The Fifth Woman (48 page)

“I don’t need to read that crap,” Wallander said in disgust. “What’s happening at the school?”

“Hansson drove over there. Martinsson took his daughter home.”

“So it was some boys at the school who did this?”

“As far as I know.”

“Go over there,” Wallander decided quickly. “Find out everything you can. Talk to the boys. I think it’s best if I stay out of it. I might fly off the handle.”

“Hansson’s already there. They don’t need anybody else.”

“I don’t agree,” Wallander said “I’d really like you to go. I’m sure Hansson can handle it himself, but I still want you to find out, in your own way, what actually happened and why. If more of us show up, it will prove we’re taking it seriously. I think I’ll drive over to Martinsson’s house. Everything else can wait till later. The worst thing you can do in this country, like everywhere else, is to kill a policeman. The next-worst thing is to attack a policeman’s child.”

“I heard that other students stood around laughing,” she said.

Wallander threw up his hands. He didn’t want to hear any more. He got up from his chair and grabbed his jacket.

“Eskil Bengtsson and the others are going to be released today,” she said as they walked down the hall. “But Åkeson is going to prosecute.”

“What will they get?”

“People in the area are already talking about taking up a collection, in case there are fines. We can always hope for jail terms. At least for some of them.”

“How is Åke Davidsson?”

“He’s back home in Malmö. On sick leave.”

Wallander stopped and looked at her.

“What would have happened if they’d killed him? Would they have been given fines then too?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

A police car drove Wallander to Martinsson’s house, in a development on the eastern side of town. Wallander had only been there a few times before. The house was plain, but Martinsson and his wife had put a lot of love into their garden. He rang the bell. Martinsson’s wife Maria opened the door. Wallander saw that she had been crying. Terese was their oldest child and only daughter. One of their two sons, Rikard, stood behind her. Wallander smiled and patted him on the head.

“How’s it going?” he asked. “I just heard about it and rushed right over.”

“She’s sitting on her bed crying. She won’t speak to anyone but her father.”

Wallander went inside and took off his jacket and shoes. One of his socks had a hole in it. Maria asked if he wanted some coffee. He gratefully accepted. At the same moment Martinsson came down the stairs. Usually he was a cheerful man. Now Wallander saw a grey mask of bitterness. And fear too.

“I heard what happened,” Wallander said. “I came at once.”

They sat down in the living room.

“How is she?” Wallander asked.

Martinsson just shook his head. Wallander thought he was going to burst into tears. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“I’m quitting,” Martinsson said. “I’m going to talk to the chief today.”

Wallander didn’t know what to say. Martinsson had good reason to be upset. He could easily imagine reacting the same way if it had been Linda who was attacked. Even so, he would have to play the devil’s advocate. The last thing he wanted was for Martinsson to quit. He also realised that Martinsson would have to make up his own mind. But it was still too soon. He could see how shocked Martinsson was.

Maria came in with coffee. Martinsson shook his head. He didn’t want any.

“It’s not worth it,” he said, “when it starts to affect your family.”

“No,” Wallander said, “it’s not worth it.”

Martinsson didn’t say any more. Nor did Wallander. Martinsson got up and went back upstairs. Wallander knew there was nothing he could do just then.

Martinsson’s wife followed him to the door.

“Say hello to her from me,” Wallander said.

“Are they going to come after us again?”

“No. I know that what I’m going to tell you may sound odd. As if I were trying to make light of this situation. But that’s not my intention at all. It’s just that we can’t lose our sense of proportion and start drawing the wrong conclusions. These boys were probably only a couple of years older than Terese. They’re not bad children. They probably didn’t know what they were doing. This has happened because men like Eskil Bengtsson and those others out in Lödinge are starting to organise citizen militias and incite people against the police.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ve heard that people are talking about it in this area too.”

“I know it’s hard to think clearly when your own child is the target of something like this, but we have to try and hold on to our common sense.”

“All this violence,” she said. “Where does it come from?”

“There aren’t many people who are truly evil,” Wallander replied. “At least I think they’re few and far between. On the other hand, there are evil circumstances, which trigger all this violence. It’s those circumstances that we have to tackle.”

“Won’t it just get worse and worse?”

“Maybe,” Wallander said hesitantly. “If that happens then it’s because the circumstances are changing. Not because there are more evil people.”

“This country has turned so cold-hearted.”

“You’re right,” he said.

He shook hands with her and walked towards the waiting police car.

“How’s Terese doing?” asked the officer who had driven him.

“She’s upset. And her parents are, too.”

“Doesn’t it make you furious?”

“Yes,” Wallander said. “It does.”

Wallander returned to the police station. Hansson and Höglund were still at the school where Terese had been attacked. Wallander discovered that Chief Holgersson was in Stockholm. For a moment it made him angry. But she had been informed about what happened, and she was coming back to Ystad that afternoon. Wallander got hold of Svedberg and Hamrén. Nyberg was out at Eriksson’s farm searching for fingerprints. The detectives from Malmö had gone off in different directions. Wallander sat down with Svedberg and Hamrén in the conference room. They were all upset about what had happened to Martinsson’s daughter. They had a brief conversation, and then went back to work. They had divided up all the assignments the night before. Wallander called Nyberg on his mobile phone.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“It’s tough,” Nyberg said. “But we think we may have found an indistinct print on the bottom of the railing of Eriksson’s tower that might not be his. We’ll keep looking.”

Wallander thought for a moment.

“You mean the killer might have been up in the tower?”

“Why not?”

“You may be right. In that case, there might be cigarette butts too.”

“If there were any, we would have found them on our first pass. Now it’s definitely too late.”

Wallander changed the subject and told him about his visit to see Ylva Brink at the hospital.

