The White Lioness kw-3

by Henning Mankell

  “I’ve filled in Svedberg and Martinson,” Bjork went on. “We’ve put out a search for her car. All the usual routines for missing person cases we consider to be serious.”

  “Not consider to be serious,” said Wallander. “They are serious. If there had been an accident, we’d have heard about it by now. But we haven’t. That means we’re dealing with a crime. I’m convinced she’s dead.”

  Martinson started to ask a question, but Wallander interrupted and summarized what he’d been doing that afternoon. He had to get his colleagues to see what he had realized. A person like Louise Akerblom wouldn’t voluntarily abandon her family.

  Somebody or something must have forced her to fail to turn up at home at five o’clock, as she had promised on the telephone.

  “It sounds nasty, no doubt about that,” said Bjork when Wallander had finished.

  “Real estate agent, free church member, family,” said Martinson. “Maybe it all got too much for her? She buys the pastries, drives off home. Then all of a sudden she turns around and heads for Copenhagen instead.”

  “We have to find the car,” said Svedberg. “Without that, we won’t get anywhere.”

  “First of all we have to find the house she was going to see,” Wallander pointed out. “Hasn’t Robert Akerblom called yet?”

  No one had heard from him.

  “If she really did go to see that house somewhere near Krageholm, we ought to be able to follow her tracks until we find her, or until the tracks come to an end.”

  “Peters and Noren have been combing the side roads around Krageholm,” said Bjork. “No Toyota Corolla. They did find a stolen truck, though.”

  Wallander took the cassette from the answering machine out of his pocket. With some considerable difficulty they eventually managed to find a machine to play it. They all stood around the desk, listening to Louise Akerblom’s voice.

  “We have to analyze the tape,” said Wallander. “I can’t imagine what the technical guys could possibly find. But still.”

  “One thing is clear,” said Martinson. “When she left her message she wasn’t threatened or pressured, scared or worried, desperate or unhappy.”

  “Which means something must have happened,” said Wallander. “Between three and five. Somewhere in the area of Skurup, Krageholm, Ystad. Just over three days ago.”

  “How was she dressed?” asked Bjork.

  Wallander suddenly realized he’d forgotten to ask her husband this most basic question. He admitted as much.

  “I still think there could be a natural explanation,” said Martinson thoughtfully. “It’s like you say yourself, Kurt. She’s not the type to disappear of her own free will. But in spite of everything, assault and murder are still pretty rare. I think we should go about it in the usual way. Let’s not get hysterical.”

  “I’m not hysterical,” said Wallander, realizing he was getting mad. “I know what I think, though, and I think certain conclusions speak for themselves.”

  Bjork was just about to intervene when the telephone rang.

  “I said we shouldn’t be disturbed,” said Bjork.

  Wallander quickly put his hand over the receiver.

  “It could be Robert Akerblom,” he said. “Maybe it’s best if I talk to him?”

  He picked up the phone and gave his name.

  “Robert Akerblom here. Have you found Louise?”

  “No,” said Wallander. “Not yet.”

  “The widow just called,” said Robert Akerblom. “I have a map. I’m going there myself to take a look.”

  Wallander thought for a moment.

  “I’ll take you there,” he said. “That’ll probably be best. I’ll come right away. Can you make a few copies of the map? Five will do.”

  “OK,” said Robert Akerblom.

  Wallander thought how truly religious people were usually law-abiding and compliant with authority. Yet nobody could have stopped Robert Akerblom from going out on his own to look for his wife.

  Wallander slammed down the receiver.

  “We have a map now,” he said. “We’ll take two cars to start with. Robert Akerblom wants to come along. He can ride with me.”

  “Shouldn’t we take a few patrol cars?” wondered Martinson.

  “We’d have to drive as a column if we did that,” said Wallander. “Let’s take a look at the map first, and draw up a plan. Then we can send out everything we’ve got.”

  “Call me if anything happens,” said Bjork. “Here or at home.”

