Wallander knew she was right. Hansson had many bad traits, but one of his best skills was interviewing witnesses. Gathering information. Interviewing parents about their children. Or vice versa, as in this case.
Wallander told Hoglund about his conversation with Hanzell, skipping a lot of the details. The most important part was his conclusion that Berggren might be living under a different name. He had mentioned it when they had spoken earlier. He noticed that she had been thinking more about this.
“If he changed his name legally we can track it down through the Registry Office,” she said.
“A mercenary soldier wouldn’t follow such a formal process,” Wallander objected. “But of course we’ll look into it, like everything else. It’ll be time-consuming.”
He told her about his meeting with the women from Lund and the lawyer at Eriksson’s farm.
“My husband and I drove through the interior of Norrland once,” she said. “I have a distinct memory of passing through Svenstavik.”
“Ebba should have called to give me the number of the parsonage,” Wallander remembered, taking his phone out of his pocket. It was turned off. He cursed his carelessness. Hoglund couldn’t conceal her amusement. Wallander realised he was acting like a child. Embarrassed, he called the police station. He borrowed a pen and wrote down the number. Ebba had tried to reach him several times.
At that moment, Svedberg came into the living room with a stack of papers in his hand. Wallander saw that they were receipts.
“This might be something,” Svedberg said. “Runfeldt has a place on Harpegatan. He pays rent once a month. As far as I can tell, he keeps it totally separate from any payments that have to do with the shop.”
“Harpegatan?” Hoglund asked. “Where’s that?”
“Over by Nattmanstorg,” Wallander replied. “Right in the centre of town.”
“Has Vanja Andersson ever mentioned that he had another place?”
“The question is whether she knew about it,” said Wallander. “I’ll find out right now.”
Wallander left the flat and walked the short distance to the shop. He bent over and held his breath in the wind. Vanja Andersson was alone. As before, the scent of flowers was strong. A brief feeling of homelessness came over Wallander as he thought about Rome, and his father. But he pushed the thoughts aside. He was a policeman. He would grieve later, not now.
“I have a question,” he said. “You can probably give me a straight yes-or-no answer.”
She looked at him with her pale, frightened face. Certain people gave the impression of always being prepared for the worst. Vanja Andersson seemed to be one of those people. Right now he could hardly blame her.
“Did you know that Mr Runfeldt rented a place on Harpegatan?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Are you sure?”
“Gosta didn’t have any other place but this one.”
Wallander suddenly felt in a big hurry.
“That’s all then,” he said. “Thanks.”
When he got back to the flat, Svedberg and Hoglund had gathered all the keys they could find. They took Svedberg’s car to Harpegatan. It was an ordinary block of flats. Runfeldt’s name wasn’t on the list of residents in the entrance.
“I think it’s in the basement,” said Svedberg.
They made their way down to the floor below. Wallander noticed the sharp fragrance of winter apples. Svedberg started trying the keys. The twelfth one worked. They went into a hall from which red, steel doors led to what looked like storerooms.
Hoglund was the one who found it.
“I think this is it,” she said, pointing to a door.
Wallander and Svedberg went to stand next to her. On the door there was a sticker with a floral motif.
“An orchid,” Svedberg said.
“A secret room,” Wallander replied.
Svedberg tried the keys again. Wallander noticed that an extra lock was set into the door.
Finally the first lock clicked. Wallander felt the tension inside him swell. Svedberg kept on trying the keys. He had only two left when he looked at them and nodded.
“Let’s go in,” Wallander said.
Svedberg opened the door.
CHAPTER 16
The terror sank into Wallander like a claw. When the thought came it was already too late. Svedberg had opened the door. In that brief instant when terror replaced time, Wallander waited for the explosion to come. But all that happened was that Svedberg felt with one hand along the wall and muttered, wondering where the light switch was. Afterwards, Wallander felt embarrassment at his fear. Why would Runfeldt have booby-trapped his cellar?
Svedberg turned on the light. They entered the room and looked around. Since it was under ground, there was only a thin row of windows along the top of the wall. The first thing Wallander noticed was that the windows had iron gratings on the inside. That was unusual, something Runfeldt must have added himself.
The room was set up as an office. There was a desk, and filing cabinets along the walls. On a small table next to the wall stood a coffee maker and some cups. The room had a telephone, fax machine, and photocopier.
“Should we look around or wait for Nyberg?” Svedberg asked.
Wallander heard him, but waited to reply. He was still trying to understand his first impressions. Why had Runfeldt rented this room? Why hadn’t Vanja Andersson known about it? And most important: what did he use the room for?
“No bed,” Svedberg continued. “It doesn’t seem to be a love nest.”
“No woman could get romantic down here,” Hoglund said.
Wallander still hadn’t answered Svedberg. The most important question was why Runfeldt had kept this office secret. It was an office, there was no doubt about that.
He let his gaze wander along the walls. There was another door. He nodded to Svedberg, who walked over and tried the handle. The door was open. He looked inside.
“It looks like a darkroom,” Svedberg said.
Wallander wondered if there could be a simple reason for this space. Runfeldt took a lot of photographs. He had a big collection of orchid photographs from all over the world in his flat. Wallander and Hoglund went and looked over Svedberg’s shoulder. It was indeed a tiny darkroom. Wallander decided they didn’t have to wait for Nyberg. They could go through the room themselves.
The first thing he looked for was a suitcase, but there wasn’t one. Next he sat down at the desk and started leafing through the papers on the desk. Svedberg and Hoglund concentrated on the filing cabinets. Wallander remembered vaguely that Rydberg, way back in the beginning, on one of those frequent evenings when they sat on his balcony drinking whisky, had said that the work of a policeman and an auditor was quite similar. They spent a good deal of their time going through papers. If that’s correct, then right now I’m auditing a dead man, he thought.
Wallander pulled out one of the desk drawers and found a laptop computer. Wallander’s computer literacy was limited. He often had to ask for help with the computer in his office. Both Svedberg and Hoglund were comfortable with computers and viewed them as essential working tools.
“Let’s see what’s hiding in here,” he said, lifting the computer onto the desk.
He got up from the chair. Hoglund sat down. After a moment the screen lit up. Svedberg was still going through one of the filing cabinets.
“No passwords,” she muttered. “I’m in.”
Wallander leaned forward to watch, so closely that he could smell the discreet perfume she wore. He thought about his eyes. He couldn’t wait any longer. He had to get reading glasses.
“It’s a directory,” she said. “A list of names.”
“See if Harald Berggren is on it,” Wallander said.
She shot him a look of astonishment.
“You think?”
“I don’t think anything. But we can try.”
Svedberg had left the filing cabinet and now stood next to Wallander while Hoglund searched through the directory. Then she shook her head.