The White Lioness Read online

  Evening came and Konovalenko still had not made contact. Svedberg called to say he could be reached at home from now on. Wallander called Sten Widen but did not really have anything to say. At ten o’clock he sent his father to bed. It was spring, and still light outside. He sat on the steps outside the kitchen door for a while. When he was sure his father was asleep, he called Baiba Liepa in Riga. No reply at first. But she was home when he tried again half an hour later. He was icily calm as he told her his daughter had been abducted by a very dangerous man. He said he had no one to talk to, and just then he felt he was telling the absolute truth. Then he apologized once again for the night when he had been drunk and woken her up with his call. He tried to explain his feelings for her, but without success. The words he needed were outside his grasp of English. Before hanging up he promised to get back to her. She listened to what he had to say, but hardly said anything herself from start to finish. Afterwards he wondered whether he really had been talking to her, or whether it was all in his imagination.

  He spent a sleepless night. Occasionally he slumped down into one of his father’s worn old armchairs and closed his eyes. But just as he was about to doze off, he would wake up again with a start. He started pacing up and down once more, and it was like reliving the whole of his life. Toward dawn he stood staring at a solitary hare sitting motionless in the courtyard.

  It was now Tuesday, May 19.

  Shortly after five o’clock it started raining.

  The message came just before eight.

  A taxi from Simrishamn turned into the courtyard. Wallander heard the car approaching from some way off, and went out onto the steps when it came to a halt. The driver got out and handed over a fat envelope.

  The letter was addressed to his father.

  “It’s for my father,” he said. “Where is it from?”

  “A lady handed it in at the taxi station in Simrishamn,” said the driver, who was in a hurry and did not want to get wet. “She paid for it to be delivered. It’s all fixed. I don’t need a receipt.”

  Wallander nodded. Tania, he thought. She has taken over her husband’s role as errand boy.

  The cab disappeared. Wallander was alone in the house. His father was already out painting in his studio.

  It was a padded envelope. He examined it carefully before starting to open it along one of the short sides. At first he could not see what was inside. Then he saw Linda’s hair, and the necklace he had once given her.

  He sat still as a statue, staring at the cropped hair lying on the table in front of him. Then he started crying. His pain had passed another limit, and he could not fight it any more. What had Konovalenko done to her? It was all his fault, getting her involved in this.

  Then he forced himself to read the enclosed letter.

  Konovalenko would be in touch again in exactly twelve hours. They needed to meet in order to sort out their problems, he wrote. Wallander would just have to wait until then. Any contact with the police would put his daughter’s life in danger.

  The letter was unsigned.

  He looked again at his daughter’s hair. The world was helpless in the face of such evil. How could he stop Konovalenko?

  He imagined these were exactly the thoughts Konovalenko wanted him to be having. He had also given him twelve hours with no hope of doing anything other than what Konovalenko had dictated.

  Wallander sat frozen like a statue on his chair.

  He had no idea what to do.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Along time ago, Karl Evert Svedberg had decided to become a cop for a very particular reason, and one reason only—a reason he tried to keep secret.

  He was terrified of the dark.

  Ever since he was a child he had slept with the bedside lamp lit. Unlike most other people, he did not notice his fear of the dark receding as he grew older. On the contrary, it had become worse when he was a teenager. And so had his feeling of shame at suffering from a defect that could hardly be classified as anything other than cowardice. His father was a baker who rose at half past two every morning; he therefore suggested his son should follow him into the business. As he would sleep in the afternoons, the problem would solve itself. His mother was a milliner, considered by her dwindling circle of customers to be very skillful at creating individual and expressive ladies’ hats, and she regarded the problem as altogether more serious. She took her son to a child psychologist, who was convinced the problem would disappear in time. But the opposite occurred. He became even more scared. He could never figure out what was the cause of it all, though. In the end he decided to become a cop. He thought his fear of the dark might be countered by boosting his personal courage. But now, this spring day, Tuesday, May 19, he woke up with his bedside lamp on. Moreover, it was his custom to lock the bedroom door. He lived alone in an apartment in central Ystad. He was born in the town, and disliked leaving it—even for short periods.

  He put the light out, stretched, and got up. He had slept badly. The developments concerning Kurt Wallander had made him upset and scared. He could see that he had to assist Wallander. During the night he had worried about what he could do without breaking the vow of silence Wallander had imposed upon him. In the end, shortly before dawn, he made up his mind. He would try to track down the house where Konovalenko was hiding. He guessed it was highly likely that Wallander’s daughter was being held prisoner there.

