“Women take pills,” Höglund was saying. “They rarely shoot themselves. And I don’t think they throw themselves on power lines very often, either.”
“I think you’re right,” Wallander answered. “But we have to wait for the pathologist’s report. Those of us who were out there last night weren’t able to determine what happened.”
There were no other questions.
“The keys,” Wallander said. “We need to make sure none of the keys were stolen. That’s the first thing we need to establish.”
Martinsson volunteered to check on the keys. Then they ended the meeting and Wallander went to his office. On his way there, he got a cup of coffee. The telephone rang. It was Irene from reception.
“There’s someone here to see you,” she said.
“Who is it?”
“His name is Enander and he’s a doctor.”
Wallander searched his mind without being able to come up with a face.
“Send him to someone else.”
“I’ve tried that, but he insists on speaking to you. And he says it’s urgent.”
Wallander sighed.
“I’ll be right out,” he said and put the phone down.
The man waiting for him in the reception area was middle-aged. He had cropped hair and was dressed in a sweatsuit. Wallander noted his firm handshake. The doctor said his name was David Enander.
“I’m very busy right now,” Wallander said. “The power outage last night has created a lot of chaos. I can spare about ten minutes. What is it you wanted to see me about?”
“I’d like to clear up a misunderstanding.”
Wallander waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. They walked to his office. The armrest came off the chair that Enander sat down in.
“Let it be,” Wallander said. “The chair’s broken.”
David Enander got right to the point.
“I’m here about Tynnes Falk, who died a few days ago.”
“That case is closed, as far as we’re concerned. He died of natural causes.”
“That’s the misunderstanding I wanted to clear up,” Enander said and stroked his cropped hair with one hand.
Wallander saw he was anxious about something.
“I’m listening.”
David Enander took his time. He chose his words carefully.
“I’ve been Tynnes Falk’s physician for many years. He became my patient in 1981 — that is, more than fifteen years ago. He first came to me because of a rash on his hands. At that time I was working in the epidermal clinic at the hospital, but I opened a private practice in 1986 and Falk followed me there. He was rarely sick. His skin rash disappeared, but I continued with his regular checkups. Falk was a man who wanted to know the state of his health. He took great care of himself. He ate well, exercised, and had very regular habits.”
Wallander wondered what Enander was driving at and felt a growing impatience.
“I was away when he died,” Enander continued. “I only found out last night when I returned.”
“How did you hear it?”
“His ex-wife called me.”
Wallander nodded for him to continue.
“She said the cause of death was a massive coronary.”
“That’s what we were told.”
“The only thing is, that can’t possibly be true.”
Wallander raised his eyebrows.
“And why not?”
“It’s very simple. As little as ten days ago I did a complete physical workup on Falk. His heart was in wonderful condition. He had the physical stamina of a twenty-year-old.”
Wallander thought this through.
“So what is it you’re saying? That the pathologist made a mistake?”
“I’m aware of the fact that a heart attack can in rare cases strike a perfectly healthy person. But I can’t accept that this happened in Falk’s case.”
“What else could he have died of?”
“That, I don’t know. But I wanted to straighten out this misunderstanding. It wasn’t his heart.”
“I’ll pass on what you’ve told me,” Wallander said. “Was there anything else?”
“Something must have happened,” Enander said. “I don’t know if I’m right about this, but I gather he had a head wound. I think he was probably attacked. Killed.”
“Nothing points to that conclusion. He wasn’t robbed.”
“All I know is, it wasn’t his heart,” Enander repeated firmly. “I’m neither a pathologist nor a forensic specialist, so I can’t tell you what killed him. But it wasn’t his heart. I’m sure of it.”
Wallander made a note of Enander’s phone number and address. Then he got up. The conversation was over. He didn’t have any more time.
Wallander saw Enander back out to the reception area, then returned to his office. He put the notes about Tynnes Falk in a drawer and used the following hour to write up the events of the night before.
As he typed, he thought about the fact that he had once thought of his computer with distaste. But then one day he suddenly realized it actually made his work easier. His desk was no longer drowning in random notes jotted on odd bits of paper. He still typed with two fingers and often made mistakes, but now when he worked on his reports he no longer had to use white-out to erase all of his mistakes. That in itself was a huge relief.
At eleven o’clock, Martinsson came in with a list of all the people who had keys to the power substation. There were five names. Wallander glanced at them.
“Everyone can account for their keys,” Martinsson said. “None of them have let them out of their possession. Apart from Moberg, no one has been out to the substation in the past few days. Should I look into what they were doing during the time that Sonja Hökberg was missing?”
“Let’s wait on that,” Wallander said. “Before the forensic reports come back, we can’t do much except wait.”
“What should we do with Eva Persson?”
“She should be questioned more thoroughly.”
“Are you going to do that?”
“No, thanks. I thought we would leave that to Hoglund. I’ll talk to her.”
By noon, Wallander had brought Hoglund up to date on the Lundberg case. His throat was feeling better, but he was still tired. After trying to start his car up a couple of times, he called a service station and asked them to pick up the car. He left the keys with Irene and walked down into town to have lunch. At the next table, people were talking about the power outage. Afterward he went by the drugstore and bought soap and painkillers. When he returned to the station his car was gone. He called the mechanic, but they still hadn’t identified the problem. When he asked how much the repair was going to cost, the answer was vague. He hung up and decided that enough was enough. He was going to get a new car.
Then he let himself sink down into his thoughts. He was suddenly convinced that Sonja Hökberg had not ended up at that substation by accident. And it was no coincidence that it was one of the most vulnerable points in Scania’s power-distribution system.
He reached for the list that Martinsson had given him. Five people, five sets of keys.
Olle Andersson, line repairman
Lars Moberg, line repairman
Hilding Olofsson, power manager
Artur Wahlund, safety manager
Stefan Molin, technical director
The names still told him as little as they had when he’d first looked them over. He called Martinsson, who picked up immediately.
“These key guys,” he said. “You haven’t by any chance looked them up in the police register, have you?”
“Should I have?”
“Not at all, but I know you’re very thorough.”