“What’s new?” asked Martinson.
“I’m concentrating on a guy who might be Russian and whose name could be Konovalenko,” said Wallander.
“I hope to God you haven’t found yourself another Balt,” said Martinson.
“We don’t even know if Konovalenko really is his name,” said Wallander. “Or if he really is Russian. He could easily be Swedish.”
“Alfred Hanson,” said Martinson. “He told us the man who rented the house had a foreign accent.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Wallander. “But I have my doubts whether that was Konovalenko.”
“How come?”
“Just a hunch. The whole of this investigation is full of hunches. I don’t like it at all. He also said the guy who rented the room was very fat. That doesn’t fit in with the guy who shot Tengblad. If it was the same man, that is.”
“Where does this African with the severed finger fit in?”
Wallander gave him a quick rundown on his visit to the Aurora the previous night.
“You could be onto something,” said Martinson. “You’ll be staying longer in Stockholm?”
“Yeah. I have to. One more day at least. Everything quiet in Ystad?”
“Robert Åkerblom has asked via Pastor Tureson when he can bury his wife.”
“There’s nothing stopping him, is there?”
“Björk said I should talk to you.”
“Well, now you have. What’s the weather like?”
“As it should be.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s April. Changes by the minute. But I can’t pretend we’re having a heat wave.”
“Can you call my dad again and tell him I’m still in Stockholm?”
“The last time he invited me to go and visit. But I didn’t have time.”
“Can you do it?”
“Right away.”
Wallander hung up, then called his daughter. He could hear she was half asleep when she answered.
“You were supposed to call last night,” she said.
“I had to work until very late,” said Wallander.
“I can see you this morning,” she said.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’m going to be extremely busy these next few hours.”
“Maybe you don’t want to see me at all?”
“You know I do. I’ll call you later.”
Wallander hung up abruptly as Lovén stomped into the office. He knew he had offended his daughter. Why didn’t he want Lovén to hear he was talking with Linda? He didn’t know himself.
“You look like shit,” said Lovén. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Maybe I slept too long,” replied Wallander evasively. “That can be just as bad. How’s it going?”
“No breakthroughs. But we’re getting there.”
“I have a question,” said Wallander, deciding he would not mention his visit to the Aurora just yet. “They’ve had an anonymous tip in Ystad that a Russian whose name could be Konovalenko might be mixed up in this police murder.”
Lovén frowned.
“Is that something we should take seriously?”
“Could be. The informant seemed to know what he was talking about.”
Lovén thought for a moment before responding.
“It’s true we do have a lot of trouble with Russian gangsters who are taking up residence in Sweden. We’re also well aware that little problem is likely to get worse rather than better over the next few years. That’s why we’ve tried to find out what’s happening on that score.”
He groped around among some files in a bookcase before he found the one he was looking for.
“We have a guy called Rykoff,” he said. “Vladimir Rykoff. He lives out at Hallunda. If there’s anybody by the name of Konovalenko in this town, that guy ought to know.”
“Why?”
“He’s said to be extremely well informed about what goes on in that particular circle of immigrants. We could drive out and say hello.”
Lovén handed Wallander the file.
“Just read through this,” he said. “It’ll tell you a lot.”
“I can go and see him myself,” said Wallander. “We don’t both need to go.”
Lovén shrugged.
“I’m happy to get out of it,” he said. “Let’s face it, we have a lot more leads to follow up in this Tengblad business, even if there is no sign of a breakthrough yet. By the way, the technical guys think your woman in Skane was shot by the same weapon. But of course, they can’t be absolutely certain. It was probably the same weapon. There again, of course, we don’t know if it was wielded by the same hand.”
It was nearly one o’clock by the time Wallander found his way out to Hallunda. He stopped off at a motel on the way and had lunch while reading through the material Lovén had given him about Vladimir Rykoff. When he finally got to Hallunda and tracked down the apartment building, he paused for a while and observed the environment. It struck him that hardly any of the people who passed by were speaking Swedish.
This is where the future is, he thought. A kid growing up here and maybe becoming a cop will have experiences very different from mine.
He entered the hallway and found the name Rykoff. Then he took the elevator up.
A woman opened the door. Wallander could see right away she was on her guard, despite the fact he had not yet explained he was a cop. He showed her his ID.
“Rykoff,” he said. “I have a few questions for him.”
“What about?”
Wallander could hear she was foreign. She probably came from one of the eastern bloc countries.
“That’s a matter for me and him.”
“He’s my husband.”
“Is he at home?”
“I’ll go get him for you.”
As the woman disappeared through a door that he assumed led into the bedroom, he took a look around. The apartment was expensively furnished. Even so, he got the feeling everything was temporary. As if whoever lived there was ready to pack up at any moment and move on.
The door opened and Vladimir Rykoff entered the room. He was dressed in a robe that looked pretty expensive to Wallander. His hair was a mess. Wallander guessed he had been asleep.
