutes after 6 p.m., that all doubt was dispelled. He didn’t even bother to take his usual place at the far end of the table. For once he was excited, something no-one could remember ever having seen before.

“There was a cigarette butt on the jetty,” he said. “We were able to identify a fingerprint on it.”

Wallander gave him a surprised look.

“Is that really possible? Fingerprints on a cigarette butt?”

“We were lucky,” Nyberg said. “You’re right that it’s not usually possible. But there’s one exception: if the cigarette is rolled by hand. And this one was.”

First Hansson had discovered a plausible and even likely link between a long-vanished Polish woman and Holger Eriksson, and now Nyberg told them that a fingerprint on Runfeldt’s suitcase matched one at the site where Blomberg’s body was found.

Silence fell over the room. It almost felt like too much to handle in such a short time. An investigation that had been dragging along without direction was now starting to pick up speed in earnest.

After presenting his news, Nyberg sat down.

“A killer who smokes,” Martinsson said. “That’ll be easier to find today than it was 20 years ago.”

Wallander nodded thoughtfully. “We need to find other points of intersection between these murders,” he said. “With three people dead, we need at least nine combinations. Fingerprints, times, anything that will prove that there’s a common denominator.”

He looked around the room.

“We need to put together a proper sequence of events,” he said. “We know that the person or persons behind these killings acts with appalling cruelty. We’ve discovered a deliberate element in the way the victims have been killed. But we haven’t succeeded in reading the killer’s language, the code we discussed earlier. We have a feeling that the murderer is talking to us. But what is he or she trying to say? We don’t know. The question is whether there are more patterns to the whole thing that we haven’t yet found.”

“You mean something like whether the killer strikes when there’s a full moon?” Svedberg asked.

“That sort of thing. The symbolic full moon. What does it look like in this case? Does it exist? I’d like someone to put together a timetable. Is there anything there that might give us another lead?”

Martinsson undertook to put together what information they had. Wallander knew that – on his own initiative – Martinsson had obtained several computer programmes developed by the F.B.I. headquarters in Washington, D.C. He assumed that Martinsson saw an opportunity to make use of them.

Then they started talking about whether there actually was a geographical centre to the crimes. Höglund put a map on the slide projector, and Wallander stationed himself at the edge of the image.

“It starts in Lödinge,” he said, pointing. “A person begins surveillance of Holger Eriksson’s farm. We can assume that he travels by car and that he uses the tractor path on the hill behind Eriksson’s tower. A year earlier someone, maybe the same person, broke into his house, without stealing anything. Possibly to warn him, leave him a sign. We don’t know, but it doesn’t have to be the same person.”

Wallander pointed at Ystad.

“Gösta Runfeldt is looking forward to his trip to Nairobi. Everything is ready. His suitcase is packed, money changed, the tickets collected. He has even ordered a taxi for early on the morning of the day of his departure. But he never takes the trip. He disappears without a trace for three weeks.”