wardrobe were grey. He hadn’t seen a shoulder bag either. Besides, now he knew that Runfeldt travelled out into the world via Limhamn. He stood by the window and looked over the rooftops. The Poland ferry was gone.
It doesn’t make sense, he thought. There may have been an accident. But even that wasn’t certain. To follow up on one of the most important questions, he called information and asked for the number of the ferry line between Limhamn and Dragør. He was lucky and got the person who was responsible for lost property on the ferries. The man was Danish. Wallander told him who he was and asked about a black suitcase. He told him the date. Then he waited. It took a few minutes before the Dane, who had introduced himself as Mogensen, came back.
“Nothing,” he said.
Wallander tried to think. Then he asked his question.
“Do people ever disappear from your boats? Fall overboard?”
“Hardly ever,” Mogensen replied. Wallander thought he sounded convincing.
“But it does happen?”
“It happens in all boat traffic,” said Mogensen. “People commit suicide. People get drunk. Some are mad and try to balance on the railing. But it doesn’t happen often.”
“Are people who fall overboard usually recovered? Either drowned or alive?”
“Most of them float ashore, dead,” Mogensen answered. “Some get caught in fishing nets. Only a few disappear completely.”
Wallander had no more questions. He thanked the man for his help and said goodbye.
He had nothing tangible to go on, and yet now he was convinced that Runfeldt had never gone to Copenhagen. He had packed his bag, taken his passport and ticket, and left his flat. Then he had disappeared.
Wallander thought about the puddle of blood inside the florist’s shop. What did that mean? Maybe they had it all wrong. It might well be that the break-in was no mistake.
He paced around the flat, trying to understand. The telephone in the kitchen rang, making him jump. He hurried over to answer it. It was Hansson, calling from Eriksson’s.
“I heard from Martinsson that Runfeldt has disappeared,” he said.
“He’s not here, at any rate,” Wallander answered.
“You have any ideas?”
“No. I think he did intend to take his trip, but something prevented him.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
Wallander thought about it. What did he actually believe? He didn’t know.
“We can’t rule out the possibility,” was all he said.
He asked what had happened out at the farm, but Hansson had nothing new to report. After he hung up, Wallander walked through the flat once more. He had a feeling that there was something he should be noticing. Finally he gave up. He looked through the post out in the hall. There was the letter from the travel agency. An electricity bill. There was also a receipt for a parcel from a mail-order company in Borås. It had to be paid for at the post office. Wallander stuck the slip in his pocket.
Vanja Andersson was waiting for him when he arrived with the keys. He asked her to get in touch with him if she thought of anything else that might be important. Then he drove to the station. He left the slip with Ebba and asked her to have someone pick up the parcel. At 1 p.m. he closed the door to his office. He was hungry. But he was more anxious than hungry. He recognised the feeling. He knew what it meant.
He doubted that they would find Gösta Runfeldt alive.
CHAPTER 8
At midnight, Ylva Brink finally sat down to have a cup of coffee. She was one of two midwives working the night of 30 September in the maternity ward of Ystad’s hospital. Her colleague, Lena Söderström, was with a woman who had just started to have contractions. It had been a busy night – without drama, but with a steady stream of tasks that had to be carried out.
They were understaffed. Two midwives and two nurses had to handle all the work. There was an obstetrician they could call if there was serious haemorrhaging or any other complication,
It doesn’t make sense, he thought. There may have been an accident. But even that wasn’t certain. To follow up on one of the most important questions, he called information and asked for the number of the ferry line between Limhamn and Dragør. He was lucky and got the person who was responsible for lost property on the ferries. The man was Danish. Wallander told him who he was and asked about a black suitcase. He told him the date. Then he waited. It took a few minutes before the Dane, who had introduced himself as Mogensen, came back.
“Nothing,” he said.
Wallander tried to think. Then he asked his question.
“Do people ever disappear from your boats? Fall overboard?”
“Hardly ever,” Mogensen replied. Wallander thought he sounded convincing.
“But it does happen?”
“It happens in all boat traffic,” said Mogensen. “People commit suicide. People get drunk. Some are mad and try to balance on the railing. But it doesn’t happen often.”
“Are people who fall overboard usually recovered? Either drowned or alive?”
“Most of them float ashore, dead,” Mogensen answered. “Some get caught in fishing nets. Only a few disappear completely.”
Wallander had no more questions. He thanked the man for his help and said goodbye.
He had nothing tangible to go on, and yet now he was convinced that Runfeldt had never gone to Copenhagen. He had packed his bag, taken his passport and ticket, and left his flat. Then he had disappeared.
Wallander thought about the puddle of blood inside the florist’s shop. What did that mean? Maybe they had it all wrong. It might well be that the break-in was no mistake.
He paced around the flat, trying to understand. The telephone in the kitchen rang, making him jump. He hurried over to answer it. It was Hansson, calling from Eriksson’s.
“I heard from Martinsson that Runfeldt has disappeared,” he said.
“He’s not here, at any rate,” Wallander answered.
“You have any ideas?”
“No. I think he did intend to take his trip, but something prevented him.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
Wallander thought about it. What did he actually believe? He didn’t know.
“We can’t rule out the possibility,” was all he said.
He asked what had happened out at the farm, but Hansson had nothing new to report. After he hung up, Wallander walked through the flat once more. He had a feeling that there was something he should be noticing. Finally he gave up. He looked through the post out in the hall. There was the letter from the travel agency. An electricity bill. There was also a receipt for a parcel from a mail-order company in Borås. It had to be paid for at the post office. Wallander stuck the slip in his pocket.
Vanja Andersson was waiting for him when he arrived with the keys. He asked her to get in touch with him if she thought of anything else that might be important. Then he drove to the station. He left the slip with Ebba and asked her to have someone pick up the parcel. At 1 p.m. he closed the door to his office. He was hungry. But he was more anxious than hungry. He recognised the feeling. He knew what it meant.
He doubted that they would find Gösta Runfeldt alive.
CHAPTER 8
At midnight, Ylva Brink finally sat down to have a cup of coffee. She was one of two midwives working the night of 30 September in the maternity ward of Ystad’s hospital. Her colleague, Lena Söderström, was with a woman who had just started to have contractions. It had been a busy night – without drama, but with a steady stream of tasks that had to be carried out.
They were understaffed. Two midwives and two nurses had to handle all the work. There was an obstetrician they could call if there was serious haemorrhaging or any other complication,
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