It started to rain just after they left Hoor. By then Wallander had begun to doubt the whole undertaking. Was it really worth the trouble of driving all the way to Almhult? What did he actually think he would achieve? Yet deep down he had no doubts. What he wanted was not a solution, but to move a step further in the right direction.
Bo Runfeldt had been angry when Wallander had told him where they were going, asking if this was some kind of joke. What did his mother’s death have to do with the murder of his father?
“You and your sister seem reluctant to talk about what happened,” he said. “In a way, I can understand it. People don’t like to talk about a tragedy. But why don’t I believe that it’s the tragedy that makes you reluctant to talk about it? If you give me a good answer, we’ll turn around and drive back. And don’t forget, you’re the one who brought up your father’s brutality.”
“There you have my answer,” Runfeldt said. Wallander noticed an almost imperceptible change in his voice. A hint of a defence beginning to crumble.
Wallander cautiously probed deeper as they drove through the monotonous landscape.
“You said that your mother talked about committing suicide?”
It took a while before Runfeldt answered.
“It’s strange that she didn’t do it earlier. I don’t think you can imagine what hell she was forced to live in. I can’t. No-one can.”
“Why didn’t she divorce him?”
“He threatened to kill her if she left him. She had every reason to believe he would do it. I didn’t know anything back then, but later on I understood.”
“If the doctors suspect abuse, they’re obliged to report it to the police.”
“She always had an explanation, and she was convincing. She would say anything to protect him. She might say she was drunk and fell down. My mother never touched alcohol, but of course the doctors didn’t know that.”
The conversation died as Wallander overtook a bus. He noticed that Runfeldt seemed tense. Wallander wasn’t driving fast, but his passenger was clearly nervous in traffic.
“I think what kept her from committing suicide was my sister and me,” he said after a while.
“That’s natural,” Wallander replied. “Let’s go back to what you said earlier, that your father had threatened to kill your mother. When a man abuses a woman, he doesn’t usually intend to kill her. He does it to control her. Sometimes he hits too hard, and the abuse leads to death. But generally there’s a different reason for murder. It’s taking it one step further.”
Runfeldt replied with a surprising question.
“Are you married?”
“Not any more.”
“Did you ever hit your wife?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I just wondered.”
“We’re not talking about me here.”
Runfeldt was silent. Wallander remembered with horrifying clarity the time that he had struck Mona in a moment of uncontrollable rage. She had fallen, hit the back of her head against the doorframe, and blacked out for a few seconds. She almost packed her bags and left, but Linda was still so young. And Wallander had begged and pleaded. They had sat up all night. He had implored her, and in the end she had stayed. The incident was etched in his memory, but he couldn’t now recall what they had been fighting about. Where had the rage come from? He didn’t know. There were few things in his life that he was more ashamed of. He understood his own reluctance to be reminded of it.
“Let’s get back to that day ten years ago,” Wallander said. “What happened?”
“It was a Sunday,” Runfeldt said. “5 February 1984. It was a beautiful, cold winter’s day. They used to go out on excursions every Sunday, to walk in the woods, along the beach, or across the ice on the lake.”
“It sounds idyllic,” said Wallander. “How am I supposed to make this fit with what you said before?”
“It wasn’t idyllic. It was just the opposite. My mother was always terrified. I’m not exaggerating. She had long ago crossed the boundary where fear takes over and dominates your whole life. She must have been mentally exhausted. But he wanted to take a Sunday walk, and so they did. The threat of a clenched fist was ever present. I’m convinced that my father never saw her terror. He probably thought all was forgiven and forgotten each time. I assume he regarded his abuse of her to be chance incidents of rash behaviour. Hardly more than that.”
“I think I understand. So what happened?”
“Why they had gone to Smaland that Sunday, I don’t know. They parked on a logging road. It had been snowing, but it wasn’t particularly deep. They walked along the road to the lake, and out onto the ice. Suddenly it gave way and she fell in. He couldn’t pull her out. He ran to the car and went to get help. She was dead, of course, when they found her.”
“How did you hear about it?”
“He called me himself. I was in Stockholm at the time.”
“What do you remember of the phone conversation?”
“Naturally he was very upset.”
“In what way?”
“Can you be upset in more than one way?”
“Was he crying? Was he in shock? Try to describe it.”
“He wasn’t crying. I can only remember my father having tears in his eyes when he talked about rare orchids. It was more that he was trying to convince me he had done everything in his power to rescue her. But that shouldn’t be necessary, should it? If someone’s in trouble, you do everything you can to help, don’t you?”
“What else did he say?”
“He asked me to try to get hold of my sister.”
“So he called you first?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“We came down to Skane. Just like now. The funeral was a week later. I spoke to a policeman. He said that the ice must have been unexpectedly thin. My mother wasn’t a big person.”
“Is that what he said? The police officer you spoke to? That the ice must have been ‘unexpectedly thin’?”
“I have a good memory for detail. Maybe that’s why I’m an accountant.”
They passed a cafe and decided to stop. During the brief meal, Wallander asked Runfeldt about his work in international accounting. He listened without paying much attention. Instead, he went over their conversation in his mind. Something was important, but he couldn’t quite pin it down. As they were about to leave the cafe, his phone rang. It was Martinsson. Runfeldt stepped aside to give Wallander some privacy.
“We seem to be out of luck,” Martinsson said. “Of the officers who were working in Almhult ten years ago, one is dead and the other has retired to Orebro.”
Wallander was disappointed. Without a reliable informant, the trip would lose much of its purpose.
“I don’t even know how to find the lake,” he complained. “Aren’t there any ambulance drivers? Wasn’t the fire department called in to pull her out?”
“I’ve located the man who offered to help Gosta Runfeldt,” said Martinsson. “I know his name and where he lives. The problem is that he doesn’t have a phone.”
“Is there really somebody in this country today who doesn’t have a phone?”
“Apparently. Do you have a pen?”
Wallander searched his pockets. As usual he didn’t have either a pen or paper. He waved over Runfeldt, who handed Wallander a gold-plated pen and one of his business cards.
“Jacob Hoslowski,” Martinsson said. “He’s an eccentric man who lives alone in a cottage not far from Stang Lake, which is due north of Almhult. I talked to a woman at the Town Hall who said that there’s a sign to Stang Lake next to his driveway. But she couldn’t give me exact directions. You’ll have to stop at a house and ask.”
“Do we have somewhere to stay overnight?”
“IKEA has a hotel, and you have rooms reserved.”
“Doesn’t IKEA sell furniture?”
“Yes, they do. But they also have a hotel. The IKEA Inn.”
“Anything happening?”
“Everyone’s really busy, but it sounds as if Hamren’s coming down from Stockholm to help out.”
Wallander remembered the two police detectives from Stockholm who had assisted them during the summer. He had nothing against having them again.