The White Lioness kw-3

by Henning Mankell

  Wallander had expected a surprised reaction, possibly even skepticism. But Martinson and Svedberg shared his feeling.

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like this,” said Martinson. “Of course, I don’t have as much experience as you, Kurt. But I have to admit I’m baffled by the whole business. First we try to catch somebody who’s carried out the horrific murder of a woman. The deeper we dig, the harder it is to understand why she’s been murdered. In the end we come back to the feeling that her death is just an incident on the periphery of something quite different, something bigger. I didn’t get much sleep this last week. That’s unusual for me.”

  Wallander nodded and looked at Svedberg.

  “What can I say?” he began, scratching his bald head. “Martinson’s already said it, better than I could put it. When I got home last night I made a list: dead woman, well, black finger, blown-up house, radio transmitter, pistol, South Africa. Then I sat staring at that list for over an hour, as if it were a rebus. It’s like we can’t grasp that there just don’t seem to be any connections and contexts in this investigation. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a feeling of wandering around in the dark as I do now.”

  “That’s what I wanted to know,” said Wallander. “I guess it’s not insignificant that we all feel the same about this investigation. Nevertheless, let’s see if we can manage to penetrate a bit of this darkness Svedberg is talking about.”

  They went through the investigation right from the beginning. It took them nearly three hours; afterward, they felt once again that they hadn’t made any big mistakes, despite everything. But they also hadn’t found any new clues.

  “It’s all very obscure, to say the least,” said Wallander, summing up. “The only real clue we have is a black finger. We can also be pretty sure the man who lost his finger was not alone, assuming he’s the one who did it. Alfred Hanson had rented the house to an African. We know that for sure. But we’ve no idea who this man is who calls himself Nordstrom and paid ten thousand kronor up front. Nor do we know what the house was used for. When it comes to the connection between these people and Louise Akerblom or the blown-up house, the radio transmitter, and the pistol, we only have vague and unsubstantiated theories. There’s nothing so dangerous as investigations that invite guessing rather than logical thinking. The theory that seems most likely just now, despite everything, is that Louise Akerblom happened to see something she shouldn’t have seen. But what kind of people turn that into a reason for an execution? That’s what we have to find out.”

  They sat around the table in silence, thinking over what he had said. A cleaning lady opened the door and peeked in.

  “Not now,” said Wallander.

  She shut the door again.

  “I think I’ll spend the day going through the tipoffs we’ve had,” said Svedberg. “If I need any help, I’ll let you know. I’m hardly going to have time for anything else.”

  “It might be as well to sort out Stig Gustafson once and for all,” said Martinson. “I can start by checking his alibi, in so far as that’s possible on a day like today. If necessary I’ll drive over to Malmo. But first I’ll try and track down that flower seller Forsgard he claims to have met in the john.”

  “This is a murder investigation,” said Wallander. “Track these people down even if they’re in their vacation homes trying to get some peace and quiet.”

  They agreed to meet again at five to see where they were. Wallander got some coffee, went to his office and called Nyberg at home.

  “You’ll have my report on Monday,” said Nyberg. “But you already know the most important parts.”

  “No,” said Wallander. “I still don’t know why the house burned down. I don’t know the cause of the fire.”

  “Maybe you ought to talk to the chief fire officer about that,” said Nyberg. “He might have a good explanation. We’re not ready yet.”

  “I thought we were working together,” said Wallander, irritated. “Us and the fire service. But maybe there’ve been some new instructions I don’t know about?”

  “We don’t have an obvious explanation,” said Nyberg.

  “What do you think, then? What does the fire service think? What does Peter Edler think?”

  “The explosion must have been so powerful that there’s nothing left of the detonator. We’ve discussed the possibility of a series of explosions.”

  “No,” said Wallander. “There was only one bang.”

  “I don’t mean it quite like that,” said Nyberg patiently. “You can plan ten explosions within a second if you’re smart enough. We’d be talking about a chain with a tenth-of-a-second delay between each charge. But that increases the effect enormously. It has to do with the changed air pressure.”

  Wallander thought for a moment.

  “We’re not talking about a bunch of amateurs, then?” he said.

  “No way.”

  “Can there be any other explanation for the fire?”

  “Hardly.”

  Wallander glanced at his papers before going on.

  “Can you say anything else about the radio transmitter?” he ventured. “There’s a rumor that it was made in Russia.”

  “That’s not just a rumor,” said Nyberg. “I have had confirmation. I’ve had help from the army guys.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “No idea. The army is very interested to know how it got here. It’s a mystery.”

  Wallander pressed ahead.

  “The pistol butt?”

  “Nothing new on that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not really. The report isn’t going to reveal anything surprising.”

  Wallander brought the call to a close. Then he did something he’d made up his mind to do during that morning’s meeting. He dialed the number of police headquarters in Stockholm and asked to speak with Inspector Loven. Wallander had met him the previous year, while investigating a raft carrying two bodies that were washed up at Mossby Beach. Although they only worked together for a few days, Wallander could see he was a good detective.