  Wallander almost ran down the corridor. He was in a hurry. He had to know if the track just petered out. Or if Louise Akerblom was out there somewhere.

  They took the map Robert Akerblom had sketched in accordance with what he’d heard and spread it out over the hood of Wallander’s car. Svedberg had dried it first with his handkerchief, as it had rained earlier that afternoon.

  “E14,” said Svedberg, “As far as the exit for Katslosa and Lake Kade. Take a left to Knickarp, then a right, then left again, and look for a dirt road.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Wallander. “If you’d been in Skurup, which road would you have taken then?”

  There were lots of possibilities. After some discussion Wallander turned to Robert Akerblom.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I think Louise would have taken a minor road,” he said without hesitation. “She didn’t like all the traffic on the E14. I think she’d have gone via Svaneholm and Brodda.”

  “Even if she was in a hurry? If she had to be home by five o’clock?”

  “Even then,” said Robert Akerblom.

  “You take that road,” said Wallander to Martinson and Svedberg. “We’ll go straight to the house. We can use the car phone if we need to.”

  They drove out of Ystad. Wallander let Martinson and Svedberg pass, since they had the longest distance to travel. Robert Akerblom sat staring straight ahead. Wallander kept glancing at him. He was rubbing his hands anxiously, as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether or not to clasp them together.

  Wallander could feel Akerbom’s tension. What would they find?

  He braked as they approached the exit for Lake Kade, let a truck pass, and recalled how he had driven along the same road one morning two years before, when an old farmer and his wife had been beaten to death in a remote farmhouse. He shuddered at the memory, and thought as he so often did of his colleague Rydberg, who died last year. Every time Wallander was faced with an investigation out of the ordinary, he missed the experience and advice of his elder colleague.

  What’s going on in this country of ours, he thought to himself. Where have all the old-fashioned thieves and con men gone? Where does all this senseless violence come from?

  The map was lying by the gearshift.

  “Are we going the right way?” he asked, in order to break the silence in the car.

  “Yes,” said Robert Akerblom, without taking his eyes off the road. “We should take a left just over the top of this next hill.”

  They drove into Krageholm Forest. The lake was on the left, shimmering through the trees. Wallander slowed down, and they started looking out for the turnoff.

  It was Robert Akerblom who saw it first. Wallander had already driven past. He reversed and came to a halt.

  “You stay in the car,” he said. “I’ll go look around.”

  The actual turnoff into the dirt road was almost completely overgrown. Wallander got down on one knee and could make out faint traces of car tires. He could feel Robert Akerblom’s eyes on the back of his neck.

  He went back to the car and called Martinson and Svedberg. They’d just got as far as Skurup.

  “We’re at the start of the dirt road,” said Wallander. “Be careful when you turn in. Don’t spoil the tire marks.”

  “Roger,” said Svedberg. “We’re on our way now.”

  Wallander turned carefully into the track, avoiding the tire marks.

  Two cars, he thought. Or the same one going in and com
ing back.

  They shuddered along the muddy and badly maintained road. It was supposed to be a kilometer to the house that was up for sale. To his surprise, Wallander saw on the map that the house was called Solitude.

  After three kilometers the track petered out. Robert Akerblom stared uncomprehendingly at the map and at Wallander.

  “Wrong road,” said Wallander. “We couldn’t have avoided seeing the house. It’s right by the roadside. Let’s go back.”

  When they emerged onto the main road, they drove slowly forward and came to the next turnoff some five hundred meters further on. Wallander repeated his investigation. Unlike the previous road, this one had lots of tire tracks, one over the other. The road also gave the impression of being better maintained and more often used.

  But they could not find the right house here, either. They caught a glimpse of a farmhouse through the trees, but they kept going as it didn’t seem anything like the description they had. Wallander stopped after four kilometers.

  “Do you have Mrs. Wallin’s number?” he inquired. “I have the distinct impression she has a very poor sense of direction.”

