She took the note out of his hand and read it.
“Evidently somebody reported a woman wandering around the maternity ward dressed like a nurse,” she said, handing back the paper.
“We’ll have to check it out when we have time,” Wallander replied sarcastically. He considered tossing the note in the waste-paper basket, but changed his mind. He’d give it to Svedberg the next day.
They parted in the hall.
“Who’s taking care of your children?” he asked. “Is your husband home?”
“He’s in Mali.”
Wallander didn’t know where Mali was, but he didn’t ask.
Hoglund left the deserted station. Wallander put Svedberg’s piece of paper on his desk and picked up his jacket. On the way out to the front desk he stopped at the dispatch office, where a lone officer sat reading a newspaper.
“Anybody call about Lodinge?” he asked.
“Not a peep.”
Wallander went outside to his car. It was windy. Ann-Britt hadn’t really answered his question about her children. He searched through all his pockets before he found his car keys. Then he drove home. Even though he was tired, he sat on his sofa and thought through everything that had happened during the day. Most of all he worried about what Hoglund had said just before she left. That the murder of Holger Eriksson was something more. But how could a murder be more than a murder?
It was almost 3 a.m. when he went to bed. Before he fell asleep he remembered that he had to call his father and Linda the next day.
He woke up with a start at 6 a.m. He had been dreaming. Eriksson was alive. He was standing on the wooden bridge across the ditch. Just as it collapsed, Wallander woke up. He forced himself to get out of bed. It had started raining again. In the kitchen he discovered he was out of coffee, so he made do with two aspirin, and then sat for a long time at the table with his head propped on one hand.
At 6.45 a.m. he arrived at the station. When he opened the door of his office he noticed something he hadn’t seen the night before. There was a parcel on the chair by the window. Ebba had arranged for Gosta Runfeldt’s mail-order to be picked up. He hung up this jacket, wondering for a second whether he actually had the right to open it. Then he pulled off the paper and opened the box inside. He was frowning at the contents when Martinsson walked past his door.
“Come here,” Wallander called to him. “Come and take a look at this.”
CHAPTER 9
They peered at Gosta Runfeldt’s parcel. To Wallander it seemed like junk: wires and tiny black boxes whose purpose he couldn’t guess. But it was clear to Martinsson what Runfeldt had ordered and the police had paid for.
“This is highly sophisticated bugging equipment,” he said, picking up one of the boxes.
Wallander shot him a sceptical look.
“Can you really buy bugging equipment from a mail-order company in Boras?” he asked.
“You can buy anything you want by mail order,” replied Martinsson. “This is the real thing. Whether it’s legal is another question. The importation of this type of equipment is strictly regulated.”
They unpacked the parcel onto Wallander’s desk. There was more than bugging equipment inside. To their amazement they also found a box containing a magnetic brush and iron filings. That could only mean one thing. Runfeldt intended to test for fingerprints.
“What do you make of this?” Wallander said.
Martinsson shook his head. “It seems pretty strange.”
“What’s a florist doing with bugging equipment? Is he going to spy on his competitors in the tulip business?”
“The fingerprint stuff is even weirder.”
Wallander frowned. The equipment was expensive. The company that had sold it was called Secure, with an address on Getangsvagen in Boras.
“Let’s call and find out if Runfeldt bought anything else,” Wallander said.
“I suspect they won’t be too willing to give out information on their customers,” Martinsson replied. “Besides, it’s Saturday morning.”
“They have a 24-hour order line,” Wallander said, pointing to the brochure.
“That will just be an answering machine,” Martinsson said. “I’ve bought gardening tools through a mail-order company in Boras. They don’t have operators sitting there around the clock, if that’s what you think.”
Wallander stared at one of the tiny microphones.
“Can this stuff really be legal?”
“I think I can tell you now,” Martinsson said. “I’ve got some material in my office that deals with this sort of thing.”
He returned in a few minutes with some booklets.
“From the information unit of the national police board,” he said. “The materials they publish are pretty good.”
“I read them whenever I get a chance,” Wallander said. “But sometimes I wonder if they aren’t publishing too much.”
“Take a look at this: ‘Bugging as a coercive method in criminal interrogations’,” Martinsson said, placing one of the booklets on the desk. “But maybe that’s not quite what we’re looking for. How about this one: ‘Memorandum on bugging equipment’.”
Martinsson leafed through it, then stopped and read aloud. “‘According to Swedish law it is illegal to possess, sell, or install bugging equipment.’ Which probably means that it’s also forbidden to manufacture it.”
“Then we ought to ask our colleagues in Boras to clamp down on that mail-order business,” Wallander said. “It means they’re making illegal sales. And importing illegal goods.”
“Mail-order businesses are generally legitimate in this country,” Martinsson said. “I suspect this is a rotten apple that the industry itself would like to be rid of.”
“Get hold of Boras,” Wallander said. “Do it as soon as possible.”
He thought back on his visit to Runfeldt’s flat. He hadn’t discovered technical equipment of this kind.
“I think we should ask Nyberg to take a look at this stuff. That should be enough for now. But it does seem strange.”
Martinsson agreed.
“I’m going out to Lodinge,” Wallander told him as he put everything back into the box.
“I managed to track down a salesman who sold cars for Holger Eriksson for more than 20 years,” Martinsson said. “I’m seeing him in Svarte in half an hour. He should be able to give us an idea of the sort of man Eriksson was, if anyone can.”
They parted out in reception. Wallander was carrying Runfeldt’s box of equipment under one arm. He stopped at Ebba’s desk.
“What did my father say?” he asked.
“Just asked to tell you to call if you had time.”
Wallander was instantly suspicious.
“Did he sound sarcastic?”
Ebba gave him a stern look.
“Your father is a very nice man. He has great respect for your work.”
Wallander, knowing the truth, just shook his head. Ebba pointed at the box.
“I had to pay for that myself. There isn’t any petty cash at the moment.”
“Give me the receipt,” said Wallander. “Is it all right if I get you the money by Monday?”
Ebba agreed, and Wallander left the station. It had stopped raining and the sky was clearing. It was going to be a beautiful autumn day. Wallander put the box on the back seat and drove out of Ystad. The countryside seemed less oppressive in the sunshine, and for a moment his mood lifted. Then Eriksson’s impaled body rose up before him like a nightmare. The fact that Runfeldt was also missing didn’t mean that a similar fate had befallen him, he tried to tell himself. The fact that Runfeldt had ordered bugging equipment could be taken as an indication, paradoxically, that he was still alive. Wallander had wondered whether Runfeldt might have taken his own life — but the equipment made him doubt that this was the case. As Wallander drove through the bright autumn countryside he thought that sometimes he gave in to his inner demons much too easily.
He turned into the courtyard of Eriksson’s farmhouse and parked. A man Wallander recognised as a reporter from Arbetet was walking towards him. Wallander was carrying Runfeldt’s box under his arm. They said hello, and the reporter nodded at the box.