“You must have gone straight to bed,” Wallander said. “If I’d known that I wouldn’t have phoned.”
“Are you telling me you’ve called me out for nothing?”
Wallander shook his head. “It’s the plastic container,” he said. “Tell me more about it.”
“I don’t have more to say than I haven’t said already,” Nyberg said.
Wallander sat down at his desk and looked hard at Nyberg. He knew that Nyberg was not only a good forensic officer, but that he had imagination too, and was blessed with an exceptional memory.
“You said you’d seen a similar container before,” he said.
“Not a similar one,” Nyberg said. “An identical one.”
“That means it must be special,” Wallander said. “Can you describe it for me?”
“Wouldn’t it be better if I went and got it?”
“Let’s go and look at it together,” Wallander said, getting up.
The police station was deserted as they walked down the hallway. A radio could be heard in the distance. Nyberg unlocked the room where the police kept objects material to ongoing investigations. The container was on a shelf. Nyberg took it down and handed it to Wallander. It was rectangular, and reminded Wallander of a cooler. He put it on a table and tried to open the lid.
“It’s screwed shut,” Nyberg said. “Notice also that it’s perfectly airtight. There’s a window on this side. I don’t know what it’s for, but I suspect there’s probably a thermometer mounted on the inside.”
“You saw a similar one at the hospital in Lund,” Wallander said, scrutinizing the container. “Can you remember where? Which ward?”
“It was moving around,” Nyberg said. “It was in a corridor outside the operating rooms. A nurse came with it. I seem to remember she was in a hurry.”
“Anything else?”
“No, nothing.”
“It reminds me of a cooler,” Wallander said.
“I think that’s what it is,” Nyberg said. “For blood, possibly.”
“I need you to find out,” Wallander said. “I also want to know what that container was doing in Torstensson’s car the night he died.”
When they were back in Wallander’s office, he remembered something Nyberg had said earlier in the evening.
“You said you thought it was made in France.”
“It said ‘Made in France’ on the handle.”
“I didn’t notice that.”
“The text on the one I saw in Lund was more obvious,” Nyberg said. “I think we can excuse you.”
“I may be wrong,” Wallander said, “but I think the fact that this container was in Torstensson’s car is remarkable. What was it doing there? Are you sure it was unused?”
“When I unscrewed the lid I could see that it was the first time it had been opened since it left the factory. Do you want me to explain how I knew?”
“It’s enough to know that you’re sure,” Wallander said. “I wouldn’t understand anyway.”
“I can see you believe this container is important,” Nyberg said, “but it’s not unusual to find unexpected items in car crashes.”
“In this case we can’t overlook a single detail,” Wallander said.
“But we’ve never done that.”
Wallander stood up. “Thank you for coming back,” he said. “I’d like to know what the plastic container was used for sometime tomorrow.”
They said good night outside the station. Wallander drove home and had a couple of sandwiches before going to bed. He couldn’t sleep, and after tossing and turning for some time he got up again and went into the kitchen. He sat at the table without switching on the light. He felt uneasy and impatient. This investigation had too many loose ends. Even though they had decided on a way forward, he was still not convinced it was the right way. Had they overlooked something vital? He thought back to the day when Sten Torstensson came to see him on the Jutland coast. He could recall their conversation word for word. Even so, he wondered if he had missed the real message, whether there had been some other significance behind Sten’s words.
It was past 4:00 by the time he went back to bed. The wind had picked up outside, and the temperature had plummeted. He shivered when he slid between the sheets. He did not think he had gotten anywhere. Nor had he succeeded in convincing himself that he would have to be patient. What he demanded of his colleagues was something he could not manage himself on this occasion.
When Wallander arrived at the station just before 8 a.m. there was a gale blowing. They told him in reception there were forecasts of hurricane-strength gusts before lunch. As he walked to his office he wondered if his father’s house in Löderup would survive the winds. His conscience had been nagging him for some time over his failure to have the roof repaired, and there was a real risk that one violent storm would blow it right off. He sat at his desk thinking that he had better call his father—he hadn’t spoken to him since the fight at the liquor store. He was about to pick up the receiver when the phone rang.
“There’s a call for you,” Ebba said. “And have you noticed how strong the wind is?”
“I can console you with the news that it’s going to get worse,” Wallander said. “Who is it?”
“Farnholm Castle.”
Wallander stretched out in his chair.
“Put them on,” he said.
“It’s a lady with a remarkable name,” Ebba said. “She introduced herself as Jenny Lind.”
“It sounds normal enough to me.”
“I didn’t say it was abnormal, I said it was remarkable. You must have heard of the Swedish Nightingale, the great singer Jenny Lind?”
“Put her through,” Wallander said.
The voice he heard was that of a young woman. Another one of those secretaries, Wallander thought.
“Inspector Wallander?”
“Speaking.”
“You were here the other day and expressed a wish to have an audience with Dr. Harderberg.”
“I don’t have audiences,” Wallander said in irritation. “I need to speak to him in connection with a murder investigation.”
“I do realize that. We have received a telex this morning informing us that Dr. Harderberg will be back home this afternoon and will be able to receive you tomorrow.”
“Where did the telex come from?”
“Does that matter?”
“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” Wallander lied.
“Dr. Harderberg is at the moment in Barcelona.”
“I don’t want to wait until tomorrow,” Wallander said. “I need to talk to him as soon as possible. If he gets back to Sweden this afternoon he should be able to see me this evening.”
“He has nothing in his diary for this evening,” Lind said. “But I shall need to contact him in Barcelona before I can give you an answer.”
“Do that if you wish,” Wallander said. “Tell him he’ll be receiving a visit from the Ystad police at seven p.m.”
“I’m afraid I can’t agree to that. Dr. Harderberg always decides on the time of visits himself.”
“Not in this case,” Wallander said. “We’ll be there at seven.”