  Robert Akerblom nodded and took a little telephone book from his inside pocket. Wallander noticed there was a bookmark shaped like an angel between the pages.

  “Call her,” said Wallander. “Explain that you’re lost. Ask her to give you the directions again.”

  The phone rang for some time before the widow answered.

  It turned out that Mrs. Wallin was by no means sure how many kilometers it was to the turnoff.

  “Ask her for some other landmark,” said Wallander. “There must be something we can use to get our bearings. If not, we’ll have to send a car and bring her here.”

  Wallander let Robert Akerblom talk to Mrs Wallin without switching the phone over to the loudspeaker.

  “An oak tree struck by lightning,” said Robert Akerblom. “We turn off just before we get to the tree.”

  They drove on, and after two more kilometers saw the oak. There was also a turnoff to the right. Wallander called the other car, and explained how to find it. Then he investigated for the third time, looking for tire tracks. To his surprise he found nothing at all to suggest any vehicle had used this road for some time. That wasn’t necessarily significant. The tracks could have been washed away by rain. Nevertheless, he felt something approaching disappointment.

  The house was situated where it ought to have been, by the roadside just one kilometer in. They stopped and got out of the car. It had started raining, and the wind was blowing in gusts.

  Suddenly Robert Akerblom set off running towards the house, yelling out his wife’s name in a shrill voice. Wallander stayed by the car. It all happened so quickly, he was taken completely by surprise. When Robert Akerblom disappeared behind the house, he ran after him.

  No car, he thought as he went. No car, and no Louise Akerblom.

  He caught up with Robert Akerblom just as he was about to throw a broken brick through a window at the back of the house. Wallander grabbed his arm.

  “It’s no good,” said Wallander.

  “She may be in there,” yelled Robert Akerblom.

  “You said she didn’t have any keys to the house,” Wallander pointed out. “Drop that brick so that we can look for a door that’s been forced. But I can tell you now she’s not there.”

  Robert Akerblom suddenly collapsed in a heap.

  “Where is she?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

  Wallander felt a lump in his throat. He had no idea what to say.

  Then he took Robert Akerblom by the arm and helped him to his feet.

  “No point in sitting here and making yourself ill,” he said. “Let’s look around.”

  There was no door that had been forced. They peeked in through undraped windows and saw only empty rooms. They had just concluded there was nothing else to see when Martinson and Svedberg turned into the drive.

  “Nothing,” said Wallander. At the same time, he put his finger to his lips, discreetly, so that Robert Akerblom couldn’t see.

  He didn’t want Svedberg and Martinson to start asking questions.

  He didn’t want to have to say Louise Akerblom probably never got as far as the house.

  “We have nothing to report either,” said Martinson. “No car, nothing.”

  Wallander looked at his watch. Ten past six. He turned to Robert Akerblom and tried to smile.

  “I think the most useful thing you can do now is to go back home to the girls,” he said. “Svedberg here will drive you home. We’ll make a systematic search. Try not to worry. We’ll find her all right.”

  “She’s dead,” said Robert Akerblom in a low voice. “She’s dead, and she’ll never come back.”

  The three policemen stood in silence.

  “No,” said Wallander eventually. “There’s no reason to think it’s as bad as that. Svedberg will drive you home now. I promise to get in touch later on.”

  Svedberg drove off.

  “Now we can start searching for real,” said Wallander resolutely. He could feel the unease growing inside him all the time.

  They sat in his car. Wallander called Bjork and asked for all available personnel with cars to be sent to the split oak. At the same time Martinson started planning how best to go through all the roads in a circle around the house with a fine-tooth comb, as quickly and efficiently as possible. Wallander asked Bjork to make sure they got suitable maps.

  “We’ll keep looking until it gets dark,” said Wallander. “We start again at dawn tomorrow, if we don’t find anything tonight. You can get in touch with the army as well. Then we’ll have to consider a line search.”

