“I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s true.”
“Get hold of Wallander,” said Peters. “Right away.”
The mood among the detectives in the Ystad police station this Walpurgis Eve morning was expectant. They had gathered in the conference room at eight, and Bjork rushed through the business. He had other things besides a missing woman to think about on a day like this. It was traditionally one of the most unruly days in the whole year, and there was a lot to do in preparation for the fun and games they could expect that evening and into the night.
The whole meeting was devoted to Stig Gustafson. Wallander had set his troops looking for the former marine engineer all Thursday afternoon and evening. When he reported on his conversation with Pastor Tureson, everybody thought they were on the threshold of a breakthrough. They also realized that the severed finger and the blown-up house would have to wait. Martinson had even been of the view that it was pure coincidence after all. That there simply was no connection between the incidents.
“This kind of thing has happened before,” he said. “We’ve raided an illegal home distillery, and found an Aladdin’s cave in a neighbor’s house when we stopped to ask the way”
By Friday morning they still had not succeeded in finding out where Stig Gustafson lived.
“We have to crack this today,” said Wallander. “Maybe we won’t find him. But if we get his address, we can establish whether he’s gone off in a hurry.”
At that very moment, the telephone rang. Bjork grabbed the receiver, listened briefly, then handed it to Wallander.
“It’s Noren,” he said. “He’s at a car accident somewhere outside of town.”
“Somebody else can take it,” said Wallander, annoyed.
He took the receiver nevertheless, and listened to what Noren had to say. Martinson and Svedberg were well acquainted with Wallander’s reactions and adept at picking up the slightest change in his mood, and they could see right away that the call was important.
Wallander replaced the receiver slowly, and looked at his colleagues.
“Noren’s at the junction with the road leading to the garbage dump,” he said. “There’s been a minor car accident. They have a guy who claims he’s found a dead woman stuffed down a well.”
They waited anxiously to hear what Wallander had to say next.
“If I understood it rightly,” said Wallander, “this well is less than five kilometers from the property Louise Akerblom was going to inspect. And even closer to the pond where we found her car.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then they all got to their feet at the same time.
“Do you want a full-scale call-out right away?” asked Bjork.
“No,” said Wallander. “We’ve got to get it confirmed first. Noren warned us not to get overexcited. He thought the man seemed very confused.”
“So would I have been,” said Svedberg. “If I’d first of all found a dead woman in a well, then driven off the road.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” said Wallander.
They left Ystad in patrol cars. Wallander had Svedberg with him, while Martinson had a car to himself. When they got to the northern exit road, Wallander switched on the siren. Svedberg stared at him in surprise.
“There’s hardly any traffic,” he said.
“Even so,” said Wallander.
They stopped at the turnoff to the garbage dump, put the ashen Peter Hanson in the back seat, and followed his directions.
“It wasn’t me,” he said, over and over again.
“Who did what?” asked Wallander.
“I didn’t kill her,” he said.
“What were you doing there, then?” asked Wallander.
“I was only going to steal the pump.”
Wallander and Svedberg exchanged glances.
“Morell called late last night and ordered four water pumps,” muttered Hanson. “But I didn’t kill her.”
Wallander was lost. The penny suddenly dropped for Svedberg, and he explained.
“I think I get it,” he said. “There is a notorious fence in Malmo called Morell. He’s notorious because our colleagues in town have never been able to pin anything onto him.”
“Water pumps?” Wallander was suspicious.
“Antique value,” said Svedberg.
They drove into the yard in front of the deserted house. Wallander had time to register that it looked like a nice day for the holiday. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, not a puff of wind, and it must be at least 60 degrees, even though it was only nine o’clock.
He contemplated the well and the broken-off pump lying beside it. Then he took a deep breath, went up to the well, and looked down.
Martinson and Svedberg were waiting in the background, with Peter Hanson.
Wallander could see right away that it was Louise Akerblom.
Even in death, there was a fixed smile on her face.
He suddenly felt very ill. He turned away quickly and sat on his haunches.
Martinson and Svedberg approached the well. Both of them jerked back violently.
“Damn,” said Martinson.
Wallander swallowed and forced himself to breath deeply. He thought of Louise Akerblom’s daughters. And of Robert Akerblom. He wondered how they would be able to keep on believing in a good and all-powerful God when their mother and wife had been murdered and shoved down a well.
He stood up and went back to the well.
“It’s her,” he said. “No doubt about it.”
Martinson ran to his car, called Bjork, and requested a full-scale emergency call-out. They would need the fire brigade to get Louise Akerblom’s body out of the well. Wallander sat down with Peter Hanson on the dilapidated veranda, and listened to his story. He occasionally asked questions, and nodded when Peter Hanson answered. He could tell already that Hanson was telling the truth. In fact, the police had reason to be grateful that he had set out that morning to steal old water pumps. If he hadn’t, it could have been a very long time before they found Louise Akerblom.
“Take down his personal details,” said Wallander to Svedberg, when he had finished talking to Peter Hanson. “Then let him go. But make sure that Morell guy backs up his story.”
Svedberg nodded.
“Who’s the prosecutor on duty?” Wallander wondered.
“I think Bjork said it was Per Akeson,” replied Svedberg.
“Get hold of him,” said Wallander. “Tell him we’ve found her. And that it’s murder. I’ll give him a report later this afternoon.”
“What do we do about Stig Gustafson?” asked Svedberg.
“You’ll have to keep on hunting him by yourself for the time being,” said Wallander. “I want Martinson to be here when we get her up and make the first examination.”
“I’ll be only too glad to miss that,” said Svedberg.
He drove off in one of the cars.
Wallander took a few more deep breaths before approaching the well once more.
He did not want to be on his own when he informed Robert Akerblom where they found his wife.
It took two hours to get Louise Akerblom’s corpse out of the well. The ones who did the work were the same two young firemen who had dragged the pond two days before, when her car had been found. They pulled her up using a rescue harness, and put the body in an investigation tent that had been raised alongside the well. As they were pulling up the body, it became clear to Wallander how she died. She had been shot in the forehead. Once again he was struck by the thought that nothing in this investigation was straightforward. He still had not met Stig Gustafson, if he really was the one who killed her. But would he have shot her from the front? There was something that didn’t add up.
He asked Martinson for his first reaction.
