The White Lioness Page 41

  She thought about the girl being held prisoner in the cellar. That was the only thing she had asked Konovalenko about these last few days. What would happen to her? He said they would let her go once he had captured her father. But she wondered from the first if he really meant that. She shuddered at the thought of him killing her as well.

  Tania had trouble sorting out her own feelings on this matter. She could feel unreserved hatred for the girl’s father, who had killed her husband, and barbarically to boot, although Konovalenko had not explained in any detail what he meant by that. But sacrificing the policeman’s daughter as well was going too far, she thought. At the same time she knew she could do nothing to prevent it happening eventually. The slightest sign of resistance on her part would only result in Konovalenko turning his deadly attention to her as well.

  She was shivering in the rain, which had grown heavier, and went back into the house. The mumbling sound of Konovalenko’s voice could be heard from behind the closed door. She went out into the kitchen and looked at the hatch in the floor. The clock on the wall indicated it was time to give the girl something to eat and drink. She had already prepared a plastic carrier bag with a flask and some sandwiches. So far the girl in the cellar had never touched the food she had been given. Each time Tania came back up with what she had taken down last time. She switched on the light Konovalenko had rigged up. She carried a flashlight in one hand.

  Linda had crept into a corner. She lay there rolled up, as if suffering severe stomach cramps. Tania shone the flashlight on the pot they had left on the stone floor. It was unused. She was full of pity for the girl. At first she was so preoccupied with the pain she felt after Vladimir’s death, there had been no room for anything else. But now, when she saw the girl rolled up, paralyzed with fear, she had the feeling there was no limit to Konovalenko’s cruelty. There was absolutely no reason why she should be in a dark cellar. And with chains around her legs. She could have been kept locked in one of the rooms upstairs, tied so she could not leave the house.

  The girl did not move, but she followed Tania’s movements with her eyes. Her cropped hair made Tania feel sick. She crouched down beside the motionless girl.

  “It’ll be over soon,” she said.

  The girl did not answer. Her eyes stared straight into Tania’s.

  “You must try and eat something,” she said. “It’ll be over soon.”

  Her fear has already started to consume her, Tania thought. It’s gnawing away at her from the inside.

  Suddenly she knew she would have to help Linda. It could cost her her life. But she had no choice. Konovalenko’s evil was to great to bear, even for her.

  “It’ll be over soon,” she whispered, placing the bag by the girl’s face and going back up the stairs. She closed the hatch and turned around.

  Konovalenko was standing there. She gave a start and squealed softly. He had a way of creeping up on people without a sound. She sometimes had the feeling his hearing was unnaturally well developed. Like a nocturnal animal, she thought. He hears what other people can’t.

  “She’s asleep,” said Tania.

  Konovalenko looked at her sternly. Then he suddenly smiled and left the kitchen without saying a word.

  Tania flopped into a chair and lit a cigarette. She noticed her hands were shaking. But she knew now the resolve that had formed within her was irreversible.

  Shortly after one o’clock Svedberg called Wallander.

  He picked up the receiver after the first ring. Svedberg had been sitting in his apartment for some time, trying to figure out how to convince Wallander he should not challenge Konovalenko on his own again. But he realized Wallander was no longer acting rationally. He had reached a point where emotional impulses were just as strong as reason in guiding his actions. The only thing he could do was to urge Wallander not to confront Konovalenko on his own. In a way he is not responsible for his actions, Svedberg thought. He is being driven by fear of what might happen to his daughter. There’s no telling what he might do.

  He came straight to the point.

  “I’ve found Konovalenko’s house,” he said.

  He had the feeling Wallander winced at the other end of the line.

  “I found a clue in the stuff Rykoff had in his pockets,” he went on. “I don’t need to go into details, but it led me to an ICA store in Tomelilla. A check-out girl with a phenomenal memory pointed me in the right direction. The house is just to the east of Tomelilla. By a quarry that doesn’t seem to be in commission any more. It used to be a farm.”

  “I hope nobody saw you,” said Wallander.

  Svedberg could hear how tense and weary he was.

  “Not a soul,” he said. “No need to worry.”

  “How could I not worry?” asked Wallander.

  Svedberg did not answer.

  “I think I know where that quarry is,” Wallander went on. “If what you say is right, that gives me an advantage over Konovalenko.”

  “Have you heard from him again?” asked Svedberg.

  “Twelve hours means eight o’clock tonight,” said Wallander. “He’ll be on time. I’m not going to do anything until he contacts me again.”

  “It’ll be catastrophic if you try to take him on your own,” said Svedberg. “I can’t bear to think what would happen.”

  “You know there’s no other possibility,” said Wallander. “I’m not going to tell you where I shall meet him. I know you mean well. But I can’t take any risks. Thank you for finding the house for me. I won’t forget that.”

  Then he hung up.

  Svedberg was left sitting there with the receiver in his hand.

  What should he do now? It had not occurred to him that Wallander might simply withhold vital information.

  He replaced the receiver, convinced that while Wallander might not think he needed any help, Svedberg certainly did. The only question was who he could get to go with him.