He got the distinct impression Rykoff was also on his guard.
It suddenly dawned on him he was getting somewhere. Something was about to boost the investigation that had started almost two weeks ago when Robert Åkerblom came to his office and reported his wife was missing. An investigation that had tended to get deeper and deeper bogged down in a maze of confusing tracks, criss-crossing without providing any coherent context he could come to grips with.
He’d had a similar feeling in previous investigations. The sense of being on the verge of a breakthrough. It often turned out to be true.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” he said, “but I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”
“What about?”
Rykoff had still not asked him to sit down. His tone was brusque and dismissive. Wallander decided to take the bull by the horns. He sat down in a chair and gestured to Rykoff and his wife to follow suit.
“According to my information you came here as an Iranian refugee,” Wallander began. “You were granted Swedish citizenship in the 1970s. The name Vladimir Rykoff doesn’t sound especially Iranian.”
“My name’s my business.”
Wallander’s eyes were glued to Rykoff’s face.
“Of course,” he said. “But in some circumstances the case for granting citizenship in this country can be reexamined. If it turns out that it was based on false information.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Not at all. What’s your job?”
“I run a travel agency.”
“Called?”
“Rykoff’s Travel Service.”
“What countries do you organize trips to?”
“It varies.”
&nb
sp; “Can you give me some examples?”
“Poland.”
“More!”
“Czechoslovakia.”
“Keep going!”
“What the hell! What are you getting at?”
“Your travel agency is registered as an independent enterprise with the local authority. But according to the tax people you have made no declarations the last two years. As I naturally assume you’re not trying to evade taxes, I have to conclude that your travel business hasn’t being operating for the last few years.”
Rykoff stared at him, dumbstruck.
“We’re living on the profits from the good years,” said his wife all of a sudden. “There’s no law that says you have to keep working every year.”
“Absolutely,” said Wallander. “Mind you, most people do. For whatever reason.”
The woman lit a cigarette. Wallander could see she was nervous. Her husband stared at her disapprovingly. Demonstratively, she got up and opened a window. It was stuck, and Wallander was about to help her when it finally opened.
“I have a lawyer who takes care of everything concerning the travel agency,” said Rykoff, who was beginning to look agitated. Wallander wondered if that was due to anger, or fear.
“Let’s be frank,” said Wallander. “You have as many roots in Iran as I have. You come from Russia. It would probably be impossible to take your Swedish citizenship away from you. In any case, that’s not why I’m here. But you are Russian, Rykoff. And you know what’s going on in Russian immigrant circles. Not least among those of your countrymen who are on the wrong side of the law. A few days ago a cop was shot here in Stockholm. That’s the stupidest thing a guy can do. We get angry in a very special way. If you know what I mean.”
Rykoff seemed to have regained his composure. But Wallander could see his wife was still uneasy, although she was trying to hide it. She kept looking at the wall behind him.
Before sitting down he had noticed a clock hanging there.
Something’s supposed to happen, he thought. And they don’t want me here when it does.
“I’m looking for a man called Konovalenko,” said Wallander calmly. “Do you know anyone of that name?”
“No,” said Rykoff. “Not that I can think of.”
At that moment, three things became clear to Wallander. First, that Konovalenko existed. Second, that Rykoff knew exactly who he was. And third, that he was not at all happy about the cops asking after him.
Rykoff denied everything. But Wallander had glanced at Rykoff’s wife as he asked the question, trying to make it look coincidental. Her face, the sudden twitch in her eye, had given him the answer he was looking for.
“Are you absolutely sure? I thought Konovalenko was quite a common name.”
“I don’t know anybody called that.”
Then Rykoff turned to his wife.
“We don’t know anybody of that name, do we?”
She shook her head.
Oh yes, thought Wallander. You know Konovalenko all right. We’re going to get to him through you.
“That’s a pity,” said Wallander.
Rykoff stared at him in surprise.
“Was that all you wanted to know?”
“For the time being,” said Wallander. “But I’ve no doubt you’ll be hearing from us again. We won’t give up until we’ve nailed whoever shot that policeman.”
“I know nothing about that,” said Rykoff. “I think like everybody else, of course: it’s very sad when a young cop gets killed.”
“Of course,” said Wallander, getting to his feet. “There was just one other thing,” he went on. “You might have read in the newspapers about a woman who was murdered in the south of Sweden a few weeks ago? Or maybe you saw something about it on the TV. We think Konovalenko was involved in that, too.”
This time it was Wallander who reacted by stiffening up.
He had noticed something about Rykoff that did not quite register right away.
Then he realized what it was. The man was totally expressionless.
That was the question he’d been expecting, thought Wallander as his pulse quickened. He started prowling around the room in order to conceal his reaction.
“Do you mind if I take a look around?” he asked.
