Read The Fifth Woman for Free Online Page A

firmly.
    “I think he’s dead. I think somebody killed him.”
    Wallander said nothing. He was waiting for Tyrén to continue. But he didn’t.
    “Why do you think that?”
    “He had ordered heating oil. He was always home when I came. He wouldn’t have left the coffee machine on. He wouldn’t have gone out without locking the door. Even if he was just taking a little walk around his property.”
    “Did you get the impression the house had been broken into?”
    “No, everything seemed the same as usual. Except for that coffee machine.”
    “So you’ve been in his house before?”
    “Every time I delivered oil. Usually he offered me some coffee and read me some of his poems. He was probably a pretty lonely man, and I think he looked forward to my visits.”
    Wallander paused to think about it.
    “You said you think he’s dead, but you also said you think someone killed him. Why would anyone do that? Did he have any enemies?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    “But he was wealthy.”
    “Yes.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Everybody knows that.”
    Wallander let the question pass.
    “We’ll look into it,” he said. “There’s probably an ordinary explanation. There usually is.”
    Wallander wrote down the address. The name of the farm was “Seclusion”.
    Wallander walked out to reception with Tyrén.
    “I’m sure something has happened,” Tyrén said as he was leaving. “He’d never go out when I was coming with oil.”
    “I’ll be in touch,” Wallander said.
    Just then Hansson came into reception.
    “Who the hell is blocking the driveway with an oil truck?” he fumed.
    “Me,” Tyrén said calmly. “I’m leaving now.”
    “What was he doing here?” asked Hansson after Tyrén had gone.
    “He wanted to report a missing person,” said Wallander. “Have you ever heard of a writer named Holger Eriksson?”
    “A writer?”
    “Or a car dealer.”
    “Which?”
    “He seems to have been both. And according to this truck driver, he’s disappeared.”
    They went to get coffee.
    “Seriously?” said Hansson.
    “The man seems worried.”
    “I thought I recognised him,” Hansson said.
    Wallander had great respect for Hansson’s memory. Whenever he forgot a name, it was to Hansson that he went for help.
    “His name is Sven Tyrén,” Wallander said. “He said he’d done time for a thing or two.”
    Hansson searched his memory.
    “He might have been mixed up in some assault cases,” he said after a while. “Quite a few years ago.”
    Wallander listened thoughtfully.
    “I think I’ll drive out to Eriksson’s place,” he said after a while. “I’ll log him in as reported missing.”
    Wallander went into his office, grabbed his jacket, and stuffed the address of “Seclusion” in his pocket. He should have begun by filling out a missing-person form, but he skipped it for the time being. It was 2.30 p.m. when he left the police station. The heavy rain had eased to a steady drizzle. He shivered as he walked to his car.
    Wallander drove north and had no problem finding the farmhouse. As the name implied, it lay quite isolated, high up on a hill. Brown fields sloped down towards the sea, but he couldn’t see the water. A flock of rooks cawed in a tree. He raised the lid of the letter box. It was empty. Tyrén must have taken in the post. Wallander walked into the courtyard. Everything was well kept. He stood there and listened to the silence. The farmhouse consisted of three wings, and he could see that it had once formed a complete square. He admired the thatched roof. Tyrén was right. Anyone who could afford to maintain a roof like that was a wealthy man.
    Wallander walked up to the door and rang the bell. Then he knocked. He opened the door and stepped inside, listening. The letters lay on a stool next to an umbrella stand. There were several binocular cases hanging on the wall. One was open and empty. Wallander moved slowly through the house. It still smelled of burnt coffee. The