The White Lioness Page 45

  Martinson arrived at the railroad station in Tomelilla soon after eight. He got out of his car and greeted Svedberg.

  “What’s so important, then?” he asked, not bothering to conceal the fact that he was annoyed.

  “You’ll see,” said Svedberg. “But I must warn you it’s not a pretty sight.”

  Martinson frowned.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Konovalenko,” said Svedberg. “He’s struck again. We have another body to deal with. A woman.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “Follow me,” said Svedberg. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  “Is Wallander mixed up in all this?” asked Martinson.

  Svedberg did not hear. He was already on the way to his car.

  Martinson did not discover what had happened until afterwards.

  Chapter Thirty

  Late on Wednesday afternoon she cut her hair.

  That was how she hoped to erase her unpleasant memories.

  Then she started talking about what had happened. Wallander had tried in vain to persuade her to see a doctor. But she refused.

  “My hair will grow again in its own good time,” she said. “No doctor can make it grow any faster than it wants to.”

  Wallander was afraid of what was coming next. What scared him was that his daughter might blame him for what had happened to her. He would find it hard to defend himself. It was his fault. He was responsible for dragging her into all this. It was not even an accident. But she had made up her mind not to see a doctor for the moment, and he did not try to convince her.

  Only once during the course of the day did she start crying. It happened unexpectedly, just as they were going to sit down to eat. She looked at him and asked what had happened to Tania. He told her the truth, that she was dead. But he avoided saying she had been tortured by Konovalenko. Wallander hoped the newspapers would leave out the details. He also told her Konovalenko was still at large.

  “But he’s on the run,” he said. “He’s a hunted man; he can’t attack whenever he likes any more.”

  Wallander suspected what he said was not completely true. Konovalenko was probably just as dangerous now as before. He also knew that he himself, once again, would be setting out to find him. But not yet, not this Wednesday, when his daughter had come back to him from the darkness, silence and fear.

  At one point on Wednesday evening he spoke with Svedberg on the telephone. Wallander asked for the night in order to catch up on sleep and do some thinking. He would come out into the open on Thursday. Svedberg told him about the search going on at full scale. There was no trace of Konovalenko.

  “But he’s not alone,” said Svedberg. “There was somebody else in that house. Rykoff is dead. Tania too. The man called Victor Mabasha died some days ago. Konovalenko ought to be on his own. But he isn’t. There was somebody else in that house. The question is: who?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wallander. “A new, unknown henchman?”

  Shortly after Svedberg had hung up, there was a call from Sten Widen. Wallander assumed he and Svedberg were in touch with each other. Sten Widen asked about Wallander’s daughter, and Wallander replied she would no doubt be OK.

  “I’m thinking about that woman,” said Sten Widen. “I’m trying to understand how anybody could do something like that to a fellow human being.”

  “There are such people,” said Wallander. “Unfortunately there are more of them than we care to think.”

  When Linda had fallen asleep, Wallander went out to the studio where his father was painting. Although he suspected it was just a temporary change of mind, he felt they had both found it easier to talk with each other during the goings-on of the last couple of days. He also wondered how much of what had happened his father had really understood.

  “Are you still determined to get married?” asked Wallander, sitting on a stool out in the studio.

  “You shouldn’t joke about serious matters,” replied his father. “We’re getting married in June.”

  “My daughter has been invited,” said Wallander. “But I haven’t.”

  “You will be,” said his father.

  “Where are you going to get married?”

  “Here.”

  “Here? In the studio?”

  “Why not? I’m going to paint a big backcloth.”

  “What do you think Gertrud will have to say about that?”

  “It’s her idea.”

  His father turned around and smiled at him. Wallander burst out laughing. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a good laugh.

  “Gertrud is an unusual woman,” said his father.

  “She must be,” said Wallander.

  On Thursday morning Wallander woke up feeling refreshed. His joy at the fact his daughter had emerged unscathed filled him with renewed energy. At the back of his mind, Konovalenko was a constant presence. He began to feel once again that he was ready to go after him.

