Hamren searched through the papers. He shook his head and left the room. When he came back he had another stack of papers in his hand. Finally he found what he was looking for.
“One of the witnesses claimed it was a dark blue Chevrolet. He was positive about it. There was a taxi in Svenstavik that was the same make only it was light blue.”
Wallander nodded. “Svenstavik and Lodinge are a long way from each other,” he said softly. “But I seem to remember that Holger Eriksson was selling Chevrolets back then. Is it possible that Eriksson made the long drive to Svenstavik, and that Krista Haberman went back with him?”
He turned to Svedberg.
“Did Eriksson own his farm then?”
Svedberg nodded.
Wallander looked around the room.
“Eriksson was impaled in a pungee pit,” he said. “If the murderer takes the lives of his or her victims in a way that mirrors crimes that were committed earlier, then I think we can imagine our way to a very unpleasant conclusion.”
He wished he was mistaken, but he doubted that he was.
“I think we have to start searching Eriksson’s fields,” he said. “Krista Haberman might be buried there somewhere.”
CHAPTER 32
They went out to the farm in the early dawn. Wallander took Nyberg, Hamren and Hansson along with him. They all drove separately, Wallander in his own car, which was finally back from Almhult. They parked at the entrance to the empty house, which stood like a deserted ship out there in the fog.
On that particular morning, Thursday, 20 October, the fog was thick. It had come in from the sea and now lay motionless over the landscape. They had agreed to meet at 6.30 a.m., but they were all late because visibility was practically nil. Wallander was the last to arrive. When he got out of his car it occurred to him that it looked like a hunting club had gathered. The only thing missing was their guns. He was dreading the task that awaited them. Somewhere on Eriksson’s property a murdered woman might lie buried. Whatever they found — if they found anything at all — would be skeletal remains. Nothing else, 27 years was a long time.
Shivering, they greeted each other. Hansson had brought a surveyor’s map of the farm and the adjacent fields. Wallander wondered fleetingly what the Cultural Association of Lund would think if they really did find the remains of a body. It would probably increase the number of visitors to the farm, he thought gloomily. There were few tourist attractions that could compete with the scene of a crime.
They spread the map out on the bonnet of Nyberg’s car and gathered around it.
“In 1967 the fields were laid out differently,” Hansson said, pointing. “Eriksson didn’t buy all the fields to the south until the mid-1970s.”
This reduced the relevant area of land by a third, but what remained was still large. They would never be able to dig up the whole area.
“The fog is making things harder for us,” Wallander said. “I thought we could try to get an overview of the terrain. It seems to me that it should be possible to eliminate certain areas. I assume that a person would choose the spot carefully for burying someone he killed.”
“You’d probably pick the spot where you thought it least likely anyone would look,” Nyberg said. “A study was done on it. In the US, of course. But it sounds reasonable.”
“It’s a big area,” Hansson said.
“That’s why we have to make it smaller,” Wallander said. “Nyberg is right. He wouldn’t bury her just anywhere. I imagine, for instance, that you wouldn’t want a body lying in the ground right outside your front door. Unless you’re completely insane, and there’s nothing to indicate that Eriksson was.”
“Besides, there are cobblestones there,” Hansson said. “I think we can eliminate the courtyard.”
They went up to the farmhouse. Wallander wondered whether they should return to Ystad and come back when the fog was gone. Since there was no wind, it could last all day. In the end he decided that they should spend a while trying to gain an overview.
They walked over to the large garden that lay behind the house. The soft ground was covered with fallen, rotten apples. A magpie fluttered up from a tree. They stopped and looked around. Not here either, Wallander thought. A man who murders someone in the city and has only his garden might bury the body there, but not a man who lives out in the country.
He told the others what he was thinking. No-one had any objections.
They started walking out to the fields. The fog was still thick. Hares popped up against all the whiteness and then vanished. They headed towards the northern border of the property.
“A dog wouldn’t be able to find anything, I guess?” Hamren asked.
“Not after 27 years,” Nyberg replied.
The mud was sticking to their gumboots. They tried to balance their way along the narrow ridges of mown grass that formed the boundary of Eriksson’s property. A rusty hoe stood mired in the earth. It wasn’t just their task that bothered Wallander. The fog and the damp grey earth also oppressed him. He was fond of the landscape of Skane, where he had been born and raised, but he could do without the autumn. At least on days like this.
They reached a pond that lay in a hollow. Hansson pointed on the map to where they were. They looked at the pond. It was about 100 metres wide.
“This is full of water all year round,” Nyberg said. “At the middle it’s probably between two and three metres deep.”
“It’s a possibility, of course,” Wallander said. “He could have sunk the body with weights.”
“Or a sack,” Hansson said.
Wallander nodded. There was the mirror image again. But he wasn’t sure.
“A body can float to the surface. Would Eriksson choose to sink a corpse in a pond when he has thousands of square metres of land to dig a grave in?”
“Who actually worked all this land?” Hansson asked. “Surely not Eriksson. He didn’t have it leased out. But this land is well tended.” Hansson had grown up on a farm outside of Ystad and knew what he was talking about.
“That’s an important question,” Wallander said. “We have to find out.”
“It might also give us the answer to another question,” Hamren said. “Whether any changes have occurred on the land. If you dig in one place, a mound appears somewhere else. I’m not thinking about a grave. But a ditch, for example. Or something else.”
“We’re talking about something that happened almost 30 years ago,” Nyberg said. “Who would remember that far back?”
“It happens,” Wallander said. “But of course we’ll have to look into it. So who worked Holger Eriksson’s land?”
“There could well have been more than one person,” Hansson said.
“Then we’ll talk to all of them,” Wallander replied. “If we can find them. If they’re still alive.”
They moved on. Wallander remembered that he had seen several old aerial photographs of the farm inside the house. He asked Hansson to call the Cultural Association in Lund and get someone to bring the keys out.
“It’s unlikely anyone would be there this early in the morning.”
“Call Hoglund,” Wallander said. “Ask her to contact the lawyer who was the executor of Eriksson’s will. He might still have a set of keys.”
“Lawyers might be morning people,” Hansson said doubtfully as he dialled the number.
“I want to see those aerial shots,” Wallander said. “As soon as possible.”
They kept walking while Hansson talked to Hoglund. The field now sloped downwards. The fog was still just as thick. In the distance they heard a tractor engine dying away. Hansson’s phone rang. Hoglund had spoken to the lawyer. He had turned in his keys. She was trying to get hold of someone in Lund who could help. She would get back to them.
It took them almost 20 minutes to reach the next boundary marker. Hansson pointed to the map. They were now at the southwest corner. The property stretched another 500 metres, but Eriksson hadn’t bought this section until 1976. They walked east, now approaching the ditch and the hill with the bird tower. Wallander felt his uneasiness growing. He thought he could sense the same silent reaction from the others.