The Fifth Woman

  “It probably could,” Wallander replied. “But I was passing on my way home.”

  They went into the office. A nurse on her way in stopped when she saw Wallander.

  “It can wait,” she said and left.

  Wallander leaned against the desk. Ylva Brink sat down.

  “You must have wondered,” he began, “about the woman who knocked you down. Who she was. Why she was here. Why she did what she did. You must have thought long and hard about it. You’ve given us a good description of her face. Maybe there’s some detail you thought of afterwards.”

  “You’re right, I’ve been thinking about it. But I’ve told you everything I can remember about her face.”

  He believed her.

  “It doesn’t have to be her face. She might have had a certain way of moving. Or a scar on her hand. A human being is a combination of so many different details. We think we can trust our memory, and that all of the details are there, just like that. Actually it’s just the opposite. Imagine an object that can almost float, that sinks through water extremely slowly. That’s the way memory works.”

  She shook her head.

  “It happened so fast. I don’t remember anything except what I’ve already told you. And I’ve really tried.”

  Wallander nodded. He hadn’t really expected anything else.

  “What has she done?” Ylva asked.

  “She knocked you down. We’re looking for her. We think she might have some important information for us. That’s all I can tell you.”

  A clock on the wall read 1.27 a.m. He put out his hand to say goodbye, and they left the office.

  Suddenly she stopped him.

  “There might be something else,” she said hesitantly.

  “What is it?”

  “I didn’t think about it then, when I went towards her and she knocked me down. It wasn’t until afterwards.”

  “What?”

  “She was wearing a perfume that was special.”

  “In what way?”

  She gave him almost an imploring look.

  “I don’t know. How does one describe a scent?”

  “That’s one of the hardest things to do. But give it a try.”

  He could see that she was making a real effort.

  “No,” she said. “I can’t find the words. I just know that it was special. Maybe you could say that it was harsh.”

  “More like after-shave lotion?”

  She looked at him in surprise.

  “Yes,” she said. “How did you know that?”

  “It was just a thought.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Since I can’t express myself clearly.”

  “Oh no,” he replied. “This could turn out to be valuable. We never know ahead of time.”

  They parted at the glass doors. Wallander took the lift down and left the hospital. He walked fast. Now he had to get some sleep. He thought about what she had said. If there were any traces of perfume left on the name tag holder, she would be asked to smell it early the next morning. He already knew that it would be the same. They were looking for a woman. Her perfume was special. But would they ever find her?

  CHAPTER 30

  At 7.35 a.m. her shift ended. She was in a hurry, driven by a sudden restlessness. It was a cold, wet morning in Malmö. She hurried towards the car park. Normally she would have driven straight home and gone to bed. Now she knew that she had to go to Lund. She tossed the bag in the back and got in. When she took the steering wheel she could feel that her hands were sweating.

  She never had been able to trust Katarina Taxell. The woman was too weak. There had always been the risk that she would cave in. Taxell was the sort of person who bruised easily. So far, she had judged her control over Taxell to be sufficient. Now she was less sure.

  I have to get her out of there, she had thought all night long. At least until she begins to put some distance between herself and what happened. It shouldn’t be difficult to persuade her to leave her flat for the time being. There was nothing unusual in a woman developing psychological problems in connection with the birth of a child.

  It was raining when she arrived in Lund. Her uneasiness persisted. She parked in a side street and started walking towards the square where Katarina Taxell’s building was. Suddenly she stopped. She took a few wary steps back, as if a predator had abruptly appeared in front of her. She stood next to the wall of a building and observed the front door of Taxell’s block of flats.

  There was a car parked outside with a man, or maybe two, sitting in it. She was instantly sure they were policemen. Katarina Taxell was being watched.

  The panic came out of nowhere. She couldn’t see it, but she knew that her face was flaming red. She was having palpitations. The thoughts swirled in her head like confused nocturnal animals in a room when a light is turned on. What had Katarina said? Why were they sitting outside her front door?

  Or was it only her imagination? She stood motionless and tried to think calmly. She could be certain that Katarina hadn’t told them anything. Otherwise they wouldn’t be watching her. They would have taken her down to the station. So it wasn’t too late after all. But she probably didn’t have much time. Not that she needed much. She knew what she had to do.