“The name tag is in a plastic bag,” Nyberg said. “If she has a good nose maybe she will recognise the scent.”

“I want that tried out as soon as possible. You can call her yourself. Svedberg has her number.”

Nyberg said that he’d arrange for it. Wallander found a letter from the Registry Office on his desk. It reported that no-one had officially changed his name to or from Harald Berggren. Wallander put it aside. It was 10 a.m. and still raining. He thought about the meeting the night before. Again he felt uneasy. Were they really on the right track? Or were they going down a path that would lead them straight into a vacuum? He went to stand by the window. His eyes fell on the water tower. Katarina Taxell is our main lead. She has met the woman. Why else would someone be in a maternity ward in the middle of the night?

He went back to his desk and called Birch in Lund. It took almost ten minutes before they managed to locate him.

“Everything’s quiet outside her building,” Birch said. “No visits except a woman we can positively identify – her mother. Katarina went out shopping for groceries once. That was when her mother was there watching her baby. There’s a supermarket nearby. The only thing of interest was that she bought a lot of newspapers.”

“She probably wanted to read about the murder. Do you think she knows we’re in the vicinity?”

“I don’t think so. She seems tense. But she never looks around. I don’t think she suspects we’ve got her under surveillance.”

“It’s important that she doesn’t discover it.”

“We keep changing officers.”

Wallander leaned over his desk and opened his notebook.

“How is the profile of her coming along? Who is she?”

“She’s 33 years old,” Birch said. “That makes an age difference of 18 years to Blomberg.”

“It’s her first child,” Wallander said. “She started late. Women in a hurry might not be so particular about age differences.”

“According to her, Blomberg isn’t the child’s father anyway.”

“That’s a lie,” Wallander said, wondering how he really dared to be so certain. “What else have you got?”

“Katarina Taxell was born in Arlöv,” Birch continued. “Her father was an engineer at the sugar refinery. He died when she was little. His car was hit by a train, outside Landskrona. She has no siblings. She and her mother moved to Lund after the father died. The mother worked part-time at the city library. Katarina Taxell got good grades in school and went on to study geography and foreign languages at the university. A somewhat unusual combination. Then she went to teacher training college, and she’s been a teacher ever since. At the same time she has built up a small business selling hair products. She’s said to be quite industrious. Of course she’s not in any of our records.”

“Well, that was certainly fast work,” Wallander said, impressed.

“I did what you said,” Birch replied. “I put a lot of people on the case.”

“Obviously she doesn’t know about it yet. She’d be looking over her shoulder if she knew we were profiling her.”

“We’ll have to see how long that lasts. The question is whether we shouldn’t lean on her a little.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Wallander said.

“Should we bring her in?”

“No. But I think I’ll drive over to Lund. Then you and I can start by talking to her one more time.”

“What about? If you don’t ask any meaningful questions she’ll get suspicious.”

“I’ll think of something on the way there. Shall we say we’ll meet outside her building at midday?”

Wallander signed out a car and drove out of Ystad. He stopped at Sturup Airport and had a sandwich. As usual he was shocked at the price. While he ate he tried to come up with some questions to ask Katarina Taxell. He couldn’t show up and ask the same things as last time.

He decided to start with Eugen Blomberg. He was the one who was murdered, after all. They needed all the information they could get on him. Taxell was only one of the people they were questioning, he would tell her.

Just before midday, Wallander finally managed to find a parking place in the centre of Lund. The rain had stopped, and he walked through the city. After a while he saw Birch in the distance.

“I heard the news about Martinsson and his daughter,” he said. “It’s awful.”

“What isn’t awful these days?” Wallander said.

“How’s the girl handling it?”

“Let’s just hope she can forget all about it. But Martinsson told me that he’s quitting the force. I have to try and prevent that.”

“If he really means it, deep down, nobody will be able to stop him.”

“I don’t think he’ll do it.”

“I took a rock on my head once,” Birch said. “I got so angry I tore after the man who threw it. It turned out that I’d arrested his brother once and so he thought he was completely justified in throwing a rock at me.”

“A policeman is always a policeman,” Wallander said. “At least if you believe the rock throwers.”

Birch changed the subject.

“What are you going to ask her about?”

“Eugen Blomberg. How they met. I have to make her think I’m asking her the same questions I ask everyone else. Routine matters, more or less.”

“What do you hope to achieve?”

“I don’t know. But I still think it’s necessary.”

They went into the building. Wallander suddenly had a premonition that something was wrong. He stopped on the stairs. Birch looked at him.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”

They continued up to the third floor. Birch rang the bell. They waited. He rang again. The bell echoed inside the flat. They looked at each other. Wallander bent down and opened the letter slot. Everything was silent. Birch rang again. Long, repetitive rings. No-one came to the door.

“She’s got to be home,” he said. “No-one reported that she went out.”

“Then she went up the chimney,” Wallander said. “Because she’s not here.”

They ran down the stairs. Birch tore open the door to the police car. The man at the wheel sat reading a magazine.

“Did she go out?” he asked.

“She’s inside.”

“Guess again.”

“Is there a back door?” Wallander asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“That’s no answer,” Birch said angrily. “Either there’s a back door or there isn’t.”

They went back inside the building and down a flight of stairs. The door to the basement level was locked.

“Is there a caretaker?” Wallander asked.

“We don’t have time for that,” Birch said.

He examined the hinges on the door. They were rusty.

“We can try,” Birch muttered to himself.

He took a running start and threw himself against the door. It was ripped off its hinges.

“You know what it means to break the regulations,” Wallander said without irony.

They went inside. The hall between a row of locked storage rooms led to a door at the end. Birch opened it. They were at the bottom of some stairs leading up to the street.