  He went over to a window and looked out at the church tower half-hidden by the rooftops. When Wallander was on the run after that night at the military training ground, he had chosen to contact Sten Widen, he thought. Svedberg had never met the guy before. He had never even heard Wallander mention him. Nevertheless, they were obviously close friends who had known each other for a long time. He was the one Wallander turned to for help. Now Svedberg decided to do the same thing. He left the apartment and drove out of town. The rain had grown heavier, and a wind was getting up. He followed the coast road, thinking how all the things that had happened lately must come to an end soon. It was all too much for a little police district like Ystad.

  He found Sten Widen out in the stable. He was standing in front of a stall fitted with bars in which a horse was pacing up and down restlessly and occasionally delivering a vicious kick at the woodwork. Svedberg said hello and stood by his side. The restless horse was very tall and thin. Svedberg had never sat on a horse’s back in his whole life. He had a great fear of horses and could not understand how anyone would voluntarily spend his life training them and looking after them.

  “She’s sick,” said Sten Widen suddenly. “But I don’t know what’s matter with her.”

  “She seems a bit restless,” said Svedberg cautiously.

  “That’s the pain,” said Sten Widen.

  Then he drew the bolt and entered the stall. He grabbed the halter and the horse calmed down almost immediately. Then he bent down and examined her left foreleg. Svedberg leaned carefully over the edge of the stall to look.

  “It’s swollen,” said Sten Widen. “Can you see?”

  Svedberg could not see anything of the sort. But he muttered something in agreement. Sten Widen patted the horse for a while, then emerged from the stall.

  “I need to talk to you,” said Svedberg.

  “Let’s go in,” said Sten Widen.

  When they entered the house Svedberg saw an elderly lady sitting on a sofa in the untidy living room. She did not seem to fit in with Sten Widén’s surroundings. She was stri
kingly elegantly dressed, heavily made up, and wearing expensive jewelry. Sten Widen noticed he had seen her.

  “She’s waiting for her chauffeur to fetch her,” he said. “She owns two horses I have in training.”

  “So that’s it,” said Svedberg.

  “A master builder’s widow from Trelleborg,” said Sten Widen. “She’ll be on her way home soon. She comes occasionally and just sits there. I think she’s very lonely.”

  Sten Widen said the last words with a degree of understanding that surprised Svedberg.

  They sat in the kitchen.

  “I don’t really know why I’m here,” said Svedberg. “Or rather, I do know, of course. But what exactly is involved if I ask you to help, I have no idea.”

  He explained about the house he had discovered near the quarry outside Tomelilla. Sten Widen stood up and groped around in a drawer crammed full of papers and racing programs. Eventually he produced a dirty, torn map. He unfolded it on the table and Svedberg used a blunt pencil to point out where the house was situated.

  “I’ve no idea what Wallander intends to do,” said Svedberg. “All I know is that he intends to confront Konovalenko on his own. He can’t take any risks for the sake of his daughter. One can understand that, of course. The problem is simply that Wallander hasn’t a chance in hell of getting Konovalenko into safe custody on his own.”

  “So you’re intending to help him?” said Sten Widen.

  Svedberg nodded.

  “But I can’t do that on my own either,” he said. “I couldn’t think of anybody to talk to apart from you. It’s just not possible to take another cop. That’s why I came here. You know him, you’re his friend.”

  “Maybe,” said Sten Widen.

  “Maybe?” said Svedberg, puzzled.

  “It’s true we’ve known each other for a long time,” said Sten Widen. “But we haven’t been in close touch for over ten years.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Svedberg. “I thought things were different.”

  A car turned into the courtyard. Sten Widen got up and went out with the builder’s widow. It seemed to Svedberg he had made a mistake. Sten Widen was not as close a friend of Wallander’s as he thought.

  “What exactly are you thinking of?” asked Sten Widen when he returned to the kitchen.

  Svedberg told him. Some time after eight o’clock he would call Wallander. He would not be able to find out exactly what Konovalenko had said. Nevertheless, Svedberg hoped he might be able to persuade Wallander to tell him when the meeting was to take place, if nothing else. Once he knew the time of the meeting, he and preferably somebody else as well would go to the house during the night so they would be there on hand, invisible, in case Wallander needed help.

  Sten Widen listened, expressionless. When Svedberg had finished, he got up and left the room. Svedberg wondered if he had gone to the bathroom, perhaps. But when Sten Widen reappeared, he had a rifle in his hand.

  “We’d better try and help him,” he said abruptly.

  He sat down to examine the rifle. Svedberg put his pistol on the table to show that he was armed as well. Sten Widen made a face.

  “Not much to go hunting a desperate madman with,” he said.

  “Can you leave the horses?” asked Svedberg.

  “Ulrika sleeps here,” he said. “One of the girls who assist me.”

  Svedberg felt hesitant in Sten Widén’s presence. His taciturnity and odd personality made it hard for Svedberg to relax. But he was glad he would not be on his own.