  Wallander called Björk just before eight. He had prepared his excuses meticulously.

  “Kurt,” said Björk. “For God’s sake! Where are you? What’s happened?”

  “I guess I had a bit of a breakdown,” said Wallander, trying to sound convincing by speaking softly and slowly. “But I’m better now. I just need a few more days of peace and quiet.”

  “You must take sick leave, of course,” said Björk firmly. “I don’t know if you realized we’ve had an official search on for you. All very unpleasant. But it was necessary. I’ll call off the search for you right away. I’ll issue a press statement. The missing detective chief inspector has returned after a short illness. Where are you, by the way?”

  “In Copenhagen,” Wallander lied.

  “What the hell are you doing there?”

  “I’m staying at a little hotel and getting some rest.”

  “And no doubt you’re not going to tell me what that hotel is called? Or where it is?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “We need you as quickly as possible. But in good health. Some horrible things are happening here. Martinson and Svedberg and the rest of us feel helpless without you. We’ll be asking for assistance from Stockholm.”

  “I’ll be back on Friday. And sick leave won’t be necessary.”

  “You’ll never know how relieved I am. We’ve been extremely worried. What actually happened out there in the fog?”

  “I’ll be writing a report. I’ll be with you on Friday.”

  He hung up, and started thinking about what Svedberg had said. Who was this unknown person? Who was hanging on Konovalenko’s coattails now? He lay on his back in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Slowly, he went over all that had happened since the day Robert Åkerblom came to his office. He recalled all the summaries he had tried to write, and attempted to find some kind of path through all the confusing tracks. The feeling of being caught up in an investigation that could never quite be pinned down came to him once more. He still had not gotten behind it all, it seemed to him. He hadn’t found the starting point of all the things that had happened. He still did not know the real cause of it all.

  He called Svedberg late in the afternoon.

  “We haven’t found anything to suggest where they’ve gone,” answered Svedberg to Wallander’s question. “It’s all very mysterious. On the other hand, I think my theory about what happened during the night is correct. There’s no other plausible explanation.”

  “I need your help,” said Wallander. “I have to drive out to that house again tonight.”

  “You don’t mean you’re thinking of going after Konovalenko on your own again?” asked Svedberg, horrified.

  “Not at all,” replied Wallander. “My daughter dropped a piece of jewelry while she was being held there. I don’t suppose you’ve found it?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Who’s on guard out there tonight?”

  “I expect there’ll just be a patrol car checking up now and then.”

  “Can you kee
p that patrol car out of the way between nine and eleven tonight? I’m officially in Copenhagen, as you might have heard from Björk.”

  “Yes,” said Svedberg.

  “How can I get into the house?”

  “We found a spare key in the gutter on the right-hand corner of the house, seen from the front that is. It’s still there.”

  Afterwards Wallander wondered whether Svedberg had really believed what he said. Searching for a piece of jewelry was a pretty feeble excuse. If it was there, then of course the police would have found it. Then again, he had no idea what he thought he might find. During the last year Svedberg had developed into a skillful crime scene investigator. Wallander thought he might one day get up to Rydberg’s level. If there had been anything significant there, Svedberg would have found it. What Wallander might possibly be able to do was to see new connections.

  In any case, that is where he had to start. It was most likely, of course, that Konovalenko and his companion had returned to Stockholm. But nothing was certain.

  He left for Tomelilla at half past eight. It was warm, and he drove with the window open. It occurred to him that he still hadn’t discussed his vacation with Björk.

  He parked in the courtyard and found the key. When he got into the house he started by switching on all the lights. He looked round, and suddenly felt unsure about where to start looking. He wandered around the house, trying to pin down what he was actually looking for. A track leading to Konovalenko. A destination. An indication of who the unknown companion might be. Something that would reveal at last what was behind it all. He sat down in one of the chairs and thought back to when he checked the room first time around. At the same time he let his gaze wander. He saw nothing that seemed to him odd, or in any way remarkable. There’s nothing here, he thought. Even if Konovalenko left in a hurry, he’ll have covered up his tracks. The ashtray in Stockholm was an exception. A fluke.

