“What do you mean, gone?”
“She had taken the car and driven off. Later I called several times, but nobody answered. But this morning I got a letter. I read it before I drove over to the hospital. It’s from Karlhammar’s wife. And if what she says is correct, then it makes very interesting reading.”
“Sum it up for us,” Wallander said. “Then you can make copies.”
“She claims that Eriksson showed signs of sadism many times in his life. He treated his employees badly. He would harass anyone who quit. She repeats over and over that she could provide as many examples as we need to prove this is true.”
Svedberg scanned the letter.
“She says that he had little respect for other people. Towards the end of the letter she indicates that he made trips to Poland quite often. Apparently to visit some women there. According to Mrs Karlhammar, they would be able to tell us stories too. It might all be gossip. How would she know about what he did in Poland?”
“She doesn’t say anything about him being homosexual?” asked Wallander.
“No. And this part about the trips to Poland certainly doesn’t give that impression.”
“And Karlhammar had never heard of anyone named Harald Berggren, I suppose?”
“No.”
Wallander felt a need to get up and stretch his legs. What Svedberg had said about the contents of the letter was important, without a doubt. He realised that this was the second time in 24 hours that he’d heard a man described as brutal.
He suggested a break so they could get some air. Akeson stayed behind.
“It’s all set now. With the Sudan, I mean.”
Wallander felt a pang of jealousy. Akeson had made a decision and dared to resign. Why didn’t he do the same thing himself? Why did he settle for looking for a new house? Now that his father was gone, he had nothing to keep him here. Linda could take care of herself.
“They don’t need any policemen to keep order among the refugees, do they? I’ve had some experience in that field here in Ystad.”
Akeson laughed.
“I can ask. Swedish policemen usually go into the UN special forces. There’s nothing to stop you from putting in an application.”
“Right now I’ve got a murder investigation to take care of. Maybe later. When are you leaving?”
“Between Christmas and New Year. It’ll be great to get away. Sometimes I think I might never come back. I’ll never get to sail to the West Indies in a boat I built myself, but I am going to the Sudan. And I have no idea what’ll happen after that.”
“Everybody dreams about escape,” Wallander said. “People in Sweden are always looking for the next paradise. Sometimes I think I don’t even recognise my own country any more.”
“Maybe I’m escaping too. But the Sudan is no paradise, believe me.”
“At least you’re doing the right thing by trying. I hope you write once in a while. I’ll miss you.”
“That’s actually something I’m looking forward to. Writing personal letters, not just official ones. Maybe that way I’ll figure out how many friends I actually have: the ones who answer the letters I hope to write.”
The short break was over. They all sat down again.
“Let’s switch over to Gosta Runfeldt,” Wallander said.
Hoglund described their discovery of the room on Harpegatan and the fact that Runfeldt was a private detective. After the photographs that Nyberg had developed had made their way around the table, Wallander told them about his conversation with Runfeldt’s son. He noticed that the investigative team were now concentrating in a way that they hadn’t been when the long meeting had begun.
“I can’t shake the feeling that we’re close to something crucial,” Wallander concluded. “We’re still seeking a point of contact. What could be the significance of both Eriksson and Runfeldt having been described as brutal? And why has this never come out before?”
He broke off to allow for comments and questions. No-one said a word.
“It’s time we started digging deeper,” he went on. “All the material has to be run back and forth between these two men. It’s Martinsson’s job to see that this gets done. There are a number of items that seem particularly important. I’m thinking about Runfeldt’s wife’s death. I’ve got the feeling that this might be crucial. And there’s the money that Eriksson donated to the church in Svenstavik. I’ll take care of that myself. Which means it might be necessary to take a few trips.”
“Where’s Svenstavik?” Hansson asked.
“In southern Jamtland. About 50 kilometres from the border of Harjadal.”
“What did Eriksson have to do with that place? He was from Skane, wasn’t he?”
“That’s precisely what we have to find out,” said Wallander. “Why did he choose that particular church to leave money to? There must have been some definite reason.”
They had been in the meeting for several hours when Wallander brought up the question of more manpower.
“I have nothing against getting reinforcements. We have plenty to investigate, and it’s going to take a lot of time.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Chief Holgersson said.
Akeson nodded without saying anything. In all the years Wallander had worked with him, he had never known Akeson to speak unnecessarily. Wallander supposed that this would be an advantage in the Sudan.
“On the other hand, I doubt we need a psychologist,” Wallander continued. “I’m the first to agree that Mats Ekholm, who was here in the summer, was helpful. But the situation is different with this case. My suggestion is that we send summaries of the investigative material to him and ask for his comments. Let’s leave it at that for now.”
They adjourned the meeting at just past 1 p.m. Wallander left the station hastily. The long meeting had left him feeling heavy-headed. He drove to one of the restaurants in the town centre. As he ate, he tried to decide what had actually developed during the meeting. Since he kept coming back to the question of what had happened at the lake outside Almhult ten years ago, he decided to follow his intuition. When he finished eating he called the Hotel Sekelgarden. Bo Runfeldt was in his room. Wallander asked the receptionist to tell him he was coming over shortly. Then he drove back to the police station. He found Martinsson and Hansson and took them to his office. He asked Hansson to call Svenstavik.
“What am I supposed to ask?”
“Get straight to the point. Why did Eriksson make this bequest to them? Was he looking for forgiveness of his sins? If so, what sins? And if they mention confidentiality, tell them we need the information so we can try to prevent more murders.”
“You really want me to ask if he was looking for forgiveness for his sins?”
Wallander burst out laughing. “Yes, if necessary. Find out whatever you can. I think I’ll take Bo Runfeldt with me to Almhult. Ask Ebba to book us a couple of hotel rooms there.”
Martinsson seemed doubtful. “What do you think you’re going to discover by looking at a lake?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Wallander replied. “But the trip will at least give me time to talk to Runfeldt. I’ve got a hunch there’s some hidden information that’s important for us, and that we can get it if we’re persistent enough. We have to scrape hard enough to break through the surface. And there might be someone who was there at the time of the accident. I want you to do some background work. Call up our colleagues in Almhult. It happened about ten years ago. You can find out the exact date from the daughter. A drowning accident. I’ll give you a call when I get there.”
The wind was still gusting when Wallander walked out to his car. He drove down to the Sekelgarden and went into reception. Bo Runfeldt was waiting for him.
“Get your overcoat,” Wallander said. “We’re going on a field trip.”
“Where to?”
“Once you’re in the car I’ll tell you all about it.”
Not until they had passed the turn off to Hoor did Wallander tell him where they were going.
CHAPTER 19