Why put something on display? he wondered. So that somebody will notice what you’ve done. Did the murderer want other people to see what he had accomplished? If so, what was it he wanted to show? That those two particular men were dead? No, not only that. He also wanted it to be clear that they had been killed in particularly gruesome, premeditated ways.
If that was the case, then the murders of Eriksson and Runfeldt were part of something much bigger. It didn’t necessarily mean that more people would die, but it definitely meant that Eriksson, Runfeldt, and the person who had killed them had to be looked for among a larger group of people. Some type of community — such as a group of mercenaries in a remote African war.
Wallander suddenly wished he had a cigarette. Even though it had been unusually easy for him to quit several years back, there were times when he wished he still smoked. He got out of the car and switched to the back seat. Changing seats was like changing perspective. He soon forgot the cigarettes and went back to what he was thinking about.
The most important thing was to find the connection between Eriksson and Runfeldt. He was convinced that there was one. They needed to know more about the two men. Outwardly they had very little in common. The differences began with their ages. They belonged to different generations. Eriksson could have been Runfeldt’s father. But somewhere there was a point at which their paths crossed. The search for that point had to be the focus of the investigation now. Wallander couldn’t see any other route to take.
His phone rang. It was Hoglund.
“Has something happened?” he asked.
“I have to admit I’m calling out of sheer curiosity,” she replied.
“The talk with Captain Hanzell was productive,” Wallander said. “One thing I’ve learned is that Harald Berggren could be living under an assumed name. Mercenaries often use false names when they sign their contracts or make verbal agreements.”
“That’s going to make it harder for us to find him.”
“That was my first thought, too. It’s like dropping the needle back into the haystack. But how many people actually change their names during their lifetimes? Even though it’s going to be a tedious task, it should be possible to check the records.”
“Where are you?”
“At the beach. In Nybrostrand.”
“What are you doing there?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m sitting in the car thinking.” He noticed the sharpness in his voice, as if he felt the need to defend himself. He wondered why.
“Then I won’t bother you,” she said.
“You’re not bothering me. I’m coming back now. I’m thinking of driving past Lodinge on the way.”
“Any special reason?”
“I need to refresh my memory. Later I’m going over to Runfeldt’s flat. I’ll try to be there by 3 p.m. Could you arrange for Vanja Andersson to meet me there?”
“I’ll see to it.”
Wallander drove towards Lodinge. In his mind the investigation had been given a sketchy outline.
When he turned into the driveway to Eriksson’s house, he was surprised to see two cars there. He wondered who the visitors could be. Reporters devoting an autumn day to taking pictures of a murder scene, perhaps? He had his answer as soon as he entered the courtyard. Standing there was a lawyer whom Wallander had met before. There were also two women, one elderly and one about Wallander’s age. The lawyer, whose name was Bjurman, shook hands and said hello.
“I’m overseeing Eriksson’s will,” he said. “We thought the police were finished with their investigations. I called and asked at the police station.”
“We won’t be finished until we catch the killer,” Wallander replied. “But I have nothing against you going through the house.”
Wallander remembered that Bjurman was Eriksson’s executor. The lawyer introduced Wallander to the two women. The older one shook his hand with disdain, as if it was beneath her dignity to have anything to do with the police. Wallander, who was extremely sensitive to people’s snobbery, was instantly annoyed, but he hid his feelings. The other woman was friendly.
“Mrs Martensson and Mrs von Fessler are from the Cultural Association in Lund. Mr Eriksson bequeathed most of his estate to the association. He kept a meticulous record of his property. We were just about to start going through everything.”
“Let me know if anything’s missing,” Wallander said. “Otherwise I won’t disturb you. I’m not staying long.”
“Is it true the police haven’t found the murderer?” said Mrs von Fessler, the older woman. Wallander assumed that she meant this as a criticism.
“That’s right,” he said. “The police have not.”
Knowing that he should end the conversation before he got angry, he turned and walked up to the house, where the front door stood open. To insulate himself from the conversation going on out in the courtyard, he shut the door behind him. A mouse raced right by his feet and disappeared behind an old wardrobe that stood against the wall. It’s autumn, thought Wallander. The field mice are making their way into the walls of the house. Winter is on its way.
He went through the house slowly. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular; he just wanted to memorise the house. It took him about 20 minutes. Bjurman and the two women were in one of the other two wings when he came outside again. Wallander decided to leave without saying anything. He looked out towards the fields as he walked to his car. The rooks were gone. Just as he reached the car he halted. Bjurman had said something — at first he couldn’t recall what it was. He retraced his steps. He pushed open the door, and beckoned to Bjurman.
“What was it you said about the will?” he asked.
“Holger Eriksson bequeathed most of his estate to the Cultural Association in Lund.”
“Most? So not everything is going to it?”
“There’s a bequest of 100,000 kronor to another beneficiary. That’s all.”
“What other beneficiary?”
“A church in Berg parish — Svenstavik Church. A gift, to be used in accordance with the wishes of the church authorities.”
Wallander had never heard of the place.
“Is Svenstavik in Skane?” he asked dubiously.
“It’s in southern Jamtland,” Bjurman replied. “Near the border of Harjadal.”
“What did Eriksson have to do with Svenstavik?” Wallander asked in surprise. “I thought he was born here in Ystad.”
“Unfortunately I have no information on that,” Bjurman replied. “Mr Eriksson was a very secretive man.”
“Did he give any explanation for the gift?”
“The will is an exemplary document, brief and precise. No explanations of an emotional nature are included. Svenstavik Church, according to his last wish, is to receive 100,000 kronor. And that is what it shall receive.”
When Wallander got back to his car he called the station. Ebba answered. She was the one he wanted to talk to.
“I want you to find the phone number for the parsonage at Svenstavik,” he said. “Or it might be in Ostersund. I assume that’s the nearest city.”
“Where is Svenstavik?” she asked.
“Don’t you know?” Wallander said. “It’s in southern Jamtland.”
“Very funny,” she replied.
“When you get the number, let me know,” he said. “I’m on my way to Runfeldt’s flat now.”
“Chief Holgersson wants to talk to you right away,” Ebba said. “Reporters keep calling here. But she’s postponed the press conference until 6.30 tonight.”
“That suits me,” Wallander said.
“Your sister called, too,” Ebba went on. “She’d like to talk to you before she goes back to Stockholm.”
The reminder of his father’s death was both swift and harsh, but he couldn’t give in to his feelings. At least not right now.
“I’ll call her,” he said. “But the parsonage in Svenstavik is top priority.”
On his way back to Ystad, he stopped and ate a flavourless hamburger at a takeaway restaurant. He was about to get back into his car, but then he turned back and ordered a hot dog. He ate quickly, as if he were committing an illegal act. Then he drove to Vastra Vallgatan. Hoglund’s old car was parked outside Runfeldt’s building.