  He got to the police station just before eight. The only starting point he had was what had happened at the military training ground a few hours previously. It was Martinson who had gone though the few belongings he found in the dead men’s clothes. There was nothing remarkable. Nevertheless, as dawn broke, Svedberg decided to go through the material one more time. He went to the room where the various pieces of evidence and other finds from several crime scenes were kept, and identified the relevant plastic bags. Martinson had found nothing at all in the African’s pockets, which seemed significant in itself. Svedberg replaced the bag containing nothing more than a few grains of dust. Then he carefully tipped out onto the table the contents of the other bag. Martinson had found cigarettes, a lighter, grains of tobacco, unclassifiable bits of dust, and other odds and ends one would expect to find in the fat man’s pocket. Svedberg contemplated the objects on the table in front of him. His interest was immediately focused on the cigarette lighter. It had an advertising slogan that was almost completely worn away. Svedberg held it up to the light and tried to figure out what it said. He replaced the bag, and took the lighter to his office. At ten-thirty they were due at a meeting to establish how things were going in the attempt to capture Konovalenko and Wallander. He wanted the time before that meeting to himself. He took a magnifying glass from a drawer, adjusted the desk lamp, and started to study the lighter. After a minute or so, his heart started beating faster. He had managed to figure out the text, and it presented a clue. If the clue would lead to a solution was too early to say, of course. But the lighter sported an advertising slogan for ICA in Tomelilla. That was not conclusive evidence in itself. Rykoff could have picked it up more or less anywhere. But if Rykoff had in fact been at the ICA store in Tomelilla, it was not impossible that a checkout assistant might be able to remember a man who spoke broken Swedish, and most obviously of all, was incredibly fat. He put the lighter in his pocket and left the police station without saying where he was going.

  He drove to Tomelilla, went into the ICA store, showed his ID, and asked to see the manager. This turned out to be a young man by the name of Sven Persson. Svedberg showed him the lighter and explained what he wanted to know. The manager thought for a while, then shook his head. He could not remember a fat guy being in the store recently.

  “Talk to Britta,” he said. “The girl at the check-out. But I’m afraid she has a pretty bad memory. Well, she’s scatterbrained at least.”

  “Is she the only check-out person?” wondered Svedberg.

  “We have an extra one on Saturdays,” said the manager. “She’s not in
today.”

  “Call her,” said Svedberg. “Ask her to come here at once.”

  “Is it that important?”

  “Yes. Immediately.”

  The manager disappeared to make the call. Svedberg had left no doubt about what he wanted. He waited until Britta, a woman in her fifties, was through with the customer she was dealing with and who had produced a wad of various coupons for discounts and special offers. Svedberg identified himself.

  “I want to know if you’ve had a big, fat guy shopping here recently,” he said.

  “We get lots of fat guys shopping here,” said Britta unsympathetically.

  Svedberg rephrased the question.

  “Not just fat,” he said. “Positively obese. Absolutely enormous. And a guy who speaks bad Swedish as well. Has anyone of that description been here?”

  She tried to remember. At the same time Svedberg could see her growing curiosity was affecting her concentration.

  “He hasn’t done anything in the least exciting,” said Svedberg. “I just want to know if he’s been in here.”

  “No,” she said. “If he was that fat, I’d have remembered the guy. I’m dieting myself, you see. So I look at people.”

  “Have you been away at all lately?”

  “No.”

  “Not even for an hour?”

  “Well, I sometimes have to go out an errand.”

  “Who does the check-out then?”

  “Sven.”

  Svedberg could feel any hope he had ebbing away. He thanked her for her assistance and wandered around the shop while waiting for the part-timer. As he did so, his mind was working overtime, trying to figure what to do if the lead given by the inscription on the cigarette lighter went nowhere. Where could he find another starting point?

  The girl who worked Saturdays was young, barely more than seventeen. She was strikingly corpulent, and Svedberg dreaded having to talk with her about fat people. The manager introduced her as Annika Hagström. Svedberg was unsure how to start. The manager had withdrawn discreetly. They were standing by some shelves stacked high with food for dogs and cats.

  “I gather you work here on Saturdays,” Svedberg began hesitantly.

  “I’m out of work,” said Annika Hagström. “There aren’t any jobs. Sitting here on Saturdays is all I do.”

  “It can be pretty bad just now,” said Svedberg, trying to sound understanding.

  “Actually, I’ve wondered about becoming a cop,” said the girl.

  Svedberg stared at her in astonishment.

  “But I’m not sure I’m the type to wear a uniform,” she went on. “Why aren’t you wearing a uniform?”

  “We don’t always have to,” said Svedberg.

  “Maybe I’ll think again, then,” said the girl. “Anyway, what have I done?”

  “Nothing,” said Svedberg. “I just wanted to ask if you’d seen a male personage in this shop who looked a little unusual.”

  He groaned inwardly at his clumsy way of putting it.

  “What do you mean, unusual?”

  “A guy who is very fat, and speaks bad Swedish.”

  “Oh, him,” she said immediately.

  Svedberg stared at her.

  “He was here last Saturday,” she continued.

  Svedberg took a notebook out of his pocket.

  “When?” he asked.

  “Shortly after nine.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember what he bought?”

