“I don’t know yet,” said Wallander. “But it won’t be before this afternoon. Bjork, if you remember who that is, has gallstones. I have to sort things out here first. But I’ll call as soon as I get things straightened out.”
“We’ll be waiting,” said Loven.
Wallander had just replaced the receiver when the telephone rang again. At the same time, Martinson marched into the room waving a sheet of paper around in excitement. Wallander pointed to a chair, and answered the phone.
It was the pathologist in Malmo, Hogberg, who had completed the preliminary autopsy on Louise Akerblom’s body. Wallander had dealt with him before, and knew the man was thorough. Wallander pulled a notebook towards him and gesticulated to Martinson to give him a pen.
“There is absolutely no trace of rape,” said Hogberg. “Unless the attacker used a condom, and it all took place in peaceful fashion. Nor does she have any injuries to suggest there was any other kind of violence. Just a few abrasions she could easily have suffered in the well. I couldn’t find any sign of her having had handcuffs on either her wrists or her ankles. All that happened to her is that she was shot.”
“I need the bullet as soon as possible,” said Wallander.
“You’ll get it this morning,” said Hogberg. “But it will be some time before you get the comprehensive report, of course.”
“Thank you for your efforts,” said Wallander.
He hung up and turned to Martinson.
“Louise Akerblom was not raped,” he said. “We can exclude any sexual motives.”
“So now we know,” said Martinson. “In addition, we also know the black finger is the index finger of a black man’s left hand. The man is probably about thirty. It’s all here in this fax we just got from Stockholm. I wonder how they do things when they’re as precise as this.”
“No idea,” said Wallander. “But the more we know, the better. If Svedberg is around, I thing we’d better have a meeting right away. I’m going to Stockholm this afternoon. I’ve also promised to hold a press conference at two o’clock. You and Svedberg had better take care of that. If anything else important happens, give me a call in Stockholm.”
“Svedberg will be pleased when he hears that,” said Martinson. “Are you sure you can’t travel a little later?”
“Absolutely certain,” said Wallander, getting to his feet.
“I hear our colleagues in Malmo have brought Morell in,” said Martinson when they were out in the corridor.
Wallander stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“Who?” he asked.
“Morell. That fence in Malmo. The one with the water pumps.”
“Oh, him,” said Wallander absentmindedly. “You mean him.”
He went out into reception and asked Ebba to book him a flight at about three that afternoon. He also asked her to reserve a room at the Central Hotel on Vasagatan in Stockholm, which wasn’t too expensive. Then he went back to his office and reached the receiver, intending to call his father. But he had second thoughts. He did not dare risk getting into a bad mood. He would need all his powers of concentration today. Then he had a brainstorm. He would ask Martinson to call Loderup later in the day, pass on greetings to his father, and explain that Wallander had been forced to go off to Stockholm at short notice. That might convince the old man that Wallander was up to his neck in important business.
The thought cheered him up. It could be a useful ploy for the future.
At five minutes to four Wallander landed at Arlanda, where it was drizzling slightly. He passed through the hangar-like terminal and saw Loven waiting outside the swinging doors.
Wallander noticed he had a headache. It had been a very intense day. He had spent nearly two hours with the prosecutor. Per Akeson had many questions and critical observations. Wallander wondered how to explain to a prosecutor that cops were occasionally forced to rely on instinct when priorities had to be set. Akeson criticized the reports he had received so far. Wallander defended the investigation, and by the end of the meeting the atmosphere was tense between them. Before Peters drove Wallander to Sturup Airport, he managed to stop by at home and throw a few clothes into a bag. That was when he finally managed to get hold of his daughter on the telephone. She was pleased to hear he was coming, he could hear that. They agreed he would call her that night, no matter how late it was.
Only when Wallander was in his seat and the plane had taken off did he realize how hungry he was. The SAS sandwiches were the first food to pass his lips that day.
