She entered the reception area at the police station. A woman in a glass cage smiled at her.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“My car was broken into,” said Tania.
“Oh, dear,” said the receptionist. “I’ll see if there’s anybody who can deal with you. The whole place is upside down today.”
“I can imagine,” said Tania. “Wasn’t it awful, what happened.”
“I never thought we’d live to see anything like this happening in Ystad,” said the receptionist. “But obviously, you never know.”
She tried several numbers. Eventually someone answered.
“Is that Martinson? Do you have time to deal with a theft from a car?”
Tania could hear an excited voice at the other end of the line, harassed, negative. But the woman would not give up.
“We have to try and function normally, in spite of everything,” she said. “I can’t find anybody but you. And it won’t take long.”
The man on the phone conceded.
“You can talk to Detective Inspector Martinson,” she said, pointing. “Third door on the left.”
Tania knocked and entered the office, which was in a terrible mess. The man behind the desk looked weary and harassed. His desk was stacked up with paper. He looked at her with ill-concealed irritation, but he invited her to sit down and started rummaging through a drawer for a form.
“Car break-in,” he said.
“Yes,” said Tania. “The thief got away with my radio.”
“They usually do,” said Martinson.
“Please excuse me,” said Tania, “but I wonder if could have a glass of water? I have such a nagging cough.”
Martinson looked at her in surprise.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Of course you can have a glass of water.”
He got up and left the room.
Tania had already noticed the address book on his desk. As soon as Martinson went out, she picked it up and found the letter W. Wallander’s home number at the Mariagatan apartment was listed, and his father’s number as well. Tania wrote it down quickly on a piece of paper she had in her coat pocket. Then she replaced the address book and looked around the office.
Martinson came back with a glass of water, and a cup of coffee for himself. The telephone started ringing, but he picked up the receiver and laid it on the desk. Then he asked his questions and she described the imaginary break-in. She gave the registration number of a car she had seen parked in the center of town. They had taken a radio, and a bag containing liquor. Martinson wrote it all down, and when he had finished he asked her to read it through and sign. She called herself Irma Alexanderson, and gave an address on the Malmö Road. She handed the sheet of paper back to Martinson.
“You must be very worried about your colleague,” she said in a friendly tone. “What was his name, now? Wallander?”
“Yes,” said Martinson. “It’s not easy.”
“I’m sorry for his daughter,” she said. “I used to be her music teacher once upon a time. But then she moved to Stockholm.”
Martinson looked at her with somewhat renewed interest.
“She’s back here again now,” he said.
“Really?” said Tania. “She must have been very lucky, then, when the apartment burned down.”
“She’s with her grandfather,” said Martinson, replacing the telephone receiver.
Tania got up.
“I won’t disturb you any longer,” she said. “Many thanks for your help.”
“No problem,” said Martinson, shaking her by the hand.
Tania knew he would forget her the moment she left the room. The dark wig she was wearing over her own blond hair meant he would never be able to recognize her.
She nodded to the woman in reception, passed by a crowd of journalists who were waiting for a press conference due to begin any time now, and left the police station.
Konovalenko was waiting in his car at the gas station on the hill leading to the town center. She got into the car.
“Wallander’s daughter is staying with his father,” she said. “I’ve got his telephone number.”
Konovalenko looked at her. Then he broke into a smile.
“We’ve got her,” he said quietly. “We’ve got her. And when we’ve got her, we’ve got him as well.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Wallander dreamed he was walking on water.
The world he found himself in was a strange blue color. The sky and its jagged clouds were blue, the edge of a forest in the far distance was also blue, and the cliff face was cluttered with blue birds roosting. And there was the sea he was walking on as well. Konovalenko was also somewhere in the dream. Wallander had been following his tracks in the sand. But then, instead of turning up toward the slope leading away from the beach, they went straight out into the sea. In his dream it was obvious that he should follow them. And so he walked on water. It was like walking over a thin layer of fine glass splinters. The surface of the water was uneven, but it bore his weight. Somewhere, beyond the last of those blue islets, close to the horizon, was Konovalenko.
He remembered his dream when he woke up early on Sunday morning, May 17. He was on the sofa in Sten Widén’s house. He padded out into the kitchen and noted it was half past five. A quick look into Sten Widén’s bedroom revealed that he was up already, and had gone out to the horses. Wallander poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table.
The previous evening he had tried to start thinking again.
In one sense his situation was easy to assess. He was a wanted man, and they were looking for him. But he could be wounded, he could be dead. Moreover, he had pointed guns at his colleagues and thus demonstrated that he was out of his mind. In order to catch Konovalenko they would also have to track down Chief Inspector Wallander from Ystad. So far, his situation was quite clear. The previous day, when Sten Widen told him what was in the evening papers, he had decided to play the part assigned to him. That would give him time. And he needed that time in order to catch up with Konovalenko and, if necessary, kill him.