  He got up from the chair and went around the house again, more slowly this time, and more carefully. He paused occasionally, lifted up a tablecloth, leafed through magazines, felt underneath the seats of chairs. Still nothing. He went through the various bedrooms, leaving the room where they had found Tania until last. Nothing. In the garbage pail, which Svedberg had naturally been through already, he found a dead mouse. Wallander poked at it with a fork and saw it had not been killed by a mousetrap. Somebody had stabbed it to death. A knife, he thought. He remembered that Victor Mabasha had had a knife. But he was dead, in the morgue. Wallander left the kitchen and went into the bathroom. Konovalenko had left nothing behind. He returned to the living room and sat down again. He picked a different chair this time, so he could see the room from another angle. There’s always something, he thought. It’s just a case of finding it. He set off to search through the house once more. Nothing. By the time he sat down again, it was already a quarter past ten. He would soon have to leave. Time was running out.

  Whoever used to live in this house had been very well organized. There was a logical plan for every object, every piece of furniture, every light fixture. He looked to see if he could find anything out of place. After a while his eye settled on a bookcase against one of the walls. All the books were standing in straight lines. Except on the bottom shelf. The back of one book was sticking out there. He got up and picked out the book. It was a road atlas of Sweden. He noticed a piece of the cover had been torn off and was inserted between a couple of pages. He opened the atlas and found himself looking at a map of eastern Sweden, including sections of Småland, Kalmar County, and the island of Oland. He studied the map. Then he sat down at a table and adjusted the lamp. He could see some traces of pencil marks here and there. As if somebody had been following a route with a pencil, occasionally letting it touch the paper. One of the faint pencil marks was at the point where the Oland bridge starts out from Kalmar. Right down at the bottom of the page, more or less level with Blekinge, he found another mark. He thought for a while. Then he turned to the map of Skåne. There were no pencil marks there. He went back to the previous page. The faint pencil marks followed the coastal road towards Kalmar. He put the atlas down again. Then he went into the kitchen and called Svedberg at home.

  “I’m still out there,” he said. “If I say Öland, what does that mean to you?”

  Svedberg pondered.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “You didn’t find a notebook when you searched the house? No telephone book?”

  “Tania had a little pocket diary in her purse,” said Svedberg. “But there was nothing in it.”

  “No loose scraps of paper?”

  “If you look in the woodstove, you’ll see somebody has been burning paper,” said Svedberg. “We went through the ashes. There was nothing there. Why do you mention Öland?”

  “I found a map,” said Wallander. “But I don’t suppose it means anything.”

  “Konovalenko has probably gone back to Stockholm,” said Svedberg. “I think he’s had enough of Skåne.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Wallander. “Sorry to disturb you. I’ll be leaving soon.”

  “No problems with the key?”

  “It was where you said it would be.”

  Wallander returned the atlas to the bookcase. Svedberg was no doubt right. Konovalenko had gone back to Stockholm.

  He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He happened to notice the telephone was standing on a directory. He picked it up and opened it.

  Somebody had written an address on the inside cover: 14 Hemmansvägen. It was written in pencil. He thought for a moment. Then he called directory assistance. When they answered he asked for the number of a subscriber by the name of Wallander who lived at 14. Hemmansvagen in Kalmar.

  “There is nobody called Wallander at the address you gave,” said the operator.

  “It could be the phone is in his boss’s name,” said Wallander. “But I can’t remember what he’s called.”

  “Could it be Edelman?” wondered the operator.

  “That’s it,” said Wallander.

  He was given the number, thanked the girl and hung up. Then he stood totally motionless. Was it possible? Did Konovalenko have another hideaway, this time on Öland?