  “Inspector Loven isn’t available at the moment,” said the operator at HQ.

  “This is Inspector Wallander, Ystad. I have an urgent message. It has to do with the policeman killed in Stockholm a few days ago.”

  “I’ll see if I can find Inspector Loven,” said the operator.

  “It’s urgent,” Wallander repeated.

  It took Loven exactly twelve minutes to call back.

  “Wallander,” he said. “I thought of you the other day when I read about the murder of that woman. How’s it going?”

  “Slowly,” said Wallander. “How about you?”

  “We’ll get him,” said Loven. “We always get the guys who shoot one of ours sooner or later. You had something to tell us in that connection?”

  “Could be,” said Wallander. “It’s just that the woman down here was shot through the head. Just like Tengblad. I think it would be a good idea to compare the bullets as soon as possible.”

  “Yeah,” said Loven. “Don’t forget, this guy was shooting through a windshield. Must have been hard to make out a face on the other side. And it’s a hell of a shot if you can get somebody in the middle of the forehead when they’re in a moving car. But you’re right, of course. We ought to check it out.”

  “Do you have a description of the guy?” asked Wallander.

  The reply came without a pause.

  “He stole a car from a young couple after the murder,” said Loven. “Unfortunately they were so scared they’ve only been able to give us very confused accounts of what he looked like.”

  “They didn’t happen to hear him speak, did they?” Wallander wondered.

  “That was the only thing they agreed on,” said Loven. “He had some sort of a foreign accent.”

  Wallander could feel his excitement growing. He told Loven about his conversation with Alfred Hanson and about the man who had paid ten thousand kronor to rent an empty
house out in the sticks.

  “We’ll obviously have to look into this,” said Loven when Wallander was through. “Even if it does sound odd.”

  “The whole business is very odd,” said Wallander. “I could drive up to Stockholm on Monday. I suspect that’s where my African is.”

  “Maybe he was mixed up in the tear gas attack on a discotheque in the Soder district of Stockholm,” said Loven.

  Wallander vaguely remembered seeing something about that in the Ystad Chronicle the previous day.

  “What attack was that?” he asked.

  “Somebody threw some tear gas canisters into a club in Soder,” said Loven. “A discotheque with lots of Africans among the clientele. We’ve never had any trouble there before. But we have now. Somebody fired a few shots as well.”

  “Take good care of those bullets,” said Wallander. “Let’s take a close look at them as well.”

  “You think there’s only one gun in this country?”

  “No. But I’m looking for links. Unexpected links.”

  “I’ll set things in motion here,” said Loven. “Thanks for calling. I’ll tell the people running the investigation you’ll be coming on Monday.”

  They assembled as agreed at five o’clock, and the meeting was very short. Martinson had managed to confirm so much of Stig Gustafson’s alibi that he was well on the way to being excluded from the investigation. All the same, Wallander felt doubtful, without being quite sure why.

  “Let’s not let him go altogether,” he said. “We’ll go through all the evidence concerning him one more time.”

  Martinson stared at him in surprise.

  “What exactly do you expect to find?” he asked.

  Wallander shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m just worried about letting him go too soon.”

  Martinson was about to protest, but checked himself. He had great respect for Wallander’s judgement and intuition.

  Svedberg had worked his way through the stack of tips the police had received so far. There was nothing that obviously threw new light on either Louise Akerblom’s death or the blown-up house.

  “You’d think somebody would have noticed an African missing a finger,” was Wallander’s comment.

  “Maybe he doesn’t exist,” said Martinson.

  “We’ve got the finger,” said Wallander. “Whoever lost it was no spook.”

  Then Wallander reported on how far he had gotten. They all agreed he should go to Stockholm. There could be a link, no matter how unlikely it seemed, between the murders of Louise Akerblom and Tengblad.

  They concluded the meeting by going through the heirs to the house that had been blown up.

  “They can wait,” said Wallander afterwards. “There’s not a lot here that looks like it will get us anywhere.”

  He sent Svedberg and Martinson home and stayed behind in his office a little longer. He called the prosecutor, Per Akeson, at home, giving him a brief summary of where they stood.

  “It’s not good if we can’t solve this murder quickly,” said Akeson.

  Wallander agreed. They decided to meet first thing Monday morning to go through the investigation so far, step by step. Wallander could see Akeson was afraid of being accused later of allowing a carelessly conducted investigation to go ahead. He ended the conversation, turned off his desk lamp, and left the station. He drove down the long-drawn-out hill and turned into the hospital parking lot.

  Bjork was feeling better and expected to be discharged some time Monday. Wallander gave him a report, and Bjork also thought Wallander ought to go to Stockholm.

  “This used to be a quiet district,” said Bjork as Wallander was getting ready to leave. “Nothing much used to happen here to attract attention. Now that’s all changed.”

  “It’s not just here,” said Wallander. “What you are talking about belongs to a different age.”

  “I guess I’m getting old,” sighed Bjork.

  “You’re not the only one,” said Wallander.