As they drove to the police station at Kungsholmen, Wallander was filled in about the hunt for Tengblad’s murderer. Loven and his colleagues obviously had no real clues to follow up, and he could see their search was characterized by frustration. Loven also managed to give him a summary of what had happened at the discotheque where the tear gas attack took place. It all seemed to point to either a heavy-handed prank or an act of revenge. There were no definite clues here, either. In the end Wallander asked about the contract. As far as he was concerned, this was something new and frightening. Something that had only come into the mix in the last few years, and then only in the three largest cities in the country. But he had no illusions. Before long it would be happening in his own back yard. Contracts were made between a customer and a professional killer, with the aim of murdering people. The whole affair was a business deal. It seemed to Wallander this must be the ultimate proof that the brutalization of society had reached incomprehensible proportions.
“We have people out there trying to find out what’s actually going on,” said Loven as they passed the Northern Cemetery on the way into Stockholm.
“I can’t figure it all out,” said Wallander. “It’s like it was last year, when that raft drifted ashore. Nothing added up then, either.”
“We’ll have to hope our technical guys can come up with something,” said Loven. “They might be able to make something of the bullets.”
Wallander tapped his jacket pocket. He had with him the bullet that had killed Louise Akerblom.
They drove into the underground garage and then took the elevator straight up to headquarters, where the hunt for Tengblad’s killer was being organized.
As Wallander entered the room, he was struck by the number of cops present. Fifteen or more were staring at him, and he thought about how different it was from Ystad.
Loven introduced him, and Wallander took the chorus of mumbles as a greeting. A short, balding man in his fifties introduced himself as Stenberg, the officer in charge of the investigation.
Wallander suddenly felt nervous and badly prepared. He was also a little worried that they might not understand his Scanian dialect. Nevertheless, he sat down at the table and filled them in on everything that had happened. He had to field a lot of questions, and it was obvious he was dealing with experienced detectives who were very quick to get to the heart of an investigation, locate the weak points, and formulate the right questions.
The meeting dragged on and on, and lasted for more than two hours. In the end, when everyone was obviously beginning to feel washed out and Wallander was forced to ask for some aspirin, Stenberg gave a summary.
“We need a rapid response regarding the results of the ammunition analysis,” he said by way of conclusion. “If we can establish a link between the weapons used, then if nothing else, we’ve succeeded in muddying the waters a bit more.”
One or two of the cops managed a smile, but most of them just sat staring into space.
It was nearly eight by the time Wallander left the Kungsholmen police station. Loven drove him to his hotel on Vasagatan.
“Will you be OK?” asked Loven as he dropped Wallander off.
“I have a daughter here in town,” Wallander replied. “By the way, what’s the name of that disco where they threw the tear gas canisters?”
“Aurora,” said Loven. “But I hardly think it’s the sort of place for you.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” said Wallander.
Lo
ven nodded, and drove off. Wallander picked up his key and resisted the temptation to look for a bar close to the hotel. The memory of Saturday night in Ystad was still all too vivid. He took the elevator to his room, showered, and changed his shirt. After a catnap for an hour on top of the bed, he looked up the address of the Aurora in the telephone book. He left the hotel at a quarter to nine. He wondered whether he should call his daughter before going out. In the end, he decided to wait. His excursion to the Aurora should not take too long. Besides, Linda was a night owl. He crossed over toward Central Station, found a cab and gave an address in the Soder district. Wallander gazed thoughtfully at the city as they drove through it. Somewhere out there was his daughter Linda, and somewhere else his sister Kristina. Hidden among all those houses and people was presumably also an African missing the index finger of his left hand.
He suddenly felt uneasy. It was like he expected something to happen any minute. Something he’d better start worrying about even now.
Louise Akerblom’s smiling face flashed across his mind’s eye.
What had she stumbled upon? he wondered. Had she realized she was going to die?