  She lit a cigarette that she had rolled during the night. According to her timetable, it was at least an hour too early. Now she broke with routine. This day was going to be special. There was no getting around it.

  She stood there for several minutes more and watched the car by the front door. Then she put out the cigarette and walked quickly away.

  When Wallander woke up just after 6 a.m. on Wednesday morning, he was still tired. His sleep deprivation was huge. The powerlessness was like a lead weight deep in his consciousness. He lay in bed with his eyes open. A human being is an animal who lives to endure, he thought. But right now, it seems I can’t handle it any more.

  He sat up on the edge of his bed. The floor was cold beneath his feet. He looked at his toenails. They needed cutting. His whole body needed an overhaul. A month earlier he had been in Rome, storing up new energy. It was all used up. He forced himself to stand up. He went into the bathroom. The cold water was like a slap in the face. Someday he’d have to quit doing this – using cold water to get himself going. He dried off, put on his dressing gown, and went to the kitchen. Always the same routine. The coffee, then the window, the thermometer. It was raining and it was 4°C. Autumn, and the cold already had a firm grip. Someone at the police station had predicted a long winter. That was what he feared.

  When the coffee was ready, he sat at the kitchen table, after having picked up the morning paper from outside his door. On the front page was a photograph taken at Lödinge. He took a few sips of coffee. Already he had moved beyond the first and highest threshold of fatigue. His mornings were sometimes like an obstacle course. It was time for him to call Baiba.

  She answered on the second ring. It was the way he’d imagined it during the night. Things were different now.

  “I’m exhausted,” he excused himself.

  “I know,” she replied. “But my question still stands.”

  “Whether I want you to come?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s nothing that I want more.”

  She believed him. Maybe she could come in early November. She would start looking into the possibility that day.

  They didn’t need to talk long. Neither of them liked the telephone. Afterwards, when Wallander returned to his cup of coffee, he thought that this time he’d have to have a serious talk with her about whether she would move to Sweden. About the new house. Maybe he’d even tell her about the dog.

  He sat there a long time without even opening the newspaper. He didn’t get dressed until almost 7.30 a.m. He had to search for a long time before he found a clean shirt. It was his last. He had to sign up to use the laundry room today. As he was on his way out, the phone rang. It was the garage in Älmhult. He flinched when he heard the
total bill for the repairs, but he said nothing. The mechanic promised that the car would be in Ystad later in the day. He had a brother who could drive it down and then take the train home. All he’d be charged for was the price of the train ticket.

  When Wallander reached the street, he saw it was raining harder than it had looked. He went back inside and called the police station. Ebba said she would send a squad car to pick him up. Five minutes later it pulled up outside. By 8 a.m. he was in his office.

  He had barely managed to take off his jacket when everything seemed to start to happen at once. Höglund was standing in his door. She was pale.

  “Did you hear?”

  Wallander gave a start. Again? Another man murdered?

  “I just got in. What is it?”

  “Martinsson’s daughter has been attacked.”

  “Terese?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was attacked outside her school. Martinsson’s just left. If I understood Svedberg correctly, it had to do with Martinsson being a police officer.”

  Wallander was thunderstruck. “Is she seriously hurt?”

  “She was pushed and punched in the head, and kicked too, apparently. She wasn’t badly injured, but she’s certainly had a shock.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Other students. Older than her.”

  Wallander sat down in his chair. “That’s outrageous! But why?”

  “I don’t know everything that happened. The students have been talking about the citizen militia too, saying that the police aren’t doing anything. That we’ve given up.”

  “So they jump on Martinsson’s daughter?”

  “Right.”

  Wallander felt a lump in his throat. Terese was 13 years old, and Martinsson talked about her constantly.

  “Why would they attack an innocent girl?”

  “Did you see the paper?” she asked.

  “No, why?”

  “You ought to. People are talking about Eskil Bengtsson and the others. The arrests are being described as scandalous. They’re claiming that Åke Davidsson fought back. There’s a big story about it with pictures, and placards at the newsstands that say: ‘Whose side are the police on, anyway?’”

  “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?