“And the tower?” Wallander asked.
“We didn’t find anything there either,” said Nyberg. “But of course we’re nowhere near finished yet. It would be a big help if you could tell us what we should be looking for.”
“I don’t know, but whoever did this must have come from somewhere. We have the path leading from Eriksson’s house. There are fields all around it. And a patch of woods behind the hill.”
“There’s a tractor path up to the woods,” said Hoglund, “with tracks from car tyres, but none of the neighbours noticed anything unusual.”
“Apparently Eriksson owned a lot of land,” Svedberg said. “I talked a farmer named Lundberg. He sold off more than 50 hectares to Eriksson ten years ago. Since it was Eriksson’s property, there was no reason for anyone else to be on it. Which means no-one ever paid much attention to it.”
“We still have a lot of people to talk to,” Martinsson said as he shuffled through his papers. “By the way, I got in touch with the forensics laboratory in Lund. They think they’ll probably have something to tell us by Monday morning.”
Wallander made a note. Then he turned to Nyberg again.
“How’s it going with Eriksson’s house?”
“We can’t do everything at once,” Nyberg grumbled. “We’ve been out in the mud because it might start raining again soon. I think we can start on the house in the morning.”
“That sounds good,” said Wallander soothingly. He didn’t want to annoy Nyberg. That could create a bad atmosphere that would affect the whole meeting. At the same time he couldn’t get over his irritation at Nyberg’s continual grouchiness. He also saw that Lisa Holgersson had noted Nyberg’s surly reply.
They continued the review of the case, still very much in its introductory phase. The interviews with Ruth Sturesson and Sven Tyren hadn’t taken them any further. Eriksson had placed his order for oil, four cubic metres. There was nothing unusual in that. The mysterious break-in that he had reported the year before was unexplained. Their exploration of Eriksson’s life and character had barely begun. They were still at the most basic stage of a criminal investigation. The search had not yet begun to take on a life of its own.
When no-one had anything to add, Wallander tried to sum up. During the whole meeting he’d had a feeling that he’d seen something at the murder scene that should have prompted discussion. Something he couldn’t explain.
The modus operandi, he thought. There’s something about those bamboo stakes. A killer uses a language that he deliberately chooses. Why would he impale a person? Why would he go to such trouble? For the time being he kept these thoughts to himself. They were still too vague to present to the team.
He poured himself a glass of mineral water and shoved aside the papers in front of him.
“We’re still searching for a way in,” he began. “What we have is a murder unlike anything we’ve ever seen. This may mean that the motive and the killer too are unlike anything we’ve ever encountered. In a way, it reminds me of the situation we were in last summer. We solved that case by refusing to get hung up on any one thing. And we can’t afford to do that now, either.”
He turned to face the chief.
“We’ll have to work hard. It’s already Saturday morning, but it can’t be helped. Everyone will continue working on the tasks at hand over the weekend. We can’t wait until Monday.”
Holgersson nodded.
The meeting was adjourned. They were all exhausted. The chief and Hoglund stayed. Soon they were alone in the conference room. Wallander thought that here, for once, women were in the majority in his world.
“Per Akeson needs to talk to you,” said Holgersson.
Wallander shook his head in resignation.
“I’ll call him tomorrow.”
Holgersson had put on her coat, but Wallander could tell that she wasn’t finished with him.
“Isn’t it possible that this murder might have been committed by an insane person?” she asked. “Impaling someone on stakes! It sounds like the Middle Ages to me.”
“Not necessarily,” Wallander said. “Stake pits were used during the Second World War. Atrocity and insanity don’t always go hand in hand.”
Holgersson didn’t seem satisfied with his answer. She leant against the doorframe and looked at him.
“I’m still not convinced. Maybe we could call in that criminal psychologist who was here last summer. Wasn’t he a big help to you?”
Wallander couldn’t deny that Mats Ekholm had been important to the success of the investigation. He had helped them draw up a profile of the killer. But Wallander didn’t think it was time to call him in yet — in fact, he was afraid to draw parallels.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I think we should wait a while.”
She studied him.
“You aren’t afraid it’ll happen again, are you? A new pit with sharpened stakes in it?”
“No.”
“What about Runfeldt?”
Wallander was suddenly unsure whether he might be speaking against his better judgement. But he shook his head, he didn’t think it would be repeated. Or was that just what he hoped? He didn’t know.
“Eriksson’s murder must have required a lot of preparation,” he said. “Something you do only once. Something that depends on a special set of circumstances. Like a ditch that’s deep enough. And a bridge. And a victim who goes out at night or at dawn to look at migrating birds. I’m the one who linked Runfeldt’s disappearance with what happened in Lodinge. But that’s for reasons of caution.”
“I understand,” she said. “But think about calling in Ekholm.”
“I will,” Wallander said. “You may be right, I just think it’s too early. Timing often determines the success of certain efforts.”
Holgersson buttoned her coat.
“You need sleep too. Don’t stay here all night,” she said as she left.
Wallander began gathering up his papers.
“I have some things to work out,” he told Hoglund. “Do you remember when you first came here? You said you thought I had a lot I could teach you. Now maybe you can see how wrong you were.”
She was sitting on the table, looking at her nails. Wallander thought she looked pale and tired and definitely not beautiful. But she was talented. And that rarity: a dedicated police officer. In that they were alike.
He dropped the stack of papers on the table and sank back into his chair.
“Tell me what you see,” he said.
“Something that scares me.”
“Why?”
“The savagery. The calculation. And no motive.”
“Eriksson was rich. Everyone says he was a tough businessman. He may have made enemies.”
“That doesn’t explain why he would be impaled on bamboo stakes.”
“Hate can blind people in the same way envy can. Or jealousy.”
She shook her head.
“When I saw Eriksson’s body on the stakes I felt instinctively that we were dealing with much more than the murder of an old man,” she said. “I can’t explain it better than that, but the feeling was there. And it was strong.”
Wallander snapped out of his weariness. She had said something important. Something that vaguely touched on thoughts that had crossed his own mind.
“Keep going,” he said. “Think harder!”
“There isn’t that much more. The man was dead. Nobody who saw the scene will ever forget it. It was a murder. But there was more.”
“Every murderer has his own language,” Wallander said. “Is that what you mean?”
“More or less.”
“He was making a statement?”
“Possibly.”
In a code, Wallander thought. A code we haven’t cracked.
“You may be right,” he said.
They sat in silence. Wallander got up and went back to gathering his papers. He discovered something that didn’t belong to him.
“Is this yours?”
She glanced at the paper.
“That looks like Svedberg’s writing.”
Wallander tried to make out what had been scrawled in pencil. It was something about a maternity ward. About a woman he didn’t know.
“What the hell is this?” he said. “Is Svedberg having a baby? He isn’t even married. Is he even dating anyone?”