It was turning into an image of his life, he thought. My life as a policeman during the last part of the 20th century in Sweden. An early morning, dawn. Autumn, fog, a damp chill. Four men slogging around in the mud. They approach a ditch where a man was trapped, impaled on bamboo stakes. At the same time they’re searching for the burial site of a Polish woman who disappeared 27 years ago.
I’m going to end up trudging around in this mud until I collapse. Out there in the fog people are huddled around their kitchen tables, organising vigilante militias. Anyone who takes a wrong turn in the fog runs the risk of being beaten to death.
He was carrying on a conversation with Rydberg as he walked along. He saw Rydberg sitting on his balcony towards the end of his illness. The balcony hovered before Wallander’s eyes like an airship in the fog. Rydberg didn’t speak, but listened to Wallander with a wry smile, his face already heavily marked by illness.
They reached the pungee pit. A torn remnant of crimescene tape was caught under one of the collapsed planks. We didn’t clean up very well, Wallander thought. The bamboo stakes were gone. He wondered where they were. In the basement of the police station? At the forensic laboratory in Linkoping? The tower was on their right, barely visible in the fog.
Wallander took a few steps to the side and nearly slipped in the mud. Nyberg stood staring into the ditch. Hamren and Hansson were discussing a detail on the map in low voices.
Someone keeps an eye on Holger Eriksson and his farm, thought Wallander, an idea developing slowly in his mind. This person knows what happened to Krista Haberman, a woman, missing for 27 years, declared dead — a woman who is buried here somewhere. Eriksson’s time is being measured out. A grave with sharpened stakes is prepared. Another grave in the mud.
He went over to Hamren and Hansson. He told them what he’d just been thinking. Nyberg had disappeared in the fog.
“Let’s assume that the killer knew where Krista Haberman was buried. On several occasions we’ve talked about the murderer having a language — that he or she is trying to tell us something. We’ve only had partial success in breaking the code. Eriksson was killed with what can only be described as deliberate brutality. His body was intended to be found. It’s also possible that this place was chosen for another reason, as a challenge to us to keep searching right here. And if we do, we’ll also find Krista Haberman.”
Nyberg reappeared out of the fog. Wallander repeated what he’d said. They made their way over the ditch and up to the tower. The woods below were shrouded in fog.
“Too many roots,” Nyberg said. “I don’t think it’s that grove of trees.”
They turned around and continued eastwards until they were back where they had started. It was close to 8 a.m., and the fog was just as thick. Hoglund called to say that the keys were on the way. Everyone was cold and wet. Wallander didn’t want to keep them there unnecessarily. Hansson would devote the next few hours trying to find out who had worked the land.
“An unexpected change 27 years ago,” Wallander emphasised. “That’s what we want to know about. But don’t mention that we think there’s a body buried here. Then there’ll be an invasion.”
Hansson nodded. He understood.
“We’ll go over this again sometime when there’s no fog,” Wallander continued. “But I think it’s useful to have been out here already.”
They all left. Wallander remained behind. He got into his car and turned on the heater. It didn’t seem to be working. The repairs had cost an incredible amount of money, but apparently didn’t cover the heating system. He wondered when he’d have the time and money to trade it in for another car. When was this one going to fall apart again?
He waited, thinking about the women. Krista Haberman, Eva Runfeldt, and Katarina Taxell. Plus the fourth one who didn’t have a name. What was the common point of contact? He had a feeling it was so close that he was looking at it without seeing it.
He went back over his thoughts. Abused, maybe murdered women. A vast stretch of time arched like a vault over the whole thing.
As he sat in his car he realised that there was one other possible conclusion. They hadn’t seen everything. The events they were trying to understand were part of something bigger. It was important for them to find the connection between the women, but they also had to consider the possibility that the connection was coincidental. Someone was making choices. But what were the choices based on? Circumstances? Coincidences? Available opportunities? Eriksson lived alone on a farm. Didn’t socialise, watched birds at night. He was someone it was possible to get near. Runfeldt was leaving on an orchid safari for two weeks. That provided an opportunity. He also lived alone. Eugen Blomberg took walks by himself in the evening.
Wallander shook his head at his own thoughts. He couldn’t make any progress. Was he thinking in the right direction or not? He didn’t know.
It was cold in the car. He got out to move around. The keys should be arriving soon. He walked across the courtyard, remembering the first time he had come here, the flock of rooks in the ditch. He looked at his hands. His tan was gone. Even the memory of the sun in the garden of the Villa Borghese was gone. And so was his father.
He let his gaze wander over the courtyard. The house was well cared for. Once a man named Holger Eriksson sat here and composed poems about birds. One day he got into a dark blue Chevrolet and drove all the way to Jamtland. Was he driven by passion? Or something else? Krista Haberman was a beautiful woman. Did she go with him willingly? She must have.
They drive back to Skane. Then she disappears. Eriksson lives alone. He digs a grave. She’s gone. The investigation never catches up with him. Until now, when Hansson finds a connection.
Wallander was standing and looking at the deserted kennel. At first he wasn’t aware of what he was thinking. The image of Krista Haberman slowly slipped away. He frowned. Why wasn’t there a dog? No-one had asked that question before. He hadn’t either. When had the dog disappeared? Did that have any significance at all? These were questions he wanted to have answered.
A car braked outside the house. A moment later a boy who couldn’t be more than 20 came into the courtyard. He walked over to Wallander.
“Are you the policeman that needs the key?”
“Yes, I am.”
The boy regarded him doubtfully.
“How can I be sure? You could be anybody.”
Wallander felt annoyed, but he realised that the boy’s doubts were justified. He had mud all over his trousers. He took out his identification. The boy nodded and gave him the set of keys.
“I’ll see to it that they get back to Lund,” Wallander said.
The boy nodded. Wallander heard the car roar off as he looked through the keys for the one to the front door. He thought fleetingly about what Jonas Hader had said about the red Golf outside Katarina Taxell’s building. Don’t women gun their engines? Mona drives faster than I do. Baiba always stamps on the accelerator. But maybe they don’t gun their engines.
He opened the door and went inside. It smelled musty. He sat down on a bench and pulled off his muddy gumboots. When he went into the main room he noticed to his surprise that the poem about the woodpecker was still on the desk. The night of 21 September. Tomorrow it would be a month since then. Were they really any closer to a solution? They had two more murders to solve. And the mystery of woman who had disappeared, who might be buried out in Eriksson’s fields.
He stood motionless in the silence. The fog outside the windows was still dense. He felt uneasy. The objects in the room were watching him. He walked over to the wall where the two aerial photographs hung in their frames. He searched his pockets for his glasses, put them on and leaned forwards. One of the photographs was black-and-white, the other a faded colour shot. The black-and-white picture was taken in 1949, two years before Holger Eriksson had bought the farm. The colour photograph was from 1965.