Slowly they went through what she thought she had seen. Wallander let Hansson do the questioning while he wrote down her answers.
She had observed a dark van at half past eleven. She was sure of the time because she had just looked down at her watch.
“It’s an old habit,” she said apologetically. “It’s ingrained in me by now. I always had one client in the chair and a whole waiting room full of others. Time always went too fast.”
Hansson tried to get her to identify the kind of van it had been. He had brought along a folder he had assembled himself a few years ago. It had pictures of different models of cars, as well as a color chart. Naturally there were all kinds of computer programs for this now, but Hansson, like Wallander, had trouble adjusting his work habits.
After a while they concluded it had possibly been a Mercedes. Either navy blue or black.
She hadn’t seen the license plates or if there was a driver or not. But she had seen a shadowy figure behind the van.
“Well, I wasn’t the one who saw him,” she explained. “It was my dog, Steadfast. He pricked up his ears and strained in that direction.”
“I know it may be hard to describe what you saw,” Hansson said. “But I’d like you to try. Was it a man or a woman?”
She thought for a long time before answering.
“The figure was not wearing a skirt,” she said finally. “So I guess I think it was a man.”
Hansson continued.
“What happened after that?”
“I took my usual walk.”
Hansson spread a map on the table. She described her route.
“That means you passed by the cash machine on your way back. Was the van gone then?”
“Yes.”
“When was that?”
“About ten past twelve.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I got home at twenty-five minutes past twelve. It takes me fifteen minutes to walk home from that spot.”
She showed him where she lived on the map. Wallander and Hansson agreed with her. It would take about that long.
“But you didn’t see anything in that area when you walked home?” Hansson continued. “And your dog didn’t react in any way?”
“No.”
“Isn’t that surprising?” Hansson said to Wallander.
“The body must have been stored at a low temperature,” Wallander said. “Then it wouldn’t have a smell. We can ask Nyberg, or one of the canine units.”
“I’m very glad I didn’t see anything,” Alma Högström said firmly.
“It’s terrible even to imagine it. People delivering dead bodies in the middle of the night.”
“Did you know that this man you normally saw during your evening walks was called Falk?” Wallander asked.
Her answer came as a surprise.
“He was my patient once upon a time. He had good teeth. I only saw him a couple of times, but I have a good memory for faces and names.”
“He often took walks at night?” Hansson asked.
“I used to meet him several times a week. He was always alone. I said hello sometimes, but he didn’t seem to want to be disturbed.”
Hansson had no more questions. He looked over at Wallander, who nodded.
“We may be in touch if we need anything else,” he said. “If you think of anything in the meantime, we would of course like to hear from you.”
Hansson followed her out, while Wallander remained seated.
He thought about what she had told them. Nothing had really emerged that helped them make more sense out of the case.
Hansson came back and picked up his folders.
“A black or navy blue Mercedes van,” he said. “I guess we should look into cars that have been stolen recently.”
Wallander nodded.
“And talk to one of the canine units about the question of smell. At least we have a fixed time for the event. That counts for a lot at this stage.”
Wallander returned to his office. It was a quarter to twelve. He called Martinsson and told him what had happened during the night. Martinsson listened without saying a word. It irritated Wallander but he managed to control himself. Instead he said he would meet Martinsson in the reception area and give him the keys to the apartment.
“Maybe I’ll learn something,” Martinsson said when they met. “Watching a real master climb the firewalls.”
“I assure you the responsibility is still all mine,” Wallander said. “But I don’t want him to be left alone.”
Martinsson noticed Wallander’s gentle irony and immediately became defensive.
“We can’t all be like you,” he said. “Some of us actually take police regulations seriously.”
“I know,” Wallander said patiently. “And of course you’re right. But I’m still not going to Viktorsson or Lisa for permission on this.”
Martinsson disappeared out the front doors.
Wallander felt hungry. He walked down into town and had lunch at István’s Pizzeria. István was very busy. They never had a chance to talk about Fu Cheng and his fake credit card. On the way back to the station, Wallander posted his letter to the dating service. He continued on in the firm conviction that he would not be receiving a single reply.
He had just reached his office when the phone rang. It was Nyberg. Wallander went back out into the hallway. Nyberg’s office was on the floor below. When Wallander got there, he saw the hammer and knife that had been used in Lundberg’s murder lying on Nyberg’s desk.
“As of today I’ve been a policeman for forty years,” Nyberg intoned grumpily when he came in. “I started on a Monday, but of course my meaningless anniversary has to fall on a Sunday.”
“If you’re so sick of your job, you should just quit,” Wallander shot back.
He was surprised that he’d lost his temper. He had never done so with Nyberg before. In fact, he always tried to be as tactful as possible around his irascible colleague.
But Nyberg didn’t seem to take offense. He looked at Wallander with curiosity.
“Well, well,” he said. “I thought I was the only one around here with a temper.”
“Forget it. I didn’t mean it,” Wallander mumbled.
That made Nyberg angry.
“Of course you meant it. That’s the whole point. I don’t know why people have to be so afraid of showing a little temperament. And anyway, you’re right. I’m just bitching.”
“Maybe that’s what we’re all reduced to in the end,” Wallander said.
Nyberg pulled the plastic bag with the knife over toward him with impatience.
“The results of the fingerprinting have come back,” he said. “There are two different sets on this knife.”
Wallander leaned in attentively.
“Eva Persson and Sonja Hökberg?”
“Exactly.”
“So Persson may not be lying in this particular case?”
“It seems it’s at least a possibility.”
“That Hökberg is responsible for the murder, you mean?”
“I’m not implying anything. That’s not my job. I’m just telling you the facts. It’s a legitimate possibility, that’s all.”
“What about the hammer?”
“Only Hökberg’s prints. No one else’s.”
Wallander nodded.
“That’s good to know.”
“We know more than that,” Nyberg said, leafing through the papers that were strewn across his desk. “Sometimes the pathologists exceed even their own expectations. They have determined that the blows were inflicted in stages. First he was hit with the hammer, then with the knife.”
“And not the other way around?”
“No. And not at the same time.”
“How can they determine that?”
“I only know the approximate answer to that, but it’s hard to explain.”