Runfeldt’s smile. Wallander put it back and looked at a map of the world hanging on the wall. With a little effort he located Burma. Then he sat down at the desk. Runfeldt was supposed to leave on a trip, but he hadn’t left. At least not for Nairobi on the Special Travels charter flight.
Wallander got up and went into the bedroom. The bed was made, a narrow, single bed. There was a stack of books next to the bed. Wallander looked at the titles. Books about flowers. The only one that stood out was a book about the international currency market. Wallander bent down and looked under the bed. Nothing. He opened the doors to the wardrobe. On a shelf at the top of the wardrobe lay two suitcases. He stood on tiptoe and lifted them down. Both were empty. Then he went to the kitchen and got a chair. He looked at the top shelf. Now he found what he was looking for. A single man’s flat is seldom completely free of dust. Runfeldt’s was no exception. The outline in the dust was quite clear. A third suitcase had been there. Because the other two he had taken down were old, and one of them even had a broken lock, Wallander imagined that Runfeldt would have used the third suitcase. If he had gone on the trip. If it wasn’t somewhere else in the flat. He hung his jacket over the back of a chair and opened all the cupboards and storage spaces. He found nothing. Then he returned to the study.
If Runfeldt had left on the trip, he would have had to take his passport with him. Wallander searched through the desk drawers, which weren’t locked. In one of them was an old herbarium. He opened it. Gösta Runfeldt 1955 . Even during his school days he had pressed flowers. Wallander looked at a 40-year-old cornflower. The blue colour was still present, or a pale memory of it. He had pressed flowers himself once. He kept on searching. He couldn’t find a passport. He frowned. A suitcase was gone, and the passport too. He hadn’t found the tickets, either. He left the study and sat down in an armchair in the living room. Sometimes changing places helped him to think. There were plenty of signs that Runfeldt had actually left his flat with his passport, tickets, and a packed suitcase.
He let his mind wander. Could something have happened on the way to Copenhagen? Could he have fallen into the sea from one of the ferries? If that had happened then his suitcase would have been found. He pulled out one of the gift cards he had in his pocket. He had written the phone number of the shop on it. He went to the kitchen to make the call. Through the window he could see the tall grain lift in Ystad harbour. One of the ferries to Poland was on its way out past the stone jetty. Vanja Andersson answered the phone.
“I’m still at the flat,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of questions. Did he tell you how he was travelling to Copenhagen?”
Her reply was precise.
“He always went via Limhamn and Dragør.”
So now he knew that much.
“Do you know how many suitcases he owned?”
“No. How should I know that?”
Wallander saw that he must ask the question in a different way.
“What did his suitcase look like?”
“He didn’t usually take a lot of luggage,” she replied. “He knew how to travel light. He had a shoulder bag and a larger suitcase with wheels.”
“What colour was it?”
“It was black.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, I am. I’m sure. I picked him up a few times after his trips. At the train station or at Sturup Airport. Gösta never threw anything away. If he’d had to buy a new suitcase I would have known about it, because he would have complained about how expensive it was. He could be stingy sometimes.”
But the trip to Nairobi cost 30,000 kronor, Wallander thought. And that money was just thrown away. I’m sure it wasn’t voluntarily. He told her he’d drop off the keys within half an hour.
After he hung up he thought about what she had said. A black suitcase. The two he had found in the
Wallander got up and went into the bedroom. The bed was made, a narrow, single bed. There was a stack of books next to the bed. Wallander looked at the titles. Books about flowers. The only one that stood out was a book about the international currency market. Wallander bent down and looked under the bed. Nothing. He opened the doors to the wardrobe. On a shelf at the top of the wardrobe lay two suitcases. He stood on tiptoe and lifted them down. Both were empty. Then he went to the kitchen and got a chair. He looked at the top shelf. Now he found what he was looking for. A single man’s flat is seldom completely free of dust. Runfeldt’s was no exception. The outline in the dust was quite clear. A third suitcase had been there. Because the other two he had taken down were old, and one of them even had a broken lock, Wallander imagined that Runfeldt would have used the third suitcase. If he had gone on the trip. If it wasn’t somewhere else in the flat. He hung his jacket over the back of a chair and opened all the cupboards and storage spaces. He found nothing. Then he returned to the study.
If Runfeldt had left on the trip, he would have had to take his passport with him. Wallander searched through the desk drawers, which weren’t locked. In one of them was an old herbarium. He opened it. Gösta Runfeldt 1955 . Even during his school days he had pressed flowers. Wallander looked at a 40-year-old cornflower. The blue colour was still present, or a pale memory of it. He had pressed flowers himself once. He kept on searching. He couldn’t find a passport. He frowned. A suitcase was gone, and the passport too. He hadn’t found the tickets, either. He left the study and sat down in an armchair in the living room. Sometimes changing places helped him to think. There were plenty of signs that Runfeldt had actually left his flat with his passport, tickets, and a packed suitcase.
He let his mind wander. Could something have happened on the way to Copenhagen? Could he have fallen into the sea from one of the ferries? If that had happened then his suitcase would have been found. He pulled out one of the gift cards he had in his pocket. He had written the phone number of the shop on it. He went to the kitchen to make the call. Through the window he could see the tall grain lift in Ystad harbour. One of the ferries to Poland was on its way out past the stone jetty. Vanja Andersson answered the phone.
“I’m still at the flat,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of questions. Did he tell you how he was travelling to Copenhagen?”
Her reply was precise.
“He always went via Limhamn and Dragør.”
So now he knew that much.
“Do you know how many suitcases he owned?”
“No. How should I know that?”
Wallander saw that he must ask the question in a different way.
“What did his suitcase look like?”
“He didn’t usually take a lot of luggage,” she replied. “He knew how to travel light. He had a shoulder bag and a larger suitcase with wheels.”
“What colour was it?”
“It was black.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, I am. I’m sure. I picked him up a few times after his trips. At the train station or at Sturup Airport. Gösta never threw anything away. If he’d had to buy a new suitcase I would have known about it, because he would have complained about how expensive it was. He could be stingy sometimes.”
But the trip to Nairobi cost 30,000 kronor, Wallander thought. And that money was just thrown away. I’m sure it wasn’t voluntarily. He told her he’d drop off the keys within half an hour.
After he hung up he thought about what she had said. A black suitcase. The two he had found in the
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