“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?”
“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.