  The words were still echoing in his ears as he left the hospital. It was nearly half past six, and he was hungry. He did not feel like cooking at home, and he decided to eat out. He went home, took a shower, and changed. Then he tried to call his daughter Linda in Stockholm. He let the phone ring for quite some time. In the end he gave up. He went down to the basement and booked himself a time in the laundry room. Then he walked in to the town center. The wind had dropped, but it was chilly.

  Getting old, he thought to himself. I’m only forty-four and I’m already feeling worn out.

  His train of thought suddenly made him angry. It was up to him and nobody else to decide if he was getting old before his time. He could not blame his work, nor his divorce that was already five years ago. The only question was how he would be able to change things.

  He came to the square and wondered where he ought to eat. In a sudden fit of extravagance, he decided to go to the Continental. He went down Hamngatan, paused for a moment to look at the display in the lamp shop, then continued as far as the hotel. He nodded to the girl at the front desk, recalling that she had been in the same class as his daughter.

  The dining room was almost empty. Just for a moment he had second thoughts. Sitting all by himself in a deserted dining room seemed like too much solitude. But he sat down anyway. He had made up his mind, and couldn’t be bothered to start rethinking now.

  I’ll turn over a new leaf tomorrow, he thought, grimacing. He always put off the most important matters affecting his own life. When he was at work, on the other hand, he insisted on arguing for precisely the opposite approach. Always do the most important things first. He had a split personality.

  He took a seat in the bar. A young waiter came over to the table and asked what he would like to drink. Wallander had a feeling he recognized the waiter, but could not quite place him.

  “Whiskey,” he said. “No ice. But a glass of water on the side.”

  He emptied the glass the moment it reached his table, and immediately ordered another. He did not often drink to get drunk. But tonight he was not going to hold back.

  When he got his third whiskey, he remembered who the waiter was. A few years previously Wallander had interrogated him about a series of robberies and car thefts. He was later arrested and found guilty.

  So things have turned out all right for him at least, he thought. And I’m not going to remind him about his past. Maybe you could say things have gone better for him than they have for me? If you take the circumstances into account.

  He could feel the effects of the liquor almost immediately.

  Shortly afterwards Wallander moved over to the dining section and ordered dinner. He drank a bottle of wine with the food, and two brandies with his coffee.

  It was half past ten when he left the restaurant. He was pretty drunk by then, but had no intention of going home to lie down.

  He crossed over to the taxi stand opposite the bus station and took a cab to the only dance club in town. It was surprisingly full, and he had some difficulty finding room at a table near the bar. Then he drank a whiskey and went out on the dance floor. He was not a bad dancer, and always performed with a certain degree of self-confidence. Music from the Swedish hit parade made him sentimental and maudlin. He invariably fell in love right away with every woman he danced with. He always planned to take them back to his apartment afterwards. But the illusion was shattered on this occasion when he suddenly started to feel queasy, barely managing to get outside before throwing up. He did not go back in, but staggered back to town instead. When he got back to his apartment, he stripped and stood naked in front of the hall mirror.

  “Kurt Wallander,” he said aloud. “This is your life.”

  Then he decided to call Baiba Liepa in Riga. It was two in the morning, and he knew he shouldn’t do it. But he hung on until she eventually answered.

  All of a sudden, he had no idea what to say. He could not find the English words he needed. He had obviously awoken
her, and she had been frightened by the telephone ringing in the middle of the night.

  Then he told her he loved her. She did not know what he meant at first. Once it had dawned on her, she also realized he was drunk, and Wallander himself felt the whole thing was a terrible mistake. He apologized for disturbing her and went straight into the kitchen and took a half bottle of vodka from the refrigerator. Although he still felt sick, he forced it down.

  He woke at dawn on the sofa in the living room. He had a king-size hangover. What he regretted most was the call to Baiba Leipa.

  He groaned at the thought of it, staggered into the bedroom, and sank into his bed. Then he forced his mind to go blank. It was late in the afternoon before he got up and made coffee. He sat in front of the television and watched one program after another. He did not bother to call his father, nor did he try to contact his daughter. At about seven he heated up some fish au gratin, which was all he had in the freezer. Then he returned to the television. He tried to avoid thinking about last night’s telephone call.

  At eleven o’clock he took a sleeping pill and pulled the covers over his head.

  Everything will be better tomorrow, he thought. I’ll call her then and explain everything. Or maybe I’ll write a letter. Or something.

  Monday, May 4 turned out to be very different than Wallander had imagined, however.

  Everything seemed to happen all at once.

  He had just arrived at his office shortly after half past seven when the telephone rang. It was Loven in Stockholm.

  “There’s a rumor going around town,” he said. “A rumor about a contract on an African. He can be recognized first and foremost by the bandage he has on his left hand.”

  It was a second before it dawned on Wallander what kind of a contract Loven was talking about.

  “Oh, shit,” he said.

  “I thought that’s what you would say,” said Loven. “If you can tell me when you’ll arrive, we can drive out and pick you up.”