Tore Grunden. Next to his name was a red exclamation mark. But there was no date in the margin.
“In the back there’s a loose sheet of paper,” Hoglund said.
Wallander carefully took it out. There were meticulously written notes on it. The handwriting reminded him of Mona’s. The letters were rounded, the lines even and regular, without deletions and changes. But what was written there was hard to interpret. There were numbers, the word Hassleholm, and something that could be from a timetable: 07.50, Saturday, 22 October. Tomorrow’s date.
“What the hell does this mean?” Wallander asked. “Is Tore Grunden getting off the train in Hassleholm at 07.50?”
“Maybe he’s getting on a train,” Hoglund said.
Wallander understood. He didn’t hesitate.
“Call Birch in Lund. He’s got the phone number of a man named Karl-Henrik Bergstrand in Malmo. Get the answer to this question. Is Yvonne Ander working on the train that stops in or leaves from Hassleholm at 7.50 a.m. tomorrow?”
Martinsson pulled out his phone. Wallander stared at the open notebook.
“Where is she?” Hoglund asked. “Right now? We know where she’ll probably be tomorrow morning.”
Wallander looked at her. In the background he saw the paintings and photographs. Suddenly he knew. He should have realised it at once. He went over to the wall and unhooked the framed picture of the farm. Turned it over. Hansgarden in Vollsjo, 1965, someone had written in ink.
“That’s where she lives. And that’s where she probably is right now.”
“What should we do?” she asked.
“We’ll go out there and bring her in.”
Martinsson had got hold of Birch. They waited. The conversation was brief.
“He’ll chase down Bergstrand for us,” Martinsson said.
Wallander stood with the notebook in his hand.
“Let’s go, then. We’ll pick up the others on the way.”
“Do we know where Hansgarden is?” she asked.
“We can find it in the database,” Martinsson said. “It won’t take me ten minutes.”
Now they were in a real hurry. They were back at the station just after 2 a.m. They gathered their weary colleagues. It took longer than Martinsson thought to find Hansgarden. He didn’t find it until almost 3 a.m. It was on the outskirts of Malmo.
“Should we be armed?” Svedberg asked.
“Yes,” Wallander said. “But don’t forget that Katarina Taxell and her baby are there too.”
Nyberg came into the conference room. His hair was standing on end and his eyes were bloodshot.
“We found what we were looking for on one of the cups,” he said. “The fingerprint matches the ones on the suitcase and the cigarette butt. Because it’s not a thumbprint, I can’t say whether it’s the same one we found on the tower. That print seems to have been made later as if she had been there a second time. But it’s probably a match. Who is she?”
“Yvonne Ander,” Wallander said. “And now we’re going to bring her in. If only Bergstrand had called.”
“Do we really have to wait for him?” Martinsson said.
“Half an hour, at the most.” Wallander said.
They waited. Martinsson left the room to check that the flat on Liregatan was still under surveillance. Bergstrand called after 20 minutes.
“Yvonne Ander is working on the northbound train from Malmo tomorrow morning,” he said.
“So, we know that much,” Wallander said simply.
It was 3.45 a.m. when they left Ystad. The storm had reached its peak.
The final thing Wallander did was make two calls. First to Lisa Holgersson, then to Per Akeson. They agreed that they would arrest her as soon as humanly possible.
CHAPTER 36
At just after 5 a.m. they were gathered at Hansgarden in a hard, gusting gale. They were all freezing. They had surrounded the house in a shadow-like manoeuvre. It had been decided that Wallander and Hoglund should go in. The others had taken up positions where they each had close contact with at least one colleague.
They had left the cars out of sight of the farmhouse and approached the last stretch on foot. Wallander spotted the red Golf parked in front of the house. On the ride up to Vollsjo he had worried that she might have already left. But her car was there. She was still home. The house was dark and quiet. Wallander couldn’t see a dog.
It all went very fast. They took up their positions. Wallander asked Hoglund to announce over their radios that they would wait a few more minutes before going in.
Wait for what? She didn’t understand why. Wallander couldn’t explain it either. Maybe it was because he had to prepare himself. Or did he need to create a space for himself for a few minutes so that he could think through everything that had happened? He stood there bitterly cold, everything seeming totally unreal. They had been pursuing a strange, elusive shadow for a month. Now they were close to their goal, at the point where the pounce would conclude the hunt. It was as if he had to free himself from the feeling of unreality that surrounded everything that had happened, especially in relation to the woman in the house, whom they had to arrest. For all this he needed breathing space. That’s why he said they would wait.
He stood with Hoglund in a windbreak next to a dilapidated barn. The front door was about 25 metres away. Time passed. Soon it would be dawn. They couldn’t wait any longer.
Wallander had approved the use of guns, but he wanted everything to proceed slowly, especially since Katarina Taxell and her baby were inside. Nothing must go wrong. The most important thing was for them to stay calm.
“Now we go,” he said finally. “Pass it on.”
Hoglund spoke softly into the radio and received a series of acknowledgments from the others. She took out her revolver. Wallander shook his head.
“Keep it in your pocket,” he said. “But remember which one.”
The house was still quiet. No movement. They approached, Wallander in the lead, Hoglund behind him to the right. The wind was blowing hard. Wallander took another quick look at his watch. It was 5.19 a.m. Yvonne Ander should be up by now if she was going to make it to work. They stopped outside the door. Wallander took a deep breath, knocked on the door and took a step backwards. He had his hand on the revolver in his pocket. Nothing happened. He took a step forwards and knocked again. He tried the latch. The door was locked. He knocked again. Suddenly he felt uneasy. He pounded on the door. Still no reaction. Something was wrong.
“We’ll have to break in,” he said. “Tell the others. Who has the crowbar? Why didn’t we bring it along?”
Hoglund spoke with a firm voice into the radio. She turned her back to the wind. Wallander kept an eye on the windows next to the door. Svedberg came running with the crowbar. Wallander asked him to return to his position at once. Then he stuck in the crowbar and started prying, putting all his strength into it. The door sprang open at the lock. There was a light on in the hall. He drew his revolver, and Hoglund quickly followed his lead. Wallander crouched and went in. She stood to one side behind him and covered him with her revolver. Everything was quiet.
“Police!” Wallander yelled. “We’re looking for Yvonne Ander.”
Nothing happened. He yelled again. Cautiously he moved towards the room straight ahead of him. Hoglund followed at his flank. The sense of unreality returned. He stepped quickly into a large, open room, sweeping over it with his revolver. It was completely empty. He let his arm drop. Hoglund was on the other side of the door. A huge baking oven stood against one wall.
Suddenly a door opened across the room. Wallander gave a start and raised his revolver again, and Hoglund went down on one knee. Katarina Taxell came through the door dressed in a nightgown. She looked terrified.
Wallander lowered his revolver, and Hoglund did too. At that moment Wallander knew that Yvonne Ander wasn’t in the house.
“What’s happening?” Taxell asked.