Free The Fifth Woman by Henning Mankell Page B

How were they going to proceed? Everyone was exhausted now, anxious, soaking wet, and hungry.
    Martinsson stood with a phone pressed to his ear. Wallander wondered if he was talking to his wife, who often worried about him. But when he hung up he told them that a meteorologist had forecast that the rain would stop during the night. Wallander decided that the best thing to do was wait until dawn. They hadn’t yet begun to hunt for the killer; they were still looking for leads to give them a starting point. The dog units hadn’t picked up any scents. Wallander and Nyberg had been up in the tower but had found no clues. Wallander turned to Chief Holgersson.
    “We’re getting nowhere,” he said. “I suggest we meet again at dawn. The best thing we can do now is rest.”
    No-one had any objection. They all wanted to go home. All except Sven Nyberg, of course. Wallander knew he’d want to stay. He’d keep at it through the night, and he’d be there when they returned. As the others started to head up towards the cars by the farmhouse, Wallander hung back.
    “What do you think?” he asked.
    “I don’t think anything,” Nyberg said. “Except that I’ve never in my life seen anything remotely like this.”
    They stood looking into the ditch. Plastic sheeting had been spread across it.
    “What exactly are we looking at?” asked Wallander.
    “A copy of an Asian trap for large predators,” Nyberg said, “which is also used in wars. They call them pungee stakes.”
    Wallander nodded.
    “Bamboo doesn’t grow this thick in Sweden,” Nyberg went on. “We import it to use for fishing rods and furniture.”
    “Besides, there aren’t any large predators in Skåne,” Wallander said thoughtfully. “And we’re not at war. So what exactly are we looking at?”
    “Something that doesn’t belong here,” Nyberg said. “Something that doesn’t fit. Something that gives me the creeps.”
    Wallander watched him attentively. Nyberg was seldom this loquacious. His expression of both personal revulsion and fear was entirely out of character.
    “Don’t work too late,” Wallander said as he left, but there was no answer.
    Wallander climbed over the barricade, nodded to the officers who would be guarding the scene of the crime overnight, and continued up to the farmhouse. Lisa Holgersson had stopped halfway up the path to wait for him. She had a torch in her hand.
    “We’ve got reporters up there,” she said. “What are we going to tell them?”
    “Not much,” Wallander said.
    “We can’t even give them Eriksson’s name?” she said.
    Wallander pondered this before he replied.
    “I think we can. I’ll assume that the oil-truck driver knows what he’s talking about. He told me Eriksson had no relatives. If we don’t have anyone to inform of his death, we might as well release his name. It might help us.”
    They continued walking. Behind them the floodlights cast an eerie glow.
    “Can we say anything else?” she asked.
    “Tell them it’s a murder,” Wallander replied. “That’s one thing we can say with certainty. But we have no motive and no leads to a suspect.”
    “Have you formed any opinion on that yet?”
    Wallander could feel how tired he was. Every thought, every word he had to say, seemed to take huge effort.
    “I didn’t see any more than you did, but it was very well planned. Eriksson walked into a trap that slammed shut. That means there are at least three conclusions we can easily draw.”
    They stopped again.
    “First, we can assume that whoever did it knew Eriksson and at least some of his habits,” Wallander began. “Second, the killer intended him to die.”
    Wallander turned and was about to start walking again.
    “You said three things.”
    He looked at her pale face in the light from the torch. He wondered vaguely how he looked himself. Had the rain washed away his Italian tan?
    “The killer didn’t just want to take Eriksson’s life,” he said. “He wanted him to suffer.