Then she would strangle him. Leave him where he was. She would be home in bed no later than midnight. Her alarm clock would go off at 5.15 a.m., and by 7.15 she’d be at work.
Her timetable was perfect. Nothing could go wrong. She sat down in a chair and looked at the oven towering like a sacrificial altar in the middle of the room. My mother would have understood, she thought. If no-one does it, it won’t happen. Evil must be driven out with evil. Where there is no justice, it must be created.
She took her timetable out of her pocket and looked at the clock. In three hours and 15 minutes, Gosta Runfeldt would die.
Lars Olsson didn’t really feel much like training on the evening of 11 October. He had been wondering whether he should go out on his run or forget about it. It wasn’t just that he felt tired, there was a film on TV that he wanted to see. In the end he decided to go for his run after the movie, even though it would be late.
Olsson lived on a farm near Svarte. He had been born there, and still lived with his parents although he was over 30. He was the part owner of a digger and was the one who knew best how to operate it. This week he was busy digging a ditch for a new drainage system on a farm in Skarby. He was also a devoted orienteer. He lived for the joy of running in the Swedish woods. He ran for a team in Malmo that was preparing for a national night-orienteering run. He had often asked himself why he devoted so much time to it. What was the point of running around in the woods, often cold and wet, his body aching, with a map and compass? Was this really something to spend his life doing? But he knew he was a good orienteer. He had a feeling for the terrain, as well as both speed and endurance.
He watched the film on TV, but it wasn’t as good as he expected. Just after 11 p.m. he started out on his run, headed for the woods just north of the farm, on the boundary of Marsvinsholm’s huge fields. He could choose to run either five or eight kilometres, depending on which path he took. Tonight he chose the shorter route. He strapped his running light to his head and started off. It had rained that day, heavy showers followed by sunshine. He could smell the wet earth. He ran along the path into the woods. The tree trunks glistened in the light from his headlamp. In the densest part of the forest there was a little creek. If he kept close to it, it made a good shortcut. He decided to do that. He turned off the path and ran up a small hill.
Suddenly he stopped short. He had seen someone in the light of his lamp. At first he couldn’t work out what he was looking at. Then he realised that a half-naked man was tied to a tree in front of him. Olsson stood quite still. He was breathing hard and felt very frightened. He took a quick look around. The lamp cast its glow over trees and bushes, but he was alone. Cautiously he took a few steps forward. The man was hanging over the ropes tied around his body.
He didn’t have to go any closer. He could see that the man was dead. Without really knowing why, he glanced at his watch. It was 11.19 p.m.
He turned around and ran home. He had never run so fast in his life. Without even taking the time to remove his headlamp he called the police in Ystad. The officer who took the call listened attentively, then without hesitating, he called up Kurt Wallander’s name on his computer screen and punched in his home number.
Skane
12–17 October 1994
CHAPTER 13
Wallander was awake thinking about his father and Rydberg lying in the same cemetery when the telephone next to his bed rang. He grabbed it before the ringing woke Linda. With a feeling of mounting helplessness he listened to what the officer on duty had to say. Information was still sparse. Officers hadn’t yet reached the woods south of Marsvinsholm. It was possible that the runner had been mistaken, but that was unlikely. The officer thought he sounded unusually lucid even though he was breathless and frightened. Wallander said he’d come at once. He dressed as quietly as he could, but Linda came out in her nightgown as he sat in the kitchen writing her a note.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“They found a man dead in the woods,” he replied. “That means they call me.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t you get scared?”
“Why should I be scared?”
“About all the people who are dying.”
He sensed rather than understood what she was trying to say.
“I can’t. It’s my job. Somebody has to deal with it.”
He promised to be back in plenty of time to drive her to the airport in the morning.
It wasn’t until he was on his way out to Marsvinsholm that it occurred to him that it might be Gosta Runfeldt who had been found in the woods. He had just left the town behind him when his phone rang. Police officers had confirmed the report.
“Any identification on him?” asked Wallander.
“No. Sounds like he barely had any clothes on. It looks pretty bad.”
Wallander felt his stomach tying itself in knots, but he didn’t say anything.
“They’ll meet you at the crossroads. Take the first exit towards Marsvinsholm.”
Wallander hung up and accelerated. He was dreading the sight that awaited him.
He saw the squad car at a distance and slowed to a stop. An officer was standing outside the car. He recognised Peters. Wallander rolled down his window and gave him an inquiring look.
“It’s not a pretty sight,” said Peters.
Wallander knew what that meant. Peters had plenty of experience. He wouldn’t use those words casually.
“Has he been identified?”
“He barely has a stitch on. Go see for yourself.”
“And the man who found him?”
“He’s there too.”
Peters went back to his car. Wallander drove behind him. They reached a clearing. The road ended near the remains of a logging operation.
“We’ll have to walk the last stretch,” Peters said.
Wallander got his gumboots out of the boot of his car. Peters and his partner, a young officer named Bergman who Wallander didn’t really know, had brought powerful torches. They followed a path that led uphill to a little creek. There was a strong smell of autumn in the air. Wallander realised he should have worn a heavier jumper. If he had to stay out in the woods all night he was going to get cold.
“We’re almost there,” Peters said.
Wallander knew he said it to warn him to brace himself. Even so, the sight that greeted him took him by surprise. The two torches shone with macabre precision on a man who hung, half-naked, tied to a tree. The beams of light quivered. Wallander stood quite still. Close by a night bird cried. He advanced cautiously. Peters shone his light so Wallander could see where he was putting his feet. The man’s head and torso had fallen forward. Wallander got down on his knees to look at his face, and confirmed what he had suspected. Even though the photographs he had seen in Runfeldt’s flat were several years old, there was no doubt that it was him. Now they knew what had happened.
Wallander got to his feet and took a step back. There was no longer any doubt in his mind about another thing. There was a connection between Eriksson and Runfeldt. The killer’s language was the same, even if the choice of words was different this time. A pungee pit and a tree. It simply couldn’t be a coincidence.
He turned towards Peters. “Get the team,” he said.
Peters nodded. Wallander discovered he had left his telephone in the car. He asked Bergman to get it for him, and to bring the torch from the glove compartment.
“Where’s the man who found him?” he asked.
Peters shone his torch to one side. On a rock sat a man in a tracksuit, his face buried in his hands.
“His name is Lars Olsson,” Peters said. “He lives on a farm near here.”
“What was he doing out in the woods in the middle of the night?”