  He put out the lights behind him, locked up and replaced the key in the gutter. There was a breeze blowing. The evening was warm and suggested early summer. His mind had been made up for him. He drove away from the house and headed for Oland.

  He stopped in Brösarp and called home. His father answered.

  “She’s asleep,” he said. “We’ve been playing cards.”

  “I won’t be coming home tonight,” said Wallander. “But don’t worry. I just have to catch up with a stack of routine work. She knows I like working nights. I’ll be in touch tomorrow morning.”

  “You come when you’re ready,” said his father.

  Wallander replaced the receiver. Their relationship might be improving after all. There was a different tone between them. Let’s hope it lasts, he thought. Maybe something good will come of this nightmare after all.

  He reached the Oland bridge at four in the morning. He had stopped twice on the way, once to fill up with gas, and once to take a nap. Now that he had arrived, he no longer felt tired. He contemplated the mighty bridge looming up before him, and the water glittering in the morning sunlight. In the parking lot where he stopped was a phone booth with a ragged directory. Hemmansvägen was evidently on the other side of the bridge. He took his pistol out of the glove pocket and checked to make sure it was loaded. He suddenly remembered the time many years ago when he had visited Oland with his sister Kristina and their parents. There was no bridge then. He had a vague memory of the little ferry that took them over the sound. They spent a week camping that summer. He remembered that week as a happy experience rather than a series of separate incidents. A vague feeling of something lost forever possessed him just for a moment. Then he redirected his thoughts to Konovalenko. He tried to convince himself that he w
as probably mistaken. The pencil marks in the atlas and the address in the directory need not have been made by Konovalenko. He would soon be on his way back to Skåne.

  He stopped when he came to the Oland side of the bridge. There was a large road map of the island there, and he got out to study it. Hemmansvägen was a side road just before the zoo entrance. He got back into the car and turned right. There was still not much traffic around. After a few minutes he found the right road. He left the car in a small parking lot. Hemmansvägen was made up of a mixture of old and new houses, all of them with large yards. He started walking. The first house had a number three on the fence. A dog eyed him suspiciously. He kept going, and figured out which house must be number fourteen. He noted that it was one of the older houses, with bay windows and elaborate ornamentation. Then he walked back the same way as he had come. He wanted to try approaching the house from the rear. He could not afford to take any risks. Konovalenko and his unknown companion could be there after all.

  There was a sports field behind the houses. He clambered over the fence, ripping his trousers high up on one leg. He approached the house from behind a wooden spectator stand. It was painted yellow, with two stories and a tower in one corner. There was a boarded-up hot-dog stand next to the fence. Crouching down, he left the shelter of the spectator stand and ran over to the hut. Once there, he took his pistol out of his pocket. He stood motionless for five minutes, watching the house. Everything was very calm. There was a toolshed in one corner of the yard. He decided that was where he would hide. He looked again at the house. Then he went down carefully onto his knees and crawled over to the fence behind the shed. It was rickety and difficult to climb over. He almost fell over backward, but managed to regain his balance and jump down into the narrow gap behind the shed. He noticed he was breathing heavily. That’s due to all the evil, he thought. He carefully stuck his head out and contemplated the house from his new position. All was still quiet. The yard was overgrown and in bad shape. Next to him was a wheelbarrow full of last year’s leaves. He began to wonder if the house was deserted. After a while he was more or less convinced it was. He left the protection of the shed and ran to the house wall. Then he followed the wall to the right in order to get around to the other side of the house, where the front door was presumably located. He gave a start when he stumbled against a hedgehog. It hissed and raised its spikes. Wallander had put his pistol back in his pocket. Now, without being quite sure why, he took it out again. The sound of a foghorn drifted in from the sound. He crept around the corner of the house and found himself at the far gable end. What am I doing here, he wondered. If there is anybody in the house, it’s bound to be some old couple who are just waking up after a good night’s sleep. What on earth will they say if they find a runaway detective inspector sneaking around in their yard? He kept going to the next corner. Then he peered around it.