“They were at the back of a drawer in a filing cabinet,” Martinsson said. “They weren’t listed in any diary or ledger. They were hidden away.”
Wallander put on the gloves and opened the large brown envelope. Inside were two smaller envelopes. He tried without success to decipher the postmark. On one of the envelopes was a patch of ink, suggesting that some of the text had been crossed out. He took out the two letters, written on white paper, and put them on the desk in front of him. They were handwritten, and the text was short: The injustice is not forgotten, none of you shall be allowed to live unpunished, you shall die, Gustaf Torstensson, your son and also Dunér.
The second letter was even shorter, the handwriting the same: The injustice will soon be punished.
The first letter was dated June 19, 1992, and the second August 26 of the same year. Both letters were signed Lars Borman.
Wallander slid the letters carefully to one side and took off the gloves.
“We’ve searched the ledgers,” Martinsson said, “but neither Gustaf nor Sten Torstensson had a client by the name of Lars Borman.”
“That’s correct,” Wrede confirmed.
“The man writes about an injustice,” Martinsson said. “It must have been something major, or he wouldn’t have had cause to threaten the lives of all three.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Wallander said, his thoughts miles away.
Once again he had the feeling there was something he should understand, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Show me where you found the envelope,” he said, standing up.
Svedberg led him to a big filing cabinet in the office where Mrs. Dunér’s desk was located. Svedberg pointed to one of the lower drawers. Wallander opened it. It was filled with hanging files.
“Get Miss Lundin,” he said.
When Svedberg came back with her, Wallander could see she was very nervous. Even so, without being able to say why, he was convinced that she had nothing to do with the mysterious events at the lawyers’ offices.
“Who had a key to this filing cabinet?” he said.
“Mrs. Dunér,” Lundin replied, almost inaudibly.
“Please speak a bit louder,” Wallander said.
“Mrs. Dunér,” she repeated.
“Only her?”
“The lawyers had their own keys.”
“Was it kept locked?”
“Mrs. Dunér used to open it in the morning and lock it again when she went home.”
Wrede interrupted the conversation. “We have signed for a key from Mrs. Dunér,” he said. “Sten Torstensson’s key. We opened the cabinet today.”
Wallander nodded. There was something else he ought to ask Lundin, he was sure, but he couldn’t think what it was. Instead he turned to Wrede.
“What do you think about these threatening letters?” he said.
“The man must obviously be arrested at once,” Wrede said.
“That’s not what I asked,” Wallander said. “I asked for your opinion.”
“Lawyers are often placed in exposed situations.”
“I take it all lawyers receive this kind of letter sooner or later?”
“The Bar Council might be able to supply the statistics.”
Wallander looked at him for some time before asking his final question.
“Have you ever received a threatening letter?”
“It has happened.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal that. It would break my oath of confidentiality as a lawyer.”
Wallander could see his point. He replaced the letters in the brown envelope.
“We’ll take these with us,” he said to the men from the Bar Council.
“It’s not quite so straightforward as that,” Wrede said. He seemed always to be the one speaking on behalf of the others. Wallander felt like he was in a court facing a judge.
“It’s possible that just at this moment our interests are not identical,” Wallander interrupted him, irritated by his way of speaking. “You’re here to work out what to do with the firm’s property, if that’s what you can call it. We are here to identify one or more murderers. The brown envelope is going with me.”
“We cannot allow any documents to be removed from these premises until we have discussed the matter with the prosecutor in charge of the investigation,” Wrede said.
“Phone Per Åkeson,” Wallander said, “and send him my regards.”
Then he picked up the envelope and marched out of the room. Martinsson and Svedberg hastened after him.
“Now there’ll be trouble,” Martinsson said as they left the building. Wallander could tell that Martinsson was not altogether displeased at the prospect.
Wallander felt cold. The wind was gusting and seemed to be getting stronger.
“What now?” he said. “What’s Höglund up to?”
“Looking after her sick child,” Svedberg said. “Hanson would be pleased to know that. He has always said women police officers are no good when it comes to investigations.”
“Hanson has always said all kinds of things,” Martinsson said. “Police officers who are forever absent on continuing-education courses are not much good at investigations either.”
“The letters are a year old,” Wallander said. “We have a name, Lars Borman. He threatens the lives of Gustaf and Sten Torstensson. And Mrs. Dunér. He writes a letter, and then another one two months later. One was posted in some form of company envelope. Nyberg is good. I think he’ll be able to tell us what it says under the ink on that envelope. And where they were postmarked, of course. In fact, I don’t know what we’re waiting for.”
They returned to the police station. While Martinsson called Nyberg, who was still at Mrs. Dunér’s house, Wallander sat down and tried to puzzle out the postmarks.
Svedberg had gone to look for the name Lars Borman in various police registers. When Nyberg came to Wallander’s office a quarter of an hour later he was blue with cold and had dark grass stains on the knees of his overalls.
“How’s it going?” Wallander said.
“Slowly,” Nyberg said. “What did you expect? A mine exploded into millions of tiny particles.”
Wallander pointed to the two letters and the brown envelope on the desk in front of him.
“These have to be thoroughly examined,” he said. “First of all I’d like to know where the letters were postmarked. And what it says under the ink stain on one of the envelopes. Everything else can wait.”
Nyberg put on his glasses, switched on Wallander’s desk lamp, found a clean pair of plastic gloves, and examined the letters.
“We’ll be able to decipher the postmarks using a microscope,” he said. “Whatever is written on the envelope has been painted over with India ink. I can try a bit of scraping. I think I should be able to figure that out without having to send it to Linköping.”
“It’s urgent.”
Nyberg took off his glasses in irritation. “It’s always urgent,” he said. “I need an hour. Is that too much?”
“Take as long as you need,” Wallander said. “I know you work as fast as you can.”
Nyberg picked up the letters and left. Martinsson and Svedberg appeared almost immediately.
“There is no Borman in any of the registers,” Svedberg said. “I’ve found four Bromans and one Borrman. I thought maybe it could have been misspelled. Evert Borrman wandered around the Östersund area at the end of the 1960s cashing false checks. If he’s still alive he must be about eighty-five by now.”
Wallander shook his head. “We’d better wait for Nyberg,” he said. “At the same time, I think we’d be wise not to expect too much of this. The threat is brutal all right. But vague. I’ll give you a call when Nyberg reports back.”