  “Quite a lot. Several packets of tea, among other things. He filled four bags.”

  That’s him, thought Svedberg. Russians drink tea like we drink coffee.

  “How did he pay?”

  “He was carrying money loose in his pocket.”

  “How did he seem? Was he nervous? Or what?”

  Her answers were all immediate and specific.

  “He was in a hurry. He practically stuffed the food into the bags.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know he had a foreign accent, then?”

  “He said hello and thank you. You could tell right away.”

  Svedberg nodded. He had just one more question.

  “You don’t happen to know where he lives, I suppose?” he wondered.

  She furrowed her brow and thought hard.

  Surely she can’t have an answer for that one as well, Svedberg thought quickly.

  “He lives somewhere in the direction of the quarry,” she said.

  “Quarry?”

  “Do you know where the college is?”

  Svedberg nodded. He knew.

  “Drive past there then take a left,” she said. “Then left again.”

  “How do you know he lives there?”

  “Then next in line was an old guy called Holgerson,” she said. “He always gossips when he pays. He said he’d never seen a guy as fat as that before. Then he said he’d seen him outside a house down by the quarry. There are quite a few empty houses there. Holgerson knows about everything that happens in Tomelilla.”

  Svedberg put his notebook away. He was in a hurry now.

  “I’ll tell you something.” he said. “I guess you really should become a cop.”

  “What did he do?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” said Svedberg. “If he comes back it’s very important you don’t say somebody’s been asking about him. Least of all a cop.”

  “I won’t say a word,” she said. “Would it be possible to come and see you at the police station some time?”

  “Just call and ask for me,” said Svedberg. “Ask for Svedberg. That’s me. I’ll show you around.”

  Her face lit up.

  “I’ll do that,” she said.

  “Not just now, though,” said Svedberg. “Wait a few weeks. We’re pretty busy right now.”

  He left the store and followed the directions she had given him. When he came to an exit leading to the quarry, he stopped the car and got out. He had a pair of binoculars in the glove compartment. He walked to the quarry and climbed up onto an abandoned stone crusher.

  There were two houses on the other side of the quarry, a fair distance apart. One of them was rather decrepit, but the other seemed to be in better condition. He could see no cars parked in the courtyard, and the house looked deserted. Even so, he had the feeling that this was the place. It was remote. There was no road nearby. Nobody would take that dead-end track unless they had business at the house.

  He waited, binoculars ready. It started drizzling.

  After nearly half an hour, the door suddenly opened. A woman stepped out. Tania, he thought. She stood quite still, smoking. Svedberg could not see her face because she was half-hidden by a tree.

  He dropped his binoculars. It must be the place, he thought. The girl in the store had her eyes and ears about her, and a good memory as well. He climbed down from the stone crusher and went back to his car. It was already after ten. He decided to call the police station and report sick. He had no time to sit around in meetings.

  Now he must talk to Wallander.

  Tania threw down her cigarette and stubbed it out with her heel. She was standing out in the courtyard, in the drizzle. The weather was in tune with her mood. Konovalenko had withdrawn with the new African, and she had no interest in whatever they were talking about. Vladimir had kept her informed while he was alive. She knew some important politician in South Africa was going to be killed. But she had no idea who or why. No doubt Vladimir had told her, but she had forgotten.

  She went out into the yard in order to have a few minutes to herself. She still had barely had time to work out the implications of Vladimir’s death. She was also surprised by the sorrow and pain she felt. Their marriage had never been more than a practical arrangement that suited them both. When they fled the collapsing Soviet Union, they were able to give each other some support. Afterwards, when they came to Sweden, she gave her life some purpose by helping Vladimir w
ith his various undertakings. All that changed when Konovalenko suddenly turned up. At first Tania was quite attracted to him. His decisive manner, his self-confidence stood in sharp contrast to Vladimir’s personality, and she did not hesitate when Konovalenko started to take a serious interest in her. It did not take her long to see he was just using her, however. His lack of emotion, his intense contempt for other people horrified her. Konovalenko came to dominate their lives totally. Occasionally, late at night, she and Vladimir had talked about getting out, starting all over again, far away from Konovalenko’s influence. But nothing had ever come of it, and now Vladimir was dead. She was standing in the courtyard, thinking about how much she missed him. She had no idea what would happen next. Konovalenko was obsessed with wiping out this policeman who had killed Vladimir and caused him so much trouble. She guessed thoughts about the future could wait until it was all over, the cop dead and the African back in South Africa to carry out his assignment. She realized she was dependent on Konovalenko, whether she liked it or not. She was in exile, and there was no going back. She had vague and increasingly rare thoughts about Kiev, the city both she and Vladimir came from. What hurt was not all the memories, but her conviction that she would never again see the place and the people who used to be the foundation of her life. The door had slammed inexorably behind her. It was locked, and the key had been tossed away. The final remnants had gone with Vladimir.