“The plan was to drown him, but not too fast. He had to be aware of what was happening to him.”
Wallander leaned back in his chair and looked at her across his desk.
“Tell me what you see.”
“A revenge motive is taking shape. At any rate, it runs through each crime as a possible link. Men who use force against women are attacked in return by a calculated violence of a masculine kind. As if they were being forced to feel their hands on their own bodies.”
“That’s a good way of putting it,” Wallander said. “Go on.”
“It could also be a way of hiding the fact that a woman committed the crimes. It took a long time for us to even imagine that a woman was involved. And when we did think of it, we rejected it immediately.”
“What is there to contradict the idea that the killer might be a woman?”
“We still know very little. Women almost never use violence unless they’re defending themselves or their children. And then it’s not premeditated violence, but instinctive, acts done in self-defence. A woman would not normally dig a pungee pit. Or hold a man captive. Or throw a man in the lake inside a sack.”
Wallander looked at her intently.
“Normally,” he said. “Your word.”
“If a woman is involved in this, then she must be very sick indeed.”
Wallander stood up and went to the window. “There’s one more thing,” he said, “which could knock down this whole house of cards we’re building. She isn’t avenging herself. She’s avenging others. Runfeldt’s wife is dead. Blomberg’s wife didn’t do it, I’m sure of that. Eriksson has no woman. If this is revenge and if it’s a woman, then she’s taking revenge for others. And that doesn’t sound likely. If it’s true, I’ve never come across anything like it.”
“It could be more than one woman,” Höglund said hesitantly.
“A number of angels of death? A group of women? A cult?”
“That doesn’t sound plausible.”
“No,” Wallander said, “it doesn’t.”
He sat down again in his chair. “I’d like you to do just the opposite,” he said. “Go over all the material again. And then give me the reasons why it isn’t a woman who did this.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until we know more about what happened to Blomberg?”
“Maybe. But I don’t think we have time.”
“You are thinking that it could happen again?”
Wallander wanted to give her an honest answer. He sat silently for a moment before he replied.
“There is no beginning,” he said. “At least none we can see. That makes it less likely that there will be an end. It could happen again. And we don’t have any idea what direction to look in.”
They didn’t get any further. Wallander felt impatient that neither Martinsson nor Svedberg had called. Then he remembered that he had blocked all his calls. He checked with the switchboard. Neither Martinsson nor Svedberg had rung in. He asked for their calls to be allowed through.
“The break-ins,” Höglund said suddenly. “At the florist’s shop and at Eriksson’s house. How do they fit into the picture?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Or the blood on the floor. I thought I had an explanation, and now I don’t.”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” she said.
Wallander could see that she was excited. He nodded to her to continue.
“We’re talking about having to distinguish what we can see from what has happened,” she began. “Holger Eriksson reported a break-in where nothing was stolen. Why did he report it at all?”
“I’ve thought about that too,” Wallander said. “He may have just been upset that someone broke into his house.”
“In that case it fits in with the pattern.”
Wallander didn’t understand immediately what she was getting at.
“There’s always the possibility that someone broke in to make him nervous. Not to steal anything.”
“A first warning?” he asked. “Is that what you mean?”
“Yes.”
“And the florist’s shop?”
“Runfeldt leaves his flat. Or he’s lured out. Or else it’s early in the morning. He goes down to the street to wait for a taxi. There he vanishes without a trace. What if he went to the shop? It only takes a few minutes. He could have left his suitcase inside the front door. Or carried it with him. It wasn’t heavy.”
“Why would he have gone to the shop?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he forgot something.”
“You mean he might have been attacked there?”
“I know it’s not a great idea. But it’s what I’ve been thinking.”
“It’s no worse than lots of others,” said Wallander. He looked at her.
“Has anyone checked if the blood on the floor was Runfeldt’s?”
“I don’t think it was ever done. If not, I’m to blame.”
“If we had to keep track of who was responsible for all the mistakes made during criminal investigations, there wouldn’t be time for anything else,” Wallander said. “I assume there aren’t any samples left?”
“I’ll find out. We’ll check it out just to be sure.”
She got up and left the room. Wallander was tired. They had had a good talk, but his anxiety had increased. They were as far from the heart of the matter as they could be. The investigation still lacked a gravitational force drawing them in a specific direction.
Someone was complaining loudly out in the hall. He started thinking of Baiba, but forced himself to concentrate on the investigation again. He got up and went for some coffee. Another officer asked him if he’d had time to decide whether it was proper for a local association to call itself “Friends of the Axe”. He said no. Went back to his office. The rain had stopped. The clouds hung motionless in the sky over the water tower.
The phone rang. It was Martinsson. Wallander listened for signs in his voice that something important had happened, but he heard nothing.
“Svedberg just came back from the university. Eugen Blomberg seems to have been the type of person that blended into the woodwork. He wasn’t a particularly prominent researcher. He was loosely affiliated with the children’s clinic in Lund, but what he was working on was considered quite rudimentary. That’s what Svedberg claims, at least.”
