a Laotian consortium that used it to transport its managers to various agricultural centres around the country. The official cause of the crash was listed as a lack of fuel. No one was injured or killed. But the plane was wrecked and removed from all active registers and from the insurance company, which apparently was a kind of daughter company to Lloyd's. This is what we know after looking up the engine registration number.'
'But that turned out not to be correct?'
'The Piper factory is naturally very interested in what has happened. It's not good for their reputation if a plane that no longer exists suddenly starts to fly again. This could be a case of insurance fraud and other things that we have no idea about.'
'And the men in the plane?'
'We're still waiting for them to be identified. I have a couple of good contacts in Interpol. They've promised to expedite the matter.'
'The plane must have come from somewhere,' Wallander said.
Martinsson nodded.
'That gives us yet another problem. If you refurbish a plane with extra fuel tanks, it's able to fly long distances. Nyberg thinks he may have identified the remains of something that could have been a spare fuel tank. But we don't know yet. If this is the case, the plane could have come from virtually anywhere. At least Britain and Continental Europe.'
'But it must have been observed by someone,' Wallander insisted. 'You can't cross borders with complete impunity.'
'I agree,' Martinsson said. 'Therefore Germany would be an educated guess, because you fly over open water until you reach the Swedish border.'
'What do the German aviation authorities say?'
'It takes time,' Martinsson said. 'But I'm working on it.'
Wallander reflected for a moment.
'We actually need you on this double homicide,' he said. 'Can you delegate this work to someone else? At least while we wait on a positive identification of the pilots, and whether the plane came from Germany?'
'I was about to suggest the same thing,' Martinsson said.
Wallander checked the time.
'Ask Hansson or Svedberg to get you up to speed on the case,' he said.
Martinsson got out of the chair.
'Have you heard from your father?'
'He doesn't call without a good reason.'
'My father died when he was fifty-five,' Martinsson said abruptly. 'He had his own business. A car-repairs shop. He had to work constantly in order to make ends meet. Right when things were starting to look up, he died. He wouldn't have been more than sixtyseven now.'
Martinsson left. Wallander did his best to avoid thinking about Rydberg. Instead he again reviewed everything they knew about the Eberhardsson sisters. They had a likely motive – money – but no trace of the killer. Wallander jotted a few words on his notepad.
The double life of the Eberhardsson sisters?
Then he pushed the pad away. When Rydberg was out, they lacked their best instrument. If an investigative team is like an orchestra, Wallander thought, we've lost our first violinist. And then the orchestra doesn't sound as good.
At that moment he made up his mind to have his own talk with the neighbour who had provided the information about Anna Eberhardsson. Svedberg was often too impatient when he talked to people about what they might have seen or heard. It's also a matter of finding out what people think, Wallander said to himself. He found the name of the neighbour, Linnea Gunner. Only women in this case, he thought. He dialled her phone number and heard her pick up. Linnea Gunner was at home and happy to receive him. She gave him the code to the front door of her building and he made a note of it.
He left the station shortly after three o'clock and kicked the damaged hinge again. The dent was getting worse. When he reached the scene of the fire, he saw that the ruins of the building were already in the process of being razed. There were still many curious onlookers gathered around the site.
Linnea Gunner lived on Mollegatan. Wallander entered the door code and took the stairs to the first floor. The house dated back to the turn of the century and had beautiful designs on the walls of its stairwell. On the door to Gunner's apartment was posted a large sign about residents not wishing to receive any advertisements. Wallander rang the bell. The woman who opened the door was the opposite of Tyra Olofsson in almost every way. She was tall, with a sharp gaze and a firm voice. She invited him into her apartment, which was filled with objects from all over the world. In the living room there was even a ship's figurehead. Wallander looked at it for a long time.
'This belonged to the barque Felicia, which sank in the Irish Sea,' Linnea Gunner said. 'I bought it once for an insignificant sum in Middlesbrough.'
'Then you've been at sea?' he asked.
'My whole life. First as a chef, then as a steward.'
She did not speak with a Skane dialect. Wallander thought she sounded more as if she came from Smaland or Ostergotland.
'Where are you from?' he asked.
'Skanninge in Ostergotland. About as far from the sea as one can get.'
'And now you live in Ystad?'
'I inherited this apartment from an aunt. And I have a view of the sea.'
She had put out coffee. Wallander thought it was probably the last thing his stomach needed. But he still said yes. He had immediately felt he could trust Linnea Gunner. He had read in Svedberg's notes that she was sixty-six years old. But she appeared younger.
'My colleague Svedberg was here,' Wallander started.
She burst into laughter.
'I have never seen someone scratch his forehead as often as that man.'
Wallander nodded.
'We all have our ways. For example, I always think there are more questions to be asked than one may initially think.'
'I only told him about my impressions of Anna.'
'And Emilia?'
'They were different. Anna spoke in quick, choppy bursts. Emilia was quieter. But they were equally disagreeable. Equally introverted.'
'How well did you know them?'
'I didn't. Sometimes we bumped into each other on the street. Then we would exchange a few words. But never more than was necessary. Since I like to embroider, I often went to their shop. I always got what I needed. If something had to be ordered, it arrived quickly. But they were not pleasant.'
'Sometimes one needs time,' Wallander said. 'Time to allow one's memory to catch things one thought one had forgotten.'
'What would that be?'
'I don't know. You know. An unexpected event. Something that went against their habits.'
She thought about it. Wallander studied an impressive brass-inlaid compass on a bureau.
'My memory has never been good,' she said finally. 'But now that you mention it, I do remember something that happened last year. In the spring, I think it was. But I can't say if it's important.'
'Anything could be important,' Wallander said.
'It was one afternoon. I needed some thread. Blue thread, as I recall. I walked down to the shop. Both Emilia and Anna were behind the counter. Just as I was about to pay for the thread, a man entered the shop. I remember that he started, as if he hadn't been expecting anyone else to be in the shop. And Anna became angry. She gave Emilia a look that could kill. Then the man left. He had a bag in his hand. I paid for my thread and then I left.'
'Could you describe him?'
'He was not what one would call Swedish-looking. Swarthy, on the short side. A black moustache.'
'How was he dressed?'
