The White Lioness

by Henning Mankell

  The man stood in such a way that he shielded her from the light streaming down. He had a flashlight in one hand. In the other he had a metal object she could not make out at first.

  Then she realized it was a pair of scissors.

  She screamed. Shrill, long. She thought he had climbed down the ladder in order to kill her, and that he would do it with the scissors. She grabbed the chains around her legs and started pulling at them, as if she could break free despite everything. All the time he was staring at her, and his face was no more than a silhouette against the strong background light.

  Suddenly he turned the flashlight onto his own face. He held it under his chin so that his face looked like a lifeless skull. She fell silent. Her screaming had only increased her fear. And yet she felt strangely exhausted. It was already too late. There was no point in offering resistance.

  The skull suddenly started talking.

  “You’re wasting your time screaming,” said Konovalenko. “Nobody will hear you. Besides, there’s a risk I’ll get annoyed. Then I might hurt you. Better keep quiet.”

  His last words were like a whisper.

  Daddy, she thought. You’ve got to help me.

  Then everything happened very quickly. With the same hand in which he held the flashlight, he grabbed her hair, pulled it and started cutting it off. She started back, in pain and surprise. But he was holding her so tightly, she could not move. She could hear the dry sound of the sharp scissors clipping away around the back of her neck, just under her earlobes. It happened very quickly. Then he let her go. The feeling of wanting to vomit came back. Her cropped hair was another outrage, just like him dressing her without her being aware of it.

  Konovalenko rolled up the hair into a ball and put it in his pocket.

  He’s sick, she thought. He’s crazy, a sadist, a madman who kills and feels nothing.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by him talking again. The flashlight was shining on her neck, where she was wearing a necklace. It was in the form of a lyre, and she had gotten it from her parents for her fifteenth birthday.

  “The necklace,” said Konovalenko. “Take it off.”

  She did as she was told and was careful to avoid touching his hands when she held it out. He left her without a word, climbed up the ladder, and returned her to the darkness.

  She crawled away, to one side, until she came up against a wall. She groped along till she came to a corner. Then she tried to hide there.

  The previous night, after successfully abducting the cop’s daughter, Konovalenko had ordered Tania and Sikosi Tsiki out of the kitchen. He had a great need to be alone, and the kitchen suited him best just now. The house, the last one Rykoff had rented in his life, was planned so that the kitchen was the biggest room. It was arranged in old-fashioned style, with exposed beams, a deep baking oven, and open china cupboards. Copper pots were hanging along one wall. Konovalenko was reminded of his own childhood in Kiev, the big kitchen in the kolkhoz where his father had been a political superintendent.

  He realized to his surprise that he missed Rykoff. It was not just a feeling of now having to shoulder an increased practical workload. There was also a feeling that could hardly be called melancholy or sorrow, but which nevertheless made him occasionally feel depressed. During his many years as a KGB officer, the value of life, for everybody but himself and his two children, had gradually been reduced to calculable resources or, at the opposite pole, to expendable persons. He was always surrounded by sudden death, and all emotional reactions gradually disappeared more or less completely. But Rykoff’s death had affected him, and it made him hate even more this cop who was always getting in his way. Now he had his daughter under his feet, and he knew she would be the bait that would entice him out into the open. But the thought of revenge could not liberate him entirely from his depression. He sat in the kitchen drinking vodka, being careful not to get too drunk, and occasionally looking at his face in a mirror hanging on the wall. It suddenly occurred to him that his face was ugly. Was he starting to get old? Had the collapse of the Soviet empire resulted in some of his own hardness and ruthlessness softening?

  At two in the morning, when Tania was asleep or at least pretending to be, and Sikosi Tsiki had shut himself away in his room, he went out into the kitchen where the telephone was, and called Jan Kleyn. He had thought carefully about what he was going to say. He decided there was no reason to conceal the fact that one of his assistants was dead. It would do no harm for Jan Kleyn to be aware that Konovalenko’s work was not without its risks. Then he decided to lie to him one more time. He would say that damned nuisance of a cop had been liquidated. He was so sure he would get him, now that he had his daughter locked up in the cellar, that he dared to declare Wallander dead in advance.

