“How can we find Mrs Svensson?” Svedberg asked.
“We’ll put a tap on the phone and go through all the papers thoroughly,” Wallander said. “We’ll find her somewhere. I’m sure of that. I might leave it to you two, while I go and have a talk with Runfeldt’s son.”
The town seemed deserted. He parked near the post office, and stepped out into the wind again. He saw himself as a pathetic figure, a police officer in a thin jumper, battling the wind in a desolate Swedish town in the autumn. The Swedish criminal justice system, he thought. Or what’s left of it. This is how it looks. Freezing officers in flimsy jumpers.
He turned left at the Savings Bank and walked to the Hotel Sekelgarden. He checked the son’s name — Bo Runfeldt. Wallander nodded to the young man at the reception desk, and realised that he was the oldest son of Bjork their former police chief.
“It’s been a long time,” Wallander said. “How’s your father?”
“He’s unhappy in Malmo.”
He’s not unhappy in Malmo, Wallander thought. He’s unhappy with his new job.
“What are you reading?” asked Wallander.
“About fractals.”
“Fractals?”
“It’s a mathematical term. I’m at Lund University. This is just a part-time job.”
“That sounds good,” Wallander said. “I’m here to talk to one of your guests, Bo Runfeldt.”
“He just came in.”
“Is there somewhere that we can sit and talk in private?”
“We don’t have many guests,” the boy said. “You can sit in the breakfast room.”
He pointed towards the hall.
“I’ll wait there,” said Wallander. “Please call his room and tell him that I’m here to see him.”
“I read the paper,” the boy said. “Why is it that everything is getting so much worse?”
Wallander looked at him with interest.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Worse. More brutal.”
“I don’t know,” Wallander replied. “I honestly don’t know why things have got so bad. At the same time, I don’t really believe what I just said. I think I do know. I think everybody knows why things are this way.”
Bjork’s son wanted to continue the discussion, but Wallander raised his hand to cut him off and pointed to the phone. Then he went into the breakfast room and sat down. He thought about the unfinished conversation. He knew quite well what the explanation was. The Sweden that was his, the country he had grown up in, that was built after the war, was not as solid as they had thought. Under the surface was quagmire. Even back then the high-rise buildings that had been erected were described as “inhuman”. How could people who lived there be expected to keep their “humanity”? Society had grown cruel. People who felt they were unwanted or unwelcome in their own country, reacted with aggression. There was no such thing as meaningless violence. Every violent act had a meaning for the person who committed it. Only when you dared accept this truth could you hope to turn society in another direction.
He also asked himself how it would be possible to be a police officer as things got worse. Many of his colleagues were seriously considering finding other occupations. Martinsson had talked about it, Hansson had mentioned it once. And a few years ago Wallander had cut out an ad for security personnel at a large company in Trelleborg from the paper. He wondered what Ann-Britt thought. She was still young. She could be a police officer for 30 years or more. He would ask her. He needed to know in order to see how he was going to stand it himself.
At the same time he knew that the picture he was drawing was incomplete. Among young people the interest in police jobs had risen sharply in the past few years, and the increase seemed to be steady.
Back in the early 1990s he had often sat on Rydberg’s balcony on warm, summer evenings and talked of the future. They continued their discussions even during Rydberg’s illness and his last days. They never reached any conclusions, but one thing they did agree on was that police work ultimately had to do with being able to decipher the signs of the times. To understand change and interpret trends in society. And for this reason perhaps the younger generation of police officers were better equipped to deal with modern society.
Now Wallander knew that he had been mistaken about one essential fact. It was no harder being a police officer today than it was in the past. It was harder for him, but that was not the same thing.
Wallander’s thoughts were interrupted when he heard steps in the hall. He stood up and greeted Bo Runfeldt. He was a tall, well-built man of about 27 or 28. He had a strong handshake. Wallander invited him to sit down, realising that as usual he had forgotten to bring his notebook. It was doubtful whether he even had a pen. He considered going out to the front desk to borrow some from Bjork’s son, but decided against it. He would have to rely on his memory. His carelessness was inexcusable, and it annoyed him.
“Let me start by offering my condolences,” Wallander began.
Bo Runfeldt nodded. He didn’t say anything. His eyes were an intense blue, his gaze rather squinting. Wallander wondered if he was short-sighted.
“I know you’ve had a long conversation with my colleague, Inspector Hansson,” Wallander continued. “But I need to ask you a few questions myself.”
Runfeldt remained silent behind his piercing gaze.
“You live in Arvika,” said Wallander. “And you’re an accountant.”
“I work for Price Waterhouse,” said Runfeldt. His voice indicated a person who was used to expressing himself.
“That doesn’t sound Swedish.”
“It’s not. Price Waterhouse is one of the world’s largest accounting firms. It’s easier to list the countries where we don’t do business than where we do.”
“But you work in Sweden?”
“Not all the time. I often have assignments in Africa and Asia.”
“Do they need accountants from Sweden?”
“Not just from Sweden, but from Price Waterhouse. We audit many relief projects. To ensure the money has ended up where it’s supposed to.”
“And does it?”
“Not always. Is this really relevant to what happened to my father?”
Wallander could see that Bo Runfeldt was finding it difficult to hide his feeling that talking to a policeman was beneath his dignity. Under normal circumstances Wallander would have reacted angrily, but something made him hold back. He wondered fleetingly whether it was because he had inherited the submissiveness that his father had so often exhibited in his life, especially towards the men who had come in their shiny American cars to buy his paintings. Maybe that was his inheritance: a feeling of inferiority.
He regarded the man with the blue eyes.
“Your father was murdered,” he said. “Right now I’m the one who decides which questions are relevant.”
Bo Runfeldt shrugged. “I have to admit that I don’t know much about police work.”
“I spoke to your sister earlier,” Wallander continued. “One question I asked her may have great significance, and I’m going to ask you too. Did you know that your father, besides being a florist, worked as a private detective?”
Runfeldt burst out laughing.
“That’s got to be the most idiotic thing I’ve heard in a long time,” he said.
“Idiotic or not, it’s true.”
“A private detective?”
“Private investigator, if you prefer. He had an office. He took on various assignments. He’d been doing it for at least ten years.”
Runfeldt saw that Wallander was serious. His surprise was genuine.
“He must have started his business about the same time that your mother died.”
Wallander noticed an almost imperceptible shift in his features, as though he had encroached on an area that he really should have kept out of. It was the same reaction that the daughter had had.