“Holger Eriksson?” Svedberg suggested.
Wallander nodded. She searched. Nothing.
“Just browse through the directory at random,” said Wallander.
“Here’s a man named Lennart Skoglund,” she said. “Should we try him?”
“That’s Nacka, damn it!” Svedberg exclaimed. “There’s a famous soccer player named Lennart Skoglund,” said Svedberg. “His nickname is Nacka. Haven’t you heard of him?”
Wallander nodded. Hoglund didn’t know who he was.
“Lennart Skoglund sounds like a common name,” Wallander said. “Let’s look him up.”
She pulled up the record on him. Wallander squinted his eyes and managed to read the brief text.
Lennart Skoglund. Started June 1994. Ended 19 August 1994. No steps taken. Case closed.
“What does that mean?” Svedberg wondered.
“It’s almost like one of us had written it,” Hoglund said.
At that instant Wallander knew what the explanation might be. He thought about the technical equipment Runfeldt had bought. And about the darkroom, and the secret office. The whole thing had seemed improbable, yet now, as they stood leaning over the directory, likely.
Wallander stretched his back.
“The question is whether Runfeldt was interested in other things besides orchids. The question is whether Runfeldt might also have been a private detective. Go through everything you find here. Keep your eyes peeled and don’t forget Eriksson. And I want one of you to get hold of Vanja Andersson. Without knowing it, she might have seen or heard things that have to do with this little operation. I’m going back to the station to talk to Runfeldt’s children.”
“What do we do about the press conference?” Hoglund asked. “I promised to be there.”
“It’s better if you stay here.”
Svedberg offered his car keys to Wallander, who shook his head.
“I’ll get my own car. I need a walk anyway.”
When he reached the street he regretted it at once. The wind was strong and it seemed to be getting colder all the time. He hesitated a moment, wondering whether to go home and get a warmer jumper. But he was in a hurry, and he was uneasy. They had made some new discoveries, but they didn’t fit into the picture. Why had Runfeldt been a private detective? Wallander hurried through town and got his car. The fuel gauge was showing empty, but he didn’t have time to get petrol. His uneasiness made him impatient.
He reached the police station just before 4.30 p.m. Ebba handed him a pile of phone messages, which he stuffed into his jacket pocket. When he got to his office he called Chief Holgersson. She reminded him about the press conference. Wallander promised to take care of it. It wasn’t something he liked to do. He was too easily annoyed by what he regarded as impertinent questions from the reporters. On several occasions there had been complaints about his lack of cooperation, even from Stockholm. This had brought home to Wallander that he was known outside his own circle of colleagues and friends. For better or worse, he had become part of Sweden’s national police force.
He gave the chief a quick outline of the discovery of Runfeldt’s office, not mentioning his idea that Runfeldt had been operating as a private detective. Then he hung up and called Hansson. Runfeldt’s daughter was in his office. They agreed to meet briefly out in the hall.
“I’ve interviewed the son,” Hansson said. “He’s back at the Hotel Sekelgarden.”
Wallander nodded.
“Any luck?”
“Not much. He confirmed the picture of Runfeldt as a man passionately interested in orchids.”
“And his mother? Runfeldt’s wife?”
“A tragic accident. You want the details?”
“Not now. What does the daughter say?”
“I was just about to talk to her. It took some time with the son. I’m trying to do this as thoroughly as I can. The son lives in Arvika, by the way, and the daughter in Eskilstuna.”
Wallander looked at his watch. He should be preparing for the press conference, but he could talk to the daughter for a few minutes first.
“Do you have any objections if I start by asking her a few questions?”
“No, go right ahead.”
“I don’t have time to explain right now, and the questions might sound strange to you.”
They went into Hansson’s office. The woman sitting there was young — Wallander guessed no more than 23 or 24. He could see that she resembled her father. She stood up when he came in, and Wallander smiled and shook her hand. Hansson leaned against the doorframe while Wallander sat in his chair.
Hansson had written down a name, Lena Lonnerwall. Wallander gave Hansson a quick glance, and he nodded. He took off his jacket and put it on the floor next to the chair. She followed his movements with her eyes the whole time.
“I should start by saying how sorry we are at what’s happened,” he said. “My condolences.”
“Thank you.”
Wallander could see that she was composed. She wasn’t about to burst into tears, he noted with some relief.
“Your name is Lena Lonnerwall and you live in Eskilstuna,” Wallander said. “You are the daughter of Gosta Runfeldt.”
“That’s correct.”
“All the other personal information that is unfortunately necessary will be taken by Inspector Hansson. I have only a few questions. Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your profession?”
“I’m a basketball coach.”
Wallander pondered her answer.
“Does that mean you’re a PE teacher?”
“It means I’m a basketball coach.”
Wallander nodded. He left the follow-up questions to Hansson. He had never met a female basketball coach before.
“Your father was a florist?”
“Yes.”
“All his life?”
“In his youth he went to sea. When he and my mother got married he stayed ashore.”
“And your mother was drowned?”
“That’s right.”
The instant of hesitation that preceded her reply hadn’t escaped Wallander.
“How long ago did that happen?”
“About ten years ago. I was just 13.”
Wallander sensed that she was anxious. He continued cautiously.
“Can you give me a little more detail about what happened, and where?”
“Does this really have something to do with my father?”
“It’s police routine to ask for background information,” said Wallander, trying to sound authoritative. Hansson stared at him in amazement from his place by the door.
“I don’t know that much about it,” she said.
Wrong, thought Wallander. You know, but you don’t want to talk about it.
“Tell me what you do know,” he said.
“It was in the winter. For some reason they took a drive out to Almhult to take a walk one Sunday. She fell through a hole in the ice. My father tried to save her. But it was no use.”
Wallander sat motionless. He was thinking about what she had said. Something was related to the investigation they were working on. Then it occurred to him what it was. It wasn’t about Runfeldt, but about Eriksson. A man falls into a hole in the ground and is impaled. Lena Lonnerwall’s mother falls through a hole in the ice. Wallander’s instinct told him that there was a connection, but he couldn’t say what it was. Or why the woman sitting across from him didn’t want to talk about her mother’s death.
He left the accident and moved on.
“Your father had a florist’s shop, and he had a passion for orchids.”
“That’s the first thing I remember about him. The way he told me and my brother about flowers.”
“Why was he such a passionate orchid lover?”
“Why does anyone become passionate about something? Can you answer that?”
Wallander shook his head without replying.
“Did you know that your father was a private detective?”
Over by the door Hansson gave a start. Wallander kept his gaze steady on the woman in front of him. Her astonishment seemed genuine.
“My father was a private detective?”
“Yes. Didn’t you know that?”