A staircase led down from ground level to a black-painted iron door. Above it was a filthy red neon sign. Several of the letters had gone out. Wallander began to wonder why he had decided to take a look at the place into which somebody had thrown a few tear gas canisters a couple of days previously. But he was groping so much in the dark, he couldn’t afford not to follow up the very slightest chance of finding a black man with a severed finger. He went down the stairs, opened the door, and entered a dark room where he had difficulty seeing anything at all at first. He could barely hear some music coming from a loudspeaker hanging from the ceiling. The room was full of smoke, and he thought at first he was the only one there. Then he made out some shadows in a corner with the whites of their eyes gleaming, and a bar counter slightly more illuminated than the rest of the room. When he’d gotten used to the light, he went over to the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender had a shaven head.
“We can manage on our own, thank you,” he said.
Wallander did not know what he was talking about.
“We can supply all the security cover we need ourselves,” the guy said.
Wallander realized to his surprise that the bartender was onto him.
“How do you know I’m a cop?” he asked, wishing he hadn’t even as the words crossed his lips.
“Trade secret,” the bartender replied.
Wallander noticed he was starting to get angry. The guy’s arrogant self-assurance irritated him.
“I have a few questions,” he said. “Since you already know I’m a cop, I don’t need to show you my ID.”
“I very rarely answer questions,” said the bartender.
“You will this time,” said Wallander. “God help you if you don’t.”
The man stared at Wallander in astonishment.
“I might answer,” he said.
“You get a lot of Africans in here,” said Wallander.
“They just love this joint.”
“I’m looking for a black guy about thirty, and there’s something very special about him.”
“Such as?”
“He’s missing a finger. On his left hand.”
Wallander did not expect the reaction he got. The bald guy burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny about that?” Wallander wondered.
“You’re number two,” said the bartender.
“Number two?”
“Who’s asking. There was a guy here last night who was also wondering if I’d seen an African with a maimed left hand.”
Wallander thought for a moment before going on.
“What did you tell him?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I ain’t seen nobody missing a finger.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
“Who was asking?”
“Never seen him before,” he said, starting to wipe a glass.
Wallander suspected the man was lying.
“I’ll ask you one more time,” he said. “But only once.”
“I have nothing more to say.”
“Who was doing the asking?”
“Like I said. No idea.”
“Did he speak Swedish?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That he didn’t sound like you and me.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Wallander. I must make sure he doesn’t wriggle off the hook.
“What did he look like?”
“Don’t remember.”
“There’ll be hell to pay if you don’t give me a straight answer.”
“He looked kinda ordinary. Black jacket. Blond hair.”
Wallander suddenly got the feeling the man was scared.
“Nobody can hear us,” said Wallander. “I promise you I’ll never repeat what you tell me.”
“His name might have been Konovalenko,” said the man. “The beer’s on the house if you get out right now.”
“Konovalenko?” said Wallander. “Are you sure?”
“How the hell can you be sure of anything in this world?” said the man.
Wallander left and managed to flag down a cab right away. He sank back into the back seat, and gave the name of his hotel.
When he got back to his room, he reached for the phone and was about to call his daughter. Then he let it be. He would call her early next morning.
He lay in bed for a long time, wide awake.
Konovalenko, he thought. A name. Would it put him on the right track?
He thought through everything that had happened since the morning Robert Akerbloms first came to his office.
It was dawn before he finally fell asleep.
Chapter Sixteen
When Wallander got to the police station the next morning, Whe was told Loven was already in a meeting with the team investigating Tengblad’s killer. He got himself some coffee, went to Loven’s office, and called Ystad. After a brief pause Martinson answered.
“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 Akerblom has asked via Pastor Tureson when he can bury his wife.”
“There’s nothing stopping him, is there?”
“Bjork 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?”
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 Loven stomped into the office. He knew he had offended his daughter. Why didn’t he want Loven to hear he was talking with Linda? He didn’t know himself.
“You look like shit,” said Loven. “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.”
Loven frowned.
“Is that something we should take seriously?”
“Could be. The informant seemed to know what he was talking about.”
Loven 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.”
Loven handed Wallander the file.
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