“Be my guest,” said Rykoff. “Tania, open all the doors for our visitor.”
Wallander took a look through all the doors. But all his attention was focused on Rykoff’s reaction.
Lovén did not know how right he was, thought Wallander. We have a lead in this apartment in Hallunda.
He was surprised at how calm he felt. He ought to have left the apartment right away, called Lovén, and requested a full-scale raid. Rykoff would have been subjected to interrogation, and the police would not have relaxed until he had admitted the existence of Konovalenko, and preferably also revealed where he could be found.
It was when he looked into the little room he assumed was reserved for guests that something attracted his attention, although he could not put his finger on it. There was nothing striking about the room. A bed, a desk, a Windsor-style chair, and blue drapes. A few ornaments and books occupied a bookcase on one wall. Wallander tried hard to figure out what it was he had seen, without having seen it. He memorized the details, then turned on his heel.
“Time to leave you in peace,” he said.
“We’ve nothing to hide from the police,” said Rykoff.
“Then you have nothing to fear,” Wallander replied.
He drove back to town.
Now we’ll pounce, he thought. I’ll tell Lovén and his boys this remarkable story, and we’ll get either Rykoff or his wife to spill the beans.
But now we’ll get them, he thought. Now we’ll get them.
Konovalenko had very nearly missed Tania’s signal. When he parked his car in front of the apartment block in Hallunda, he glanced up at the façade as usual. They had agreed that Tania would leave a window open if it was dangerous for him to come up, for some reason or other. The window was closed. As he was on the way to the elevator, it dawned on him he had left the carrier bag with the two bottles of vodka in the car. He went back to fetch them, and from pure habit happened to look up at the façade again. This time the window was open. He returned to the car, and sat behind the wheel to wait.
When Wallander appeared, he realized immediately that this was the cop Tania had warned him about.
Tania confirmed his suspicions later on. The man was called Wallander, and was a detective inspector. She had also noted that his ID revealed he came from Ystad.
“What did he want?” asked Konovalenko.
“He wanted to know if I knew anybody called Konovalenko,” said Rykoff.
“Good,” said Konovalenko.
Both Tania and Rykoff stared blankly at him.
“Of course it’s good,” said Konovalenko. “Who could possibly have told him about me? If you haven’t? There’s only one possibility : Victor Mabasha. We can get to Mabasha through this cop.”
Then he asked Tania for some glasses. They drank vodka.
Without saying a word, Konovalenko toasted the cop from Ystad. He was suddenly very pleased with himself.
Wallander went straight back to his hotel after the excursion to Hallunda. The first thing he did was to call his daughter.
“Can we meet?” he asked.
“Now?” she said. “I thought you were working.”
“I’ve got a few hours off. If you can make it.”
“Where do you want us to meet? You don’t know Stockholm at all.”
“I know where the Central Station is.”
“Why don’t we meet there, then? In the middle of the big hall? In forty-five minutes?”
“Sounds great.”
They hung up. Wallander went down to reception.
“I’m incommunicado for the rest of the afternoon,” he said. “Whoever comes looking for me, in person or by telephone, gets the same message. I’m on important business and can’t be c
ontacted.”
“Until when?” asked the receptionist.
“Until further notice,” said Wallander.
He crossed over the road and walked to Central Station. When he saw Linda enter the big hall, he hardly recognized her. She had dyed her hair and cut it. She was also heavily made up. She was wearing black overalls and a bright red raincoat. Boots with high heels. Wallander saw how several men turned to look at her, and suddenly felt both angry and embarrassed. This was his daughter. But the lady who turned up was a self-assured young woman. No sign of the shyness so characteristic of her in the old days. He gave her a hug, but felt there was something about it that wasn’t quite right.
She said she was hungry. It had started raining, and they ran to a café on Vasagatan, across from the main post office.
He watched her eat. He shook his head when she asked if he wanted anything.
“Mom was here last week,” she announced suddenly in between chews. “She wanted to show off her new man. Have you met him?”
“I haven’t spoken with her for more than six months,” said Wallander.
“I don’t think I like him,” she went on. “In fact, I got the impression he was more interested in me than he was in Mom.”
“Really?”
“He imports machine tools from France,” she said. “But he went on and on about playing golf. Did you know Mom had taken up golf?”
“No,” said Wallander, taken aback. “I didn’t know that.”
She stared at him for a moment before continuing.
“It’s not right that you don’t know what she’s up to,” she said. “I mean, she is the most important woman in your life to date. She knows all about you. She knows about that woman in Latvia, for instance.”
Wallander was surprised. He had never mentioned Baiba Liepa to his ex-wife.
“How come she knows about her?”
“Somebody must have told her.”
“Who?”
“Does it matter?”
“I just wondered.”
She suddenly changed the subject.
“What are you doing here in Stockholm?” she asked. “It can’t be just to see me.”
The White Lioness Page 23