  Jan Kleyn listened and made no special comment. Konovalenko knew Jan Kleyn’s silence was the best approval he could get for his efforts. Then Jan Kleyn had mentioned that Sikosi Tsiki ought to return to South Africa soon. He asked Konovalenko if there was any doubt about his suitability, if he had displayed any signs of weakness, as Victor Mabasha had done. Konovalenko replied in the negative. That was also a claim made in advance. He had been able to devote very little time to Sikosi Tsiki so far. The main impression he had was of a man completely devoid of emotion. He hardly ever laughed at all, and was just as controlled as he was impeccably dressed. He thought that once Wallander and his daughter were out of the way he would spend a few intensive days teaching the African all he needed to know. But he said Sikosi Tsiki would not let them down. Jan Kleyn seemed satisfied. He concluded their conversation by asking Konovalenko to call again in three days. Then he would receive precise instructions for Sikosi Tsiki’s return to South Africa.

  The conversation with Jan Kleyn restored some of the energy he thought he had lost thanks to his depression after Rykoff’s death. He sat at the kitchen table and concluded that the abduction of Wallander’s daughter had been almost embarrassingly easy. It had only taken him a few hours to locate her grandfather’s house, once Tania had been to the Ystad police station. He made the call himself and a housekeeper answered the phone. He introduced himself as a representative of the telephone company and inquired whether there was likely to be any change of address before the next edition of the telephone directory went to press. Tania bought a large-scale map of Skåne from the local bookstore, and then they drove out to the house and kept it under observation from a distance. The housekeeper went home late in the afternoon, and a few hours later a single police car parked on the road. When he was certain there were no further guards posted, he rapidly planned a diversion. He drove back to the house in Tomelilla, prepared an oil drum he found lying around in a shed, and told Tania what she had to do. They rented a car from a nearby gas station, then drove back to the house in two cars, found the copse, decided on a time and set to work. Tania made the fire blaze up as intended and then, as planned, left the scene before the cops showed up to investigate the fire. Konovalenko realized he did not have much time, but that was just an extra challenge for him. He flung open the outside door, tied up and silenced the old man in his bed, then chloroformed the daughter and carried her out to the waiting car. The whole operation took less than ten minutes, and he made his escape before the police car got back. Tania had bought some clothes for the girl during the day, and dressed her while she was still unconscious. Then he dragged her down into the cellar and secured her legs with a padlock and chain. It was all so easy, and he wondered whether things would continue to be equally uncomplicated. He had noticed her necklace and thought her father would be able to identify her by it. But he also wanted to give Wallander a different picture of the circumstances, something threatening that would leave no doubt about what he was fully prepared to do. That was when he resolved to cut off her hair and send it to him along with the necklace. Cropped female hair smells of death and ruin, he thought. He’s a cop, he’ll get the picture.

  Konovalenko poured himself another glass of vodka and gaze
d out the window. Dawn was already rising. There was warmth in the air, and he thought about how he would soon be living in constant sunshine, far away from this climate where you never knew from one day to the next what the weather would be like.

  He went to bed for a few hours. When he woke up he looked at his wristwatch. A quarter past nine, Monday, May 18. By this stage Wallander must know that his daughter has been abducted. Now he would be waiting for Konovalenko to contact him.

  He can wait a little bit longer, Konovalenko thought. The silence will grow increasingly unbearable with every hour that passes, and his worry greater than his ability to control it.

  The hatch leading down to the cellar where Wallander’s daughter was imprisoned was just behind his chair. Occasionally he listened for any noises, but everything was silent.

  Konovalenko sat there a bit longer, gazing thoughtfully out of the window. Then he got up, got an envelope and put the cropped hair and necklace into it.

  Soon he would be in touch with Wallander.

  The news of Linda’s abduction hit Wallander like an attack of vertigo.