“Go on,” Wallander said, not hiding his impatience.
“I have a hard time understanding how a man could be so utterly devoid of interests,” Martinsson said. “He seems to have been completely preoccupied with his damned milk. And nothing else. Except for one thing.”
Wallander waited.
“He was having a relationship with another woman. I found some letters. The initials K.A. keep showing up. What’s interesting about all this is that she seems to have been pregnant.”
“How did you find that out?”
“From the letters. In the most recent it says that she was near the end of her pregnancy.”
“When was it dated?”
“There isn’t any date. But she mentions that she saw a movie on TV she liked. And if I remember correctly, it ran a few months back. Of course we’ll have to check that out more exactly.”
“Does she have an address?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“Not even whether it’s in Lund?”
“No. But she’s probably from somewhere in Skåne. She uses several expressions that indicate as much.”
“Did you ask the widow about this?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Whether it’s appropriate to do so, or whether I should wait.”
“Ask her,” Wallander said. “We can’t wait. Besides, I have a strong feeling that she knows about it already. We need that woman’s name and address as fast as we can damn well get it, in fact. Let me know as soon as you’ve got something.”
Afterwards Wallander sat with his hand on the telephone. A cold wave of aversion passed through him. What Martinsson had said
reminded him of something. It had to do with Svedberg, but he couldn’t recall what it was.
As he waited for Martinsson to call back, Hansson appeared at the door and said he was going to get started on the investigative material from Östersund that evening.
“There’s eleven kilos of it,” he said. “Just so you know.”
“Did you weigh it?” Wallander asked, surprised.
“I didn’t, but the courier did. Want to know what it cost?”
“I’d rather not.”
Hansson left. Wallander imagined a black Labrador sleeping next to his bed. It was 7.40 p.m. He still hadn’t heard from Martinsson. Nyberg called in and said he thought he’d call it a night. Why had Nyberg let him know? So that he could be found at home, or because he wanted to be left in peace?
Finally Martinsson called.
“She was asleep,” he said. “I didn’t really want to wake her. That’s why it took so long.”
Wallander said nothing. He wouldn’t have hesitated to wake Kristina Blomberg.
“What did she say?”
“You were right. She knew her husband had other women. But the initials K.A. didn’t mean anything to her.”
“Does she know where she lives?”
“She claims she doesn’t. I’m inclined to believe her.”
“But she must have known if he went out of town.”
“I asked about that. She said no. Besides, he didn’t have a car. He didn’t even have a driver’s licence.”
“That sounds like she must live nearby.”
“That’s what I was thinking too.”
“A woman with the initials K.A. We have to find her. Drop everything else for the time being. Is Birch there?”
“He drove back to the station a while ago.”
“Where’s Svedberg?”
“He was supposed to talk to someone who knew Blomberg best.”
“Tell him to concentrate on finding out who the woman is with the initials K.A.”
“I’m not sure I can get hold of him,” Martinsson replied. “He left his phone here with me.”
Wallander swore.
“The widow must know who her husband’s best friend was. It’s important to tell Svedberg.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Wallander put down the receiver, then thought better of it, but it was too late. What he had forgotten had suddenly come back to him. He looked up the phone number of the police station in Lund, and got hold of Birch almost at once.
“I think we might have hit on something,” Wallander said.
“Martinsson spoke to Ehrén, who’s working with him at Siriusgatan,” Birch said. “As I understand it, we’re looking for an unknown woman who might have the initials K.A.”
“Not ‘might’, they are her initials,” Wallander said. “Karin Andersson, Katrina Alström . . . we have to find her, whatever her name is. And there’s one detail that I think is important.”
“That she was pregnant?”
Birch was thinking fast.
“Precisely,” said Wallander. “We should contact the maternity ward in Lund and check up on women who have had children recently or will soon. With the initials K.A.”
“I’ll take care of it myself,” Birch said. “This sort of thing is always a little sensitive.”
Wallander said goodbye. He had started to sweat. Something had started moving. He went out into the hall. It was empty. When the phone rang he gave a start. It was Höglund. She was at Runfeldt’s shop.
“There’s no blood here,” she said. “Vanja Andersson scrubbed the floor herself. She thought the stain was upsetting.”
“What about the rag?”
“She threw it out. And the rubbish was collected long ago, of course.”
Wallander knew that only the tiniest amount was needed to carry out an analysis.
“Her shoes,” he said. “What shoes was she wearing that day? There might be a little bit on the sole.”
“I’ll ask her.”
Wallander waited.
“She had on a pair of clogs,” Höglund said. “But they’re back at her flat.”
“Go and get them. Bring them here, and call Nyberg at home. He can at least tell us if there’s any blood on them.”
