It was a long afternoon. The first autumn storm was building over Skane. Leaves whirled across the car park outside the station. They stayed in the conference room even though there was nothing for them to discuss as a group. All of them had many other assignments waiting on their desks, but Wallander thought that what they needed most right now was to gather their strength. If the information coming from Malmo gave them the breakthrough that he was hoping for, then they would have to do a lot in a very short space of time. That’s why they were slumped in their chairs around the conference table, resting.
Birch called and told him that Hedwig Taxell had never heard of Margareta Nystedt. She also said that she couldn’t understand how she’d managed to forget that her daughter had worked as a waitress on the trains for a while. Birch thought she was telling the truth.
Martinsson kept leaving the room to call home, allowing Wallander to check with Hoglund. She thought that everything was already going much better for Terese. Martinsson had said no more about wanting to resign. Even that discussion had to be put on hold for the time being. Investigating serious crimes meant putting the rest of one’s life on hold.
At 4 p.m. Hansson called to say they had found a middle finger. Soon after that he called again The skull had been uncovered. Wallander asked him if he wanted to be relieved, but he said he might as well stay.
An icy ripple of revulsion passed through the conference room when Wallander announced this latest news. Svedberg quickly put down the half-eaten sandwich he had in his hand.
Wallander had been through this before. A skeleton meant little without the skull. Only then was it possible to imagine the person who had once existed. In this mood of weary anticipation, the members of the team sat around the table like little isolated islands. Conversations were started from time to time. Someone would ask a question. An answer was given, something was clarified, and then silence would fall again.
Svedberg brought up Svenstavik.
“Eriksson must have been a strange man. First he entices a Polish woman to come with him down to Skane. God knows what he promised her. Marriage? Wealth? The chance to be a car-dealer’s princess? Then he kills her almost at once. But when he feels his own death approaching, he buys a letter of indulgence by bequeathing money to the church up there in Jamtland.”
“I’ve read his poems,” Martinsson said. “You can’t deny that he occasionally shows some sensitivity.”
“For animals,” Hoglund said. “For birds. But not for human beings.”
Wallander remembered the abandoned kennel. He wondered how long it had been empty. Hamren grabbed a phone and got hold of Sven Tyren and they got the answer. Eriksson’s last dog was found dead in the kennel one morning a few weeks before Eriksson was murdered. Tyren had been told this by his wife, who in turn had heard it from the postwoman. What the dog died of he didn’t know, but it was pretty old. Wallander guessed that someone must have killed the dog so it wouldn’t bark. And that person was the one they were looking for. They had come up with one more explanation. But they still lacked an overall framework. Nothing had been fully clarified yet.
At 4.30 p.m. Wallander called Malmo. Bergstrand came to the phone. They would be able to fax over the names and other information Wallander had requested shortly.
The waiting continued. A reporter called and asked what they were digging for at Eriksson’s farm. Wallander told him that the enquiry was progressing, but that he wasn’t able to provide details at this stage. He was as friendly as possible. Chief Holgersson sat with them for most of the time. She also drove out to Lodinge with Akeson. Unlike their former chief, Bjork, she didn’t say much. The two of them were quite different. Bjork would have taken the opportunity to complain about the latest memo from the national police board, managing to connect it with the investigation that was under way. Lisa Holgersson was different. Wallander decided that they were both good in their own ways.
Hamren was doing a crossword, Svedberg was searching for any remaining hairs on his scalp, and Hoglund was sitting with her eyes closed. Now and then Wallander got up and took a walk down the hall. He was very tired. He wondered why Katarina Taxell hadn’t made contact. Should they start to search for her? He was afraid they would scare off the woman who had come to get her. He heard the phone ringing in the conference room, and hurried back to stand in the door. Svedberg had picked it up.
Wallander mouthed the question “Malmo?” Svedberg shook his head. It was Hansson again.
“A rib this time,” Svedberg said when he’d hung up. “Does he have to call here every time they find a bone?”
Wallander sat down at the table. The phone rang again. Svedberg picked it up. He listened briefly and then handed it to Wallander.
“You’ll have it by fax in a few minutes,” Bergstrand said. “I think we’ve found all the information you wanted.”
“Then you’ve done a good job,” Wallander said. “If there is any additional information I’ll call you back.”
“I’m sure you will,” Bergstrand said. “I get the impression you aren’t the type to give up.”
They all gathered around the fax machine. After a few minutes pages started to be transmitted. Wallander saw instantly that there were many more names than he had imagined. When the transmission was completed he made copies for everyone. Back in the conference room they studied them in silence. Wallander counted 32 names, 17 of them women. He didn’t recognise any of them. The lists of hours of service and the various combinations seemed endless. He searched for a long time before he found the week when Margareta Nystedt’s name wasn’t included. Eleven women conductors had been on duty on the days that Katarina Taxell was working as a waitress.
For a moment Wallander felt his powerlessness return. Then he forced it aside and tapped his pen on the table.
“There are a lot of people listed here,” he said. “We have to concentrate on the eleven female conductors. Does anyone recognise any of the names?”
They bent their heads over the pages. No-one could remember any of the names from other parts of the investigation. Wallander missed Hansson’s presence. He was the one with the best memory. He asked one of the detectives from Malmo to make a copy and see to it that someone drove it out to him.
“Then let’s get started,” he said when the detective left the room. “Eleven women. We have to look at every one of them. Let’s hope that somewhere we’ll find a point of connection with this investigation. We’ll divide them up. And we’ll start now. It’s going to be a long night.”
They divided up the names. Wallander knew the hunt was on. The waiting was finally over.
Many hours later, when it was almost 11 p.m., Wallander started to despair again. They had got no further than eliminating two of the names from the list. One of the women had died in a car accident long before they found Eriksson’s body, and the other had already transferred to an administrative job in Malmo. Bergstrand had discovered the mistake and called Wallander at once. They were searching for points of intersection but found none. Hoglund came into Wallander’s office.
“What should I do with this one?” she asked, shaking a paper she had in her hand.
“What about her?”
“Anneli Olsson, 39 years old, married with four children. She lives in Angelholm with her husband who is a vicar. She’s deeply religious. She works on trains, takes care of her family, and spends the little free time she has on handicrafts and various efforts for the mission. What should I do with her? Call her in for an interview? Ask her if she killed three men in the past month? If she knows where Katarina Taxell and her newborn baby are?”