  It made him desperate and furious. Sten Widen happened to be in the kitchen when the telephone rang, answered it, and looked on in astonishment as Wallander tore the instrument from the wall and hurled it through the open door into Sten Widén’s office. But then he saw how scared Wallander was. His fear was completely bare, naked. Widen realized something awful must have happened. Sympathy often aroused ambivalent reactions in him, but not this time. Wallander’s agony over what had happened to his daughter and the fact that nothing could be done about it had hit him hard. He squatted down beside him and patted him on the shoulder.

  Meanwhile Svedberg had worked up a frenzy of energy. Once he had made sure Wallander’s father was uninjured and did not seem to be especially shocked, he called Peters at home. His wife answered, and said her husband was in bed asleep after his night shift. Svedberg’s bellowing left no doubt in her mind that he should be woken immediately. When Peters came to the phone, Svedberg gave him half an hour to get hold of Norén and then come to the house they were supposed to have been guarding. Peters knew Svedberg well and realized he would not have woken him up unless something serious had happened. He asked no questions but promised to hurry. He called Norén, and when they arrived at the grandfather’s house, Svedberg confronted them with the brutal truth about what had happened.

  “All we can do is tell you the truth,” said Norén, who had been vaguely worried the previous evening that there was something odd about the burning oil drum.

  Svedberg listened to what Norén had to say. The night before it was Peters who insisted they should go and investigate the fire, but he said nothing. Norén did not pin the blame on him, however. In his report he stated the decision was a joint one.

  “I hope nothing happens to Wallander’s daughter, for your sake,” said Svedberg afterwards.

  “Abducted?” asked Norén. “By whom? And why?”

  Svedberg gave them a long, serious look before answering.

  “I’m going to make you promise me something,” he said. “If you keep that promise, I’ll try and forget that you acted in complete disregard of clearly expressed orders last night. If the girl comes out of this unharmed, nobody will get to know a thing. Is that clear?”

  They both nodded.

  “You heard nothing, and you saw nothing last night,” he said. “And most important of all, Wallander’s daughter has not been abducted. In other words, nothing has happened.”

  Peters and Noren stared at him, nonplused.

  “I mean what I say,” said Svedberg again. “Nothing has happened. That’s what you have to remember. You’ll just have to believe me when I say it’s important.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” asked Peters.

  “Yes,” said Svedberg. “Go home and get some sleep.”

  Then Svedberg searched in vain for clues in the courtyard and inside the house. He searched the copse where the oil drum had been. There were tire tracks leading there, but nothing else. He went back to the house and spoke again with Wallander’s father. He was in the kitchen drinking coffee, and was scared stiff.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, worried. “There’s no sign of Linda.”

  “I don’t know,” said Svedberg, honestly. “But it’ll all work itself out, that’s for sure.”

  “You think?” said Wallander’s father. His voice was full of doubt. “I could hear how upset Kurt was on the telephone. Where is he, come to that? What’s going on?”

  “I guess it’ll be best if he explains that himself,” said Svedberg, getting to his feet. “I’m going to see him.”

  “Say hello from me,” said the old man. “Tell him I’m doing just fine.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Svedberg, and left.

  Wallander was barefoot on the gravel outside Sten Widén’s house when Svedberg drove up. It was nearly eleven in the morning. Svedberg explained in detail what must have happened while they were still out in the courtyard. He did not refrain from mentioning how easily Peters and Norén had been lured away for the short time needed to abduct his daughter. Finally he passed on the greeting from his father.

  Wallander listened attentively all the time. Even so, Svedberg had the impression there was something distant about him. Normally he could always look Wallander in the eye when he spoke to him, but now his eyes were wandering about aimlessly. Svedberg could see that mentally, he was with his daughter, wherever she might be.

  “No clues?” asked Wallander.

  “Nothing at all.”

  Wallander nodded. They went into the house.

  “I’ve been trying to think,” said Wallander when they sat down. Svedberg could see his hands were shaking.

  “This is Konovalenko’s work, of course,” he continued. “Just as I’d feared. It’s all my fault. I ought to have been there. Everything should have been different. Now he’s using my daughter to get hold of me. He evidently has no assistants. He’s working on his own.”