During the conversation Hamrén appeared at his door. Wallander hadn’t seen much of him since he arrived in Ystad. He wondered what the two detectives from Malmö were working on.
“I’ve taken over matching the data between Eriksson and Runfeldt now that Martinsson’s in Lund. So far there are no matches,” he said. “But I don’t think their paths ever crossed.”
“Still, it’s important to do a thorough job on it,” Wallander said. “Somewhere these investigations are going to merge. I’m convinced of that.”
“And Blomberg?”
“He’ll find a place in the pattern too. Anything else is just implausible.”
“When was police work ever a matter of plausibility?” Hamrén said with a smile.
“You’re right, of course. But we can hope.”
Hamrén stood there with his pipe in his hand.
“I’m going out for a smoke. It clears my brain.”
He left. It was just past 8 p.m. Wallander waited for Svedberg to report in. He got a cup of coffee and some biscuits. Wallander wandered into the canteen and absent-mindedly watched the TV for a while. Beautiful pictures from the Comoro Islands. He wondered where those islands were. At 8.45 p.m. he was back in his chair. Birch called. They had started looking for women who had given birth in recent months or would give birth in the next two months. So far they hadn’t found any with the initials K.A. After he hung up, Wallander thought he might as well go home. They could call him on his mobile phone if they wanted him. He tried to get hold of Martinsson, without success. Then Svedberg called. It was 9.10 p.m.
“There’s nobody with the initials K.A.,” he said. “At least not known to the man who claims to have been Blomberg’s best friend.”
“So at least we know that,” Wallander said, not hiding his disappointment.
“I’m heading home now,” Svedberg said.
Wallander had hardly hung up before the phone rang again. It was Birch.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “there’s no-one with the initials K.A.”
“Shit,” said Wallander.
Both of them thought for a moment.
“She could have given birth somewhere else,” Birch said. “It doesn’t have to have been in Lund.”
“You’re right,” Wallander said. “We’ll have to keep at it tomorrow.” He hung up.
Now he knew what it was that was connected with Svedberg. A piece of paper that had landed on his desk by mistake. About something going on at night in the Ystad maternity ward. Had it been an attack? Something about a fake nurse?
He called Svedberg, who answered from his car.
“Where are you?” Wallander asked.
“I haven’t even made it to Staffanstorp.”
“Come to the station. There’s something we have to check out.”
“All right,” Svedberg said. “I’m on my way.”
It took him exactly 45 minutes. It was just before 10 p.m. when Svedberg showed up in the door of Wallander’s office. By that time Wallander had already started to doubt his own idea.
It was all too probable that he was just imagining things.
CHAPTER 27
He didn’t fully comprehend what had happened until the door closed behind him. He went down the few steps to his car and got in behind the wheel. Then he said his own name out loud: Åke Davidsson.
From now on Åke Davidsson was going to be a very lonely man. He hadn’t expected this to happen to him. He had never thought that the woman he had been in a relationship with for so many years, even though they didn’t live together, would tell him that it was over, and throw him out of her house.
He started to cry. It hurt. He didn’t understand. But she had been quite firm, telling him to leave and neve
r come back. She’d met another man who wanted to move in with her.
It was almost midnight on Monday, 17 October. He peered into the darkness. He knew that he shouldn’t drive after dark. His eyes weren’t strong enough. He could really only drive in daylight, with special glasses. He squinted through the windscreen. He could only just make out the contours of the road. But he had no choice, he couldn’t stay here all night. He had to go back to Malmö.
He started the engine and turned onto the road, still feeling upset. He was really having trouble seeing. Maybe it would get easier when he got on to the motorway. But first he had to get out of Lödinge.
He took a wrong turn. There were so many side roads, and they all looked alike in the dark. After half an hour he knew that he was completely lost. He reached a courtyard where the road seemed to come to a dead end, and started to turn around. Suddenly he caught sight of a shadow in his headlights. Someone was coming towards the car. He felt relieved at once. There was someone out there who would tell him which way to go. He opened the car door and got out.
Then everything went black.
It took Svedberg a quarter of an hour to find the paper Wallander wanted to see. Wallander had made himself quite clear when Svedberg arrived back just before 10 p.m.
“This might be a shot in the dark,” Wallander had told him. “But we’re looking for a woman with the initials K.A. who recently gave birth or will soon give birth somewhere in Skåne. We thought she was in Lund, but that turned out to be wrong. Maybe she’s here in Ystad instead. I’ve been told that Ystad’s maternity ward is known even outside the country for its practices. Something strange has occurred there one night, and then a second time, and I want to know what happened.”
When Svedberg had found the paper, he went back to Wallander, who was waiting impatiently.
“Ylva Brink,” Svedberg said. “She’s my cousin, a distant cousin. And she’s a midwife at the maternity ward. She came here to report that an unknown woman had showed up one night in her ward. It made her nervous.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s simply not normal for a stranger to be in the maternity ward at night.”