Wallander realized he was setting up a sacrificial lamb. Himself. He doubted whether the police could arrest Konovalenko without more cops being injured, perhaps killed. And therefore he would sacrifice himself. The very thought terrified him. But he felt he could not run away. He had to achieve what he had set out to do, regardless of the consequences.
Wallander tried to imagine what Konovalenko was thinking. He concluded that Konovalenko could not be completely indifferent to his existence. Even if Konovalenko did not regard him as a worthy adversary, he must have gathered that Wallander was a cop who went his own way and did not hesitate to use a gun if necessary. If nothing else that should have earned him a certain amount of respect, even if Konovalenko knew deep down that the basic assumption was false. Wallander was a cop who never took unnecessary risks. He was both cowardly and cautious. When he reacted in primitive fashion, it was always because he was in desperate circumstances. But by all means let Konovalenko go on thinking I’m not the man I really am, thought Wallander.
He had also tried to figure out what Konovalenko had in mind. He had returned to Skåne, and succeeded in killing Victor Mabasha. Wallander had difficulty in believing he was acting on his own. He had brought Rykoff with him, but how had he managed to get away without outside help? Rykoff’s wife, Tania, must be around, and maybe other henchmen Wallander didn’t know about. They had rented a house under a false name before. Maybe they’ve hidden themselves away again in some remote house out in the sticks.
Having got that far, Wallander realized there was another important question still waiting to be resolved.
What happens after Victor Mabasha, he wondered. What about the assassination that was the center of everything that’s happened? What about the invisible organization that’s pulling all the strings, even Konovalenko’s? Will the whole thing be called off? Or will these faceless men keep on trekking towa
rds their goal?
He drank his coffee, and concluded there was only one thing open to him. He had to make sure Konovalenko could find him. When they attacked the apartment, they were looking for him as well. Victor Mabasha’s last words were that he didn’t know where Wallander was. Konovalenko wanted to know.
He could hear footsteps in the hall. Sten Widen came in. He was dressed in dirty overalls and muddy boots.
“We’re racing at Jagersro today,” he said. “How about coming along?”
Wallander was tempted, just for a moment. He welcomed anything that could divert his thoughts.
“Is Fog running?” he asked.
“She’s running, and she’s going to win,” said Sten Widen. “But I doubt whether the gamblers will have enough faith in her. That means you could earn a few kronor.”
“How can you be so sure she’s the best?” wondered Wallander.
“She’s a temperamental beast,” said Sten Widen, “but today she’s raring to go. She’s restless in her box. She can sense the chips are down. And the opposition is not all that brilliant. There are a few horses from Norway I don’t know much about. But I guess she can beat them as well.”
“Who’s the owner of this horse?” asked Wallander.
“Some businessman by the name of Morell.”
Wallander recognized the name. He had heard it not long ago, but could not remember the context.
“Stockholmer?”
“No. From Skåne.”
Something clicked for Wallander. Peter Hanson and his pumps. A fence by the name of Morell.
“What line of business is this Morell in?” asked Wallander.
“To tell you the truth, I think he’s a little shady,” said Sten Widen. “Or so rumor has it. But he pays his training bills on time. No business of mine where the money comes from.”
Wallander had no more questions.
“I don’t think I’ll come, thanks all the same,” he said.
“Ulrika bought in some food,” said Sten Widen. “We’ll be taking the horses off in an hour or two. You’ll have to look after yourself.”
“What about the Duett? asked Wallander. ”Will you leave it here?”
“You can borrow it if you like,” said Sten Widen. “But remember to fill the tank. I keep forgetting.”
Wallander watched the horses being led into the big horse boxes, and driven off. Not long afterwards he was also on his way. When he got to Ystad he took the risk of driving down Mariagatan. It looked pretty desolate. A yawning hole in the wall, surrounded by filthy bricks, showed where the window used to be. He stopped only briefly, before driving right through town. As he passed the military training ground he noted a squad car parked a long way from the perimeter. Now the fog had disappeared, the distance seemed shorter than he remembered it. He drove on and turned off down to the harbor at Kåseberga. He knew there was a risk he might be recognized, but the photo of him in the newspapers was not a particularly good likeness. The problem was he might bump into somebody he knew. He went into a phone booth and called his father. Just as he had hoped, his daughter answered.
“Where are you?” she asked. “What are you up to?”
“Just listen,” he said. “Can anybody overhear you?”
“How could anybody? Grandad’s painting.”
“Nobody else?”
“There’s nobody here, I told you!”
“Haven’t the police stationed a guard yet? Isn’t there a car parked on the road?”
“There’s Nilson’s tractor in one of the fields.”
“Nothing else?”
“Dad, there’s nobody here. Stop worrying about it.”
“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” he said. “Don’t say anything to your grandad.”
“Have you seen what they put in the papers?”
“We can talk about that later.”