  “Dogs,” said Martinson. “We need dogs tonight, right now.”

  Bjork promised to come along in person and take over responsibility.

  Martinson and Wallander looked at each other.

  “Summary,” said Wallander. “What do you think?”

  “She never came here,” said Martinson. “She could have been close by, or a long way away. I don’t know what can have happened. But we have to find the car. We’re doing the right thing, starting the search here. Somebody must have seen it, surely. We’ll have to start knocking on doors. Bjork will have to hold a press conference tomorrow. We have to let it be known we regard the disappearance as serious.”

  “What can have happened?” wondered Wallander.

  “Something we’d rather not think about,” said Martinson.

  The rain started drumming against the car windows and roof.

  “Hell,” said Wallander.

  “Yes,” said Martinson. “Exactly.”

  Shortly before midnight the policemen, tired and drenched, reassembled on the gravel in front of the house Louise Akerblom had probably never seen. They’d found no trace of the dark blue car, still less of Louise Akerblom. The most remarkable thing they found was two elk carcasses. And a police car almost crashed with a Mercedes racing along one of the dirt roads at high speed as they were on their way to the meeting.

  Bjork thanked everybody for their efforts. He had already agreed with Wallander that the weary cops could be sent home and told the search would begin again at six the next morning.

  Wallander was the last to leave and head for Ystad. He had called Robert Akerblom on his car telephone, and told him they regretted they had nothing new to report. Although it was late, Robert Akerblom expressed the wish that Wallander should come and see him at their house, where he was alone with the daughters.

  Before Wallander started the engine he called his sister in Stockholm. He knew she stayed up late at night. He told her their father was planning to marry his home aide. To Wallander’s astonishment, she burst out laughing. But to his relief, she promised to come down to Skane at the beginning of May.

  Wallander replaced the telephone in its holder and set off for Ystad. Rain squalls hammered against the windshield.

  He found his way to Robert Akerblom’s home. It was a row
house like a thousand other houses. The light was still on downstairs.

  Before getting out of the car he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

  She never got that far, he thought.

  What happened on the way?

  There’s something about this disappearance that doesn’t add up. I don’t get it.

  Chapter Four

  The clock beside Kurt Wallander’s bed rang at a quarter to five. He groaned, and put the pillow over his face.

  He groaned, and put the pillow over his face.

  I get far too little sleep, he thought dejectedly. Why can’t I be one of those cops who put everything to do with work aside as soon as they get home?

  He stayed in bed, and turned his mind back to his short visit at Robert Akerblom’s house the night before. It had been pure torture to look into his distraught eyes and tell him they hadn’t managed to find his wife. Kurt Wallander had gotten out of the house just as quickly as he could, and he felt ill as he drove back home. Then he’d lain awake until a quarter to three, despite feeling tired out, more or less exhausted.

  We’ve got to find her, he thought. Now. Soon. Dead or alive. We’ve just got to find her.

  He had arranged with Robert Akerblom to get back in touch the next morning, as soon as the search had begun again. Wallander realized he would have to go through Louise Akerblom’s personal belongings, in order to find out what she was really like. Somewhere in the back of Wallander’s mind was the nagging thought that there was something highly peculiar about her disappearance. There were peculiar circumstances every time a person went missing; but there was something in this case that was different from anything he had experienced before. He wanted to know what it was.

  Wallander forced himself to get out of bed, switched on the coffee machine, and went to turn on the radio. He cursed when he remembered the burglary, and it occurred to him that nobody would have time to worry about that investigation, given the new circumstances.

  He took a shower, got dressed, and had his coffee. The weather did not exactly improve his temper. It was pouring, and the wind was up. It was the worst weather imaginable for a line search. All day long the fields and coppices around Krageholm would be full of exhausted, irritable cops, dogs with their tails between their legs, and angry conscripts from the local regiment. Still, that was Bjork’s problem. His job was to go through Louise Akerblom’s belongings.