that if this cash was the motive then he or they who shot the sisters did not get what they had come for.'
'We nonetheless have some kind of motive,' Wallander said. 'This safe had been concealed. According to Nyberg, it appeared to have been there for a number of years. At some point the sisters must therefore have found it necessary to buy it because they needed to store and hide large sums of money. These were almost entirely new and unused dollar bills. Therefore it must be possible to trace them. Did they arrive in Sweden legally or not? We also need to find answers as quickly as possible to the other questions we're working on. Who did these sisters socialise with? What kind of habits did they have?'
'And weaknesses,' Rydberg added. 'Let us not forget about that.'
Bjork entered the room at the end of the meeting. He gave a start when he saw all the money on the table.
'This has to be carefully recorded,' he said when Wallander explained in a somewhat strained manner what had happened. 'Nothing can be lost. Also, what has happened to the front doors?'
'A work-related accident,' Wallander said. 'When the forklift was lifting the safe.'
He said this so forcefully that Bjork did not make any objections.
They broke up the meeting. Wallander hurried out of the room in order not to be left alone with Bjork. It had fallen to Wallander to contact an animal protection association where at least one of the sisters, Emilia, had been an active member, according to one of the neighbours. Wallander had been given a name by Svedberg, Tyra Olofsson. Wallander burst out laughing when he saw the address: Karinggatan – 'karing' meant old woman or shrew – number 11. He wondered if there was any other town in Sweden that had as many unusual street names.
Before Wallander left the station he called Arne Hurtig, the car salesman he usually did business with. He explained the situation with his Peugeot. Hurtig gave him a few suggestions, all of which Wallander found too expensive. But when Hurtig promised a good trade-in price on his old car, Wallander decided to get another Peugeot. He hung up and called his bank. He had to wait several minutes until he could speak to the person who normally helped him. Wallander asked for a loan of twenty thousand kronor. He was informed that this would not be a problem. He would be able to come in the following day, sign the loan documents and pick up the money.
The thought of a new car put him in a good mood. Why he always drove a Peugeot, he couldn't say. I'm probably more stuck in my ways than I like to think, he thought as he left the station. He stopped and inspected the damaged hinge on the front doors of the station. Since no one was around, he took the opportunity to give the door frame a kick. The damage became more noticeable. He walked away quickly, hunched over against the gusty wind. Of course he should have called to make sure that Tyra Olofsson was in. But since she was retired, he took the chance.
When he rang the doorbell, it opened almost at once. Tyra Olofsson was short and wore glasses that testified to her myopia. Wallander explained who he was and held up his ID card, which she held several centimetres from her glasses and studied carefully.
'The police,' she said. 'Then it must have to do with poor Emilia.'
'That's right,' Wallander said. 'I hope I'm not disturbing you.'
She invited him in. There was a strong smell of dogs in the hall. She led him out into the kitchen. Wallander counted fourteen food bowls on the floor. Worse than Haverberg, he thought.
'I keep them outside,' Tyra Olofsson said, having followed his gaze.
Wallander wondered briefly if it was legal to keep so many dogs in the city. She asked if he wanted coffee. Wallander thanked her but declined. He was hungry and planning to eat as soon as his conversation with Tyra Olofsson was over. He sat down at the table and looked in vain for something to write with. For once he had remembered to put a notepad in his pocket. But now he didn't have a pen. There was a small stump of a pencil lying on the windowsill, which he picked up.
'You're right, Mrs Olofsson,' he began. 'This is about Emilia Eberhardsson, who has died so tragically. We heard through one of the neighbours that she had been active in an animal protection association. And that you, Mrs Olofsson, knew her well.'
'Call me Tyra,' she said. 'And I can't say I knew Emilia well. I don't think anyone did.'
'Was her sister Anna ever involved in this work?'
'No.'
'Isn't that strange? I mean, two sisters, both unmarried who live together. I imagine they would develop similar interests.'
'That is a stereotype,' Tyra Olofsson said firmly. 'I imagine that Emilia and Anna were very different people. I worked as a teacher my whole life. Then you learn to see the differences in people. It's already apparent in young children.'
'How would you describe Emilia?'
Her answer surprised him.
'Snooty. The kind who always knows best. She could be very unpleasant. But since she donated money for our work, we couldn't get rid of her. Even if we wanted to.'
Tyra Olofsson told him about the local animal protection association that she and a few other like-minded individuals had started in the 1960s. They had always worked locally and the impetus for the association was the increasing problem of abandoned summer cats. The association had always been small, with few members. One day in the early seventies, Emilia Eberhardsson had read about their work in the Ystad Allehanda and got in touch. She had given them money every month and participated in meetings and other events.
'But I don't think she really liked animals,' Tyra said unexpectedly. 'I think she did it so she would be thought of as a good person.'
'That doesn't sound like such a nice description.'
The woman on the other side of the table looked cheekily at him.
'I thought policemen wanted to know the truth,' she said. 'Or am I wrong?'
Wallander changed the subject and asked about money.
'She donated a thousand kronor a month. For us that was a lot.'
'Did she give the impression of being rich?'
'She never dressed expensively. But I'm sure she had money.'
'You must have asked yourself where it came from. A sewing shop is hardly something one associates with a fortune.'
'Not one thousand kronor a month either,' she answered. 'I'm not particularly curious. Perhaps it's because I see so badly. But where the money came from or how well their shop did, I know nothing about.'
Wallander hesitated for a moment, and then he told her the truth.
'It has been reported in the papers that the sisters burned to death,' he said, 'but it has not been reported that they were shot. They were already dead when the fire started.'
She sat up.
'Who could have wanted to shoot two old ladies? That's as likely as someone wanting to kill me.'
'That is exactly what we are trying to understand,' Wallander said. 'That's why I'm here. Did Emilia ever say anything about having enemies? Did she appear frightened?'
Tyra Olofsson did not have to reflect.
'She was always very sure of herself,' she said. 'She never said a word about her and her sister's life. And when they were away she never sent a postcard. Not once, even with all the wonderful postcards with animal motifs that you can get these days.'
Wallander raised his eyebrows.
'You mean they travelled a lot?'
'Two months out of every year. November and March. Sometimes in the summer.'
'Where did they go?'
'I heard it was Spain.'
'Who took care of their shop?'
'They always took turns. Perhaps they needed time apart.'
'Spain? What else do the rumours say? And where do these rumours come from?'
'I can't remember. I don't listen to rumours. Perhaps they went to Marbella. But I'm not sure.'
Wallander wondered if Tyra Olofsson was really as uninterested in rumours and gossip as she seemed. He had only one remaining question.