He replaced the receiver, thinking how pleased he was nobody had yet confirmed that he killed Rykoff. Even if the police knew, they wouldn’t release the information until Wallander returned. He was quite sure of that, after all his years in the force.
He drove straight to his father’s house from Kåseberga. He left the car on the main road and walked the last bit, taking a path where he knew he could not be seen.
She was standing at the door, waiting for him. When they got into the hallway, she hugged him. They stood there in silence. He did not know what she was thinking. As far as he was concerned, though, it was proof that they were on the way to establishing a relationship so close that words were sometimes unnecessary.
They sat in the kitchen, opposite each other at the table.
“Grandad won’t show up for quite some time yet,” she said. “I could learn a lot from his working discipline.”
“Or stubbornness,” he said.
They both burst out laughing at the same time.
Then he grew serious again. He told her slowly what had happened, and why he had decided to accept the role of a wanted man, a half-crazy cop on the loose.
“Just what do you think you’ll achieve? All by yourself?”
He could not make up his mind whether fear or skepticism lay behind her question.
“I’ll lure him out. I’m well aware I’m no one-man army. But if this thing is going to be solved, I have to take the first step myself.”
Quickly, as if in protest at what he had just said, she changed the subject.
“Did he suffer a lot?” she asked. “Victor Mabasha?”
“No,” Wallander replied. “It was over in a flash. I don’t think he had any idea he was going to die.”
“What’ll happen to him now?”
“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “I guess there’ll be an autopsy. Then it’s a matter of whether his family want him buried here, or in South Africa. Assuming that’s where he comes from.”
“Who is he, in fact?”
“I don’t know. I sometimes felt I’d established some kind of contact with him. But then he slipped away again. I can’t say I know what he was thinking deep down. He was a remarkable man, very complicated. If that’s how you get when you live in South Africa, it must be a country you wouldn’t even want to send your worst enemy to.”
“I want to help you,” she said.
“You can,” said Wallander. “I want you to call the police station and ask to speak with Martinson.”
“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “I’d like to do something nobody else can do.”
“That’s not the kind of thing you can plan in advance,” said Wallander. “That just happens. When it happens.”
She called the police station and asked to speak with Martinson. But the switchboard could not track him down. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and asked what she should do. Wallander hesitated. But then he realized he could not afford to wait, nor pick and choose. He asked her to get Svedberg instead.
“He’s in a meeting,” she said. “Not to be disturbed.”
“Tell her who you are,” said Wallander. “Say it’s important. He has to leave the meeting.”
It was a few minutes before Svedberg came to the phone. She handed the receiver to Wallander.
“It’s me,” he said. “Kurt. Don’t say anything. Where are you?”
“In my office.”
“Is the door closed?”
“Just a moment.”
Wallander could hear him slamming the door.
“Kurt,” he said. “Where are you?”
“I’m somewhere where you’ll never be able to find me.”
“Damn, Kurt.”
“Just listen. Don’t interrupt. I need to meet you. But only on condition you don’t say a word to anybody. Not to Björk, not to Martinson, nobody. If you can’t promise that I’ll hang up right away.”
“Right now we’re in the conference room discussing how to scale up the search for you and Konovalenko,” said Svedberg. “It’ll be absurd if I can’t go back to that meeting and not say I’ve just been talking
with you.”
“That can’t be helped,” said Wallander. “I think I have good reason for doing what I’m doing. I’m intending to cash in on the fact that I’m wanted.”
“How?”
“I’ll tell you when we meet. Make up your mind now!”
There was a long pause. Wallander waited. He could not predict what Svedberg would decide.
“I’ll come,” said Svedberg eventually.
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
Wallander described the way to Stjarnsund.
“Two hours from now,” said Wallander. “Can you make that?”
“I’ll have to make sure I can,” said Svedberg.
Wallander hung up.
“I want to be certain somebody knows what I’m doing,” he said.
“In case something happens?”
Her question came so suddenly Wallander had no time to think of an evasive answer.
“Yes,” he said. “In case something happens.”
He stayed for another cup of coffee. As he was getting ready to leave, he suddenly hesitated.
“I don’t want to make you any more worried than you already are,” he said, “but I don’t want you to leave these four walls for the next few days. Nothing’s going to happen to you. It’s probably just to make me sleep easier at night.”
She patted his cheek.
“I’ll stay here,” she said. “Don’t you worry.”
“Just a few more days,” he said. “It can hardly be more than that. This nightmare will be over by then. Then I’ll have to get used to the fact that I killed somebody.”
He turned and left before she had chance to say anything. He could see in the rearview mirror that she had followed him to the road and was watching him drive away.
Svedberg was on time.
It was ten to three when he turned into the courtyard.
Wallander put on his jacket and went out to meet him.
Svedberg looked at him and shook his head.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I think I can handle it,” said Wallander. “But thanks for coming.”
The White Lioness Page 37