Wallander parked hastily, half up on the narrow footpath outside the florist’s. There were a few customers inside. He gestured to Vanja Andersson that he would wait. Ten minutes later the shop emptied out, and Vanja Andersson printed a note, taped it to the inside of the door, and locked up. They went into the tiny office at the back. The scent of flowers made Wallander queasy. As usual, he had nothing to write on, so he picked up a stack of gift cards and started making notes on the back.
“Let’s take it from the beginning,” Wallander said. “You called the travel agency. Why did you do that?”
He could see that she was upset. A copy of the local newspaper, Ystad’s Allehanda, was lying on the table, with a big headline about the murder of Holger Eriksson. At least she doesn’t know why I’m here, Wallander thought. That I’m hoping there won’t be a connection between Eriksson and Gosta Runfeldt.
“Gosta wrote me a note saying when he would be coming back,” she began. “I couldn’t find it anywhere. So I called the travel agency. They told me he hadn’t shown up at Kastrup Airport.”
“What’s the name of the travel agency?”
“Special Tours in Malmo.”
“Who did you talk to there?”
“Anita Lagergren.”
Wallander made a note.
“When did you call?”
She told him.
“And what else did she say?”
“Gosta never left. He didn’t check in at Kastrup. They called the phone number he’d given them, but nobody answered. The plane had to leave without him.”
“And they didn’t do anything else after that?”
“Anita Lagergren said that they sent a letter explaining that Gosta could not expect a refund for any of the travel costs.”
Wallander could tell she was about to say something else, but she stopped herself.
“You were thinking of something,” he coaxed.
“The trip was extremely expensive,” she said. “Anita Lagergren told me the price.”
“How much was it?”
“Almost 30,000 kronor. For two weeks.”
Wallander agreed. The trip really was quite expensive. Never in his life would he consider taking such an expensive trip. He and his father together had spent about a third of that amount for their week in Rome.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “Gosta just wouldn’t do anything like this.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“Nearly eleven years.”
“And things have gone well?”
“Gosta is a very nice man. He truly loves flowers. Not just orchids.”
“We’ll come back to that later. How would you describe him?”
She thought for a moment.
“Considerate and friendly,” she said. “A little eccentric. A recluse.” Wallander thought uneasily that this description might also fit Holger Eriksson. Although it had been suggested that Eriksson wasn’t a very considerate person.
“He wasn’t married?”
“He was a widower.”
“Did he have children?”
“Two. Both of them are married and have their own children. Neither of them lives in Skane.”
“How old is he?”
“He is 49.”
Wallander looked at his notes.
“A widower,” he said. “So his wife must have been quite young when she died. Was it an accident?”
“I’m not sure. He never talked about it. But I think she drowned.”
Wallander dropped the line of questioning. They would go over it all in detail soon enough, if it proved necessary. He put his pen down on the table. The scent of flowers was overwhelming.
“You must have thought about this,” he said. “You must have wondered about two things in the past few hours. First, why he didn’t get on the plane to Africa. Second, where he is now instead of in Nairobi.”
She nodded. Wallander saw that she had tears in her eyes.
“Something must have happened,” she said. “As soon as I talked to the travel agency I went over to his flat. It’s right down the street, and I have a key. I was supposed to water his flowers. After I thought he’d left on his trip I was there twice, and put his post on the table. Now I went back. He wasn’t there, and he hasn’t been there, either.”
“How do you know?”
“I can tell.”
“So what do you think happened?”
“I have no idea. He was looking forward to this trip so much. He was planning to finish writing his book about orchids this winter.”
Wallander could feel his own anxiety increasing. A warning bell had started ringing inside him. He recognised the silent alarm. He gathered up the cards he had used for his notes.
“I’ll have to take a look at his flat,” he said. “And you need to open the shop again. I’m sure all of this has a reasonable explanation.”
She sought assurance in his eyes that he really meant what he said. But Wallander knew she wouldn’t find it. He took the keys to the flat. It was on the same street, one block closer to the centre of town.
“I’ll drop the keys off when I’m done,” he said.
When he came out onto the narrow street, an elderly couple was trying with difficulty to squeeze past his parked car. They gave him an imploring look. But he ignored them and walked away.
The flat was on the third floor of a building that dated from around the turn of the century. There was a lift, but Wallander took the stairs. Several years ago he had considered exchanging his own flat for one in a building like this. Now he couldn’t imagine what he had been thinking of. If he sold the flat on Mariagatan, it would have to be for a house with a garden. Where Baiba could live. And maybe a dog too.
He unlocked the door and entered Runfeldt’s flat. He wondered how many times in his life he had walked into a stranger’s home. He stopped just inside the door. Every flat had its own character. Over the years Wallander had perfected his habit of listening for traces of the occupants. He walked slowly through the rooms. Often it was the first impression that he would return to later. Gosta Runfeldt lived here, a man who had failed to show up where he was expected one morning. Wallander thought about what Vanja Andersson had said. About Runfeldt’s eager excitement at his expedition.
After going through all four rooms and the kitchen, Wallander stopped in the middle of the living room. It was a large, bright flat. He had a vague feeling that it was furnished with some indifference. The only room that had any personality was the study. A comfortable chaos prevailed there. Books, papers, lithographs of flowers, maps. A desk piled with clutter. A computer. A few photographs of children and grandchildren on a windowsill. A photograph of Runfeldt somewhere in an Asian landscape, surrounded by giant orchids. On the back someone had written that it was taken in Burma in 1972. Runfeldt was smiling at the unknown photographer, a friendly smile from a sun-tanned man. The colours had faded, but not Runfeldt’s smile. Wallander put it back and looked at a map of the world hanging on the wall. With a little effort he located Burma. Then he sat down at the desk. Runfeldt was supposed to leave on a trip, but he hadn’t left. At least not for Nairobi on the Special Travels charter flight.
Wallander got up and went into the bedroom. The bed was made, a narrow, single bed. There was a stack of books next to the bed. Wallander looked at the titles. Books about flowers. The only one that stood out was a book about the international currency market. Wallander bent down and looked under the bed. Nothing. He opened the doors to the wardrobe. On a shelf at the top of the wardrobe lay two suitcases. He stood on tiptoe and lifted them down. Both were empty. Then he went to the kitchen and got a chair. He looked at the top shelf. Now he found what he was looking for. A single man’s flat is seldom completely free of dust. Runfeldt’s was no exception. The outline in the dust was quite clear. A third suitcase had been there. Because the other two he had taken down were old, and one of them even had a broken lock, Wallander imagined that Runfeldt would have used the third suitcase. If he had gone on the trip. If it wasn’t somewhere else in the flat. He hung his jacket over the back of a chair and opened all the cupboards and storage spaces. He found nothing. Then he returned to the study.