  “He must have at least one,” objected Svedberg cautiously. “If I understood Peters and Norén right, he couldn’t possibly have had time to light the fire himself, then tie up your dad and run off with your daughter.”

  Wallander thought for a moment.

  “The oil drum was lit by Tania,” he said. “Rykoff’s wife. So there are two of them. We don’t know where they are. Presumably in a house somewhere in the countryside. Not far from Ystad. A remotely situated house. A house we could have found if circumstances had been different. We can’t now.”

  Sten Widen tiptoed to the table and served coffee. Wallander looked at him.

  “I need something stronger,” he said.

  Sten Widen returned with a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Without hesitation Wallander took a gulp straight from the bottle.

  “I’ve been trying to figure out what’ll happen next,” said Wallander. “He’ll get in touch with me. And he’ll use my dad’s house. That’s where I’ll wait until I hear from him. I don’t know what he’ll propose. At best my life for hers. At worst, God only knows.”

  He turned to Svedberg.

  “That’s how I see it,” he said. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

  “You’re probably right,” replied Svedberg. “The question is just what we’re going to do about it.”

  “Nobody should do anything,” said Wallander. “No cops around the house, nothing. Konovalenko will smell the slightest whiff of danger. I’ll have to be alone in the house with my father. Your job will be to make sure nobody goes there.”

  “You can’t handle this on your own,” said Svedberg. “You’ve got to let us help you.”

  “I don’t want my daughter to die,” said Wallander quite simply. “I have to sort this out myself.”

  Svedberg realized the conversation was over. Wallander had made up his mind.

  “I’ll take you to Löderup,” said Svedberg.

  “That won’t be necessary.
You can take the Duett,” said Sten Widen.

  Wallander nodded.

  He almost fell as he stood up. He grabbed the edge of the table.

  “No problem,” he said.

  Svedberg and Sten Widen stood in the courtyard, watching him drive off in the Duett.

  “How will it all end?” asked Svedberg.

  Sten Widen did not answer.

  When Wallander reached Löderup he found his father painting in his studio.

  Wallander saw that for the first time ever he had abandoned his eternal theme, a landscape in the evening sun, with or without a wood grouse in the front corner. This time he was painting a different landscape, darker, more chaotic. The picture did not hang together. The woods were growing directly out of the lake, and the mountains in the background overwhelmed the viewer.

  He put down his brushes after Wallander had been standing behind his back for a while. When he turned around Wallander could see he was scared.

  “Let’s go in,” said his father. “I sent the aide home.”

  His father placed his hand on Wallander’s shoulder. He could not remember the last time the old man had made a gesture like that.

  When they were inside Wallander told him everything that had happened. He could see his father was incapable of separating out the various incidents as they crisscrossed one another. Even so he wanted to give him an idea of what had been going on these last three weeks. He did not want to hide the fact that he had killed another human being, nor that his daughter was in great danger. The man holding her prisoner, who had tied him up in his own bed, was absolutely ruthless.

  Afterwards his father sat looking down at his hands.

  “I can deal with it,” said Wallander. “I’m a good cop. I’ll stay here until this man contacts me. It could be any time now. Or he could wait until tomorrow.”

  The afternoon was close to being evening, and still no word from Konovalenko. Svedberg called twice, but Wallander had nothing new to tell him. He sent his father out into the studio to go on painting. He couldn’t stand him sitting in the kitchen, staring at his hands. His father would normally have been furious at the thought of having to do what his son told him, but on this occasion he just stood up and went. Wallander paced up and down, sat down on a chair for a moment, then got up again right away. Occasionally he would go out into the courtyard and gaze out over the fields. Then he would come back in and start pacing again. He tried eating twice, but could not tolerate anything. His anguish, his worry and his helplessness made it impossible for him to think straight. On several occasions Robert Åkerblom came into his mind. But he sent him packing, scared that the very thought could be a bad omen for what might happen to his daughter.