  Svedberg went home at three in the afternoon. They agreed he would be in touch as soon as he had spoken to Wallander. On the way to Ystad he bought the evening papers that had just arrived. He sat in the car leafing through them. Konovalenko and Wallander were still big news, but they had already been relegated to the inside pages.

  Svedberg’s attention was suddenly caught by some headlines. The headlines he had been dreading more than anything else.

  And alongside them a photo of Wallander’s daughter.

  He called Wallander at twenty past eight.

  Konovalenko had made contact.

  “I know you won’t want to tell me what’s going to happen,” said Svedberg. “But at least tell me when.”

  Wallander hesitated before replying.

  “Seven o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said.

  “Not at the house, though,” said Svedberg.

  “No,” said Wallander. “Somewhere else. But no more questions now.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “He’s promised to release my daughter. That’s all I know.”

  You know all right, thought Svedberg. You know he’ll try to kill you.

  “Be careful, Kurt,” he said.

  “Sure,” said Wallander, and hung up.

  Svedberg was certain now the meeting would take place at the house by the quarry. Wallander’s reply had come a little bit too readily. He sat quite still.

  Then he called Sten Widen. They agreed to meet at Svedberg’s place at midnight, then drive out to Tomelilla.

  They drank a cup of coffee in Svedberg’s kitchen.

  It was still raining outside.

  They set out at a quarter to two in the morning.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The man outside her house in Bezuidenhout Park had come back again. It was the third morning in succession Miranda had seen him standing on the other side of the street, motionless, waiting. She could see him through the thin drapes in the living room window. He was white, dressed in a suit and tie, and looked like a lost soul in this world of hers. She had noticed him early in the morning, not long after Matilda left for school. She reacted immediately, for people very rarely used her street. Every morning the men living in the detached houses drove off in their cars to the center of Johannesburg. Later on the womenfolk would set out in their own cars to do the shopping, go to the beauty parlor, or simply to get away. Bezuidenhout was the haunt of frustrated and restless members of the white middle class. The ones who could not quite make it into the very top white echelons. Miranda knew many of these people were thinking about emigrating. It had occurred to her that yet another fundamental truth was inevitably about to be revealed. For these people South Africa was not the natural fatherland where soil and blood had run in the same veins and furrows. Even if they had been born here, they did not hesitate to start thinking about running away as soon as de Klerk made his speech to the nation that February. Nelson Mandela had been released from prison, and a new age was dawning. A new age that might perhaps see other blacks as well as Miranda living in Bezuidenhout.

  But the man in the street was a stranger. He did not belong there, and Miranda wondered what he was after. Anyone standing still on a street at dawn must be looking for something, something lost or dreamed about. She had stood behind the thin curtains for a long time, watching him; in the end she concluded it was her house he was keeping under observation. At first that scared her. Was he from some unknown authority, one of those incomprehensible supervisory organizations that were still governing the lives of blacks in South Africa? She had expected him to announce his presence, to ring the doorbell. But the longer he stood there, motionless, the more she began to doubt that. Besides, he was not carrying a briefcase. Miranda was used to white South Africa always addressing blacks through the medium of dogs, police, swinging batons and armored cars, or papers. But he had no briefcase, and his hands were empty.

  The first morning Miranda kept returning to the window to check if he was still there. She thought of him as a sort of statue no one was sure where to place, or that nobody wanted. By shortly before nine, the street was empty. But the next day he was back again, in the same place, staring straight at her window. She had a nasty suspicion he might be there because of Matilda. He could be from the secret police; in the background, invisible to her eyes, there could be cars waiting, full of uniformed men. But something about his behavior made her hesitate. That was when she first had the idea he
might be standing there precisely for her to see him, and realize he was not dangerous. He was not a threat, but was giving her time to get used to him.

  Now it was the third morning, Wednesday, May 20, and he was there again. Suddenly he looked around, then crossed the street, opened her gate and walked along the path to her front door. She was still behind the drapes when the bell rang. That particular morning Matilda had not gone to school. She had a headache and a temperature when she woke up, possibly malaria, and now she was asleep in her room. Miranda carefully closed her bedroom door before going to answer the front door. He had only rung once. He knew somebody was at home, and it seemed he was also sure somebody would answer.

  He’s young, thought Miranda when she confronted him in the doorway.

  The man’s voice was clear when he spoke.

  “Miranda Nkoyi? I wonder if I might come in for a moment? I promise not to disturb you for long.”

  Alarm bells were ringing somewhere inside her. But she let him in even so, showed him into the living room and invited him to take a seat.

  As usual, Georg Scheepers felt insecure when he was alone with a black woman. It did not happen often in his life. Mostly it would be one of the black secretaries that had appeared in the prosecutor’s office when the race laws were relaxed recently. This was in fact the first time he had ever sat with a black woman in her own home.

  He had the recurrent feeling that black people despised him. He was always looking for traces of enmity. The vague feeling of guilt was never so clear as when he was alone with a black. He could sense his feeling of helplessness growing, now that he was sitting opposite a black woman. It might have been different with a man. As a white man he normally had the upper hand. But now he had lost that advantage, and his chair sank beneath him until he felt like he was sitting on the floor.