The White Lioness kw-3

by Henning Mankell

  Help him to get out of here.

  His daughter had been present for the latter part of the conversation. She had woken up, and come out into the kitchen in surprise. Wallander explained briefly who the man was.

  “The guy who hit you?” she asked.

  “The very same.”

  “And now he’s here drinking coffee with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even you must think that’s a little strange.”

  “A cop’s life is a little strange.”

  She asked no more questions. When she was dressed, she returned and sat quietly on a chair, listening. Afterward Wallander sent her to the pharmacy to buy a bandage for the man’s hand. He also found some penicillin in the bathroom and gave some to Victor Mabasha, well aware that he really ought to have called a doctor. Then he reluctantly cleaned up the wound around the severed finger, and applied a clean bandage.

  Next he called Loven and got him almost right away. He asked about the latest news on Konovalenko and the others who had disappeared from the apartment block in Hallunda. He said nothing to Loven about the fact that Victor Mabasha was with him in his kitchen.

  “We know where they went from their apartment when we made the raid,” said Loven. “They just moved up two floors in the same building. Cunning, and convenient, too. They had a second apartment there, in her name. But they’re gone now.”

  “Then we know something else as well,” said Wallander. “They’re still in this country. Presumably in Stockholm, where it’s easiest to lose yourself.”

  “If need be I’ll personally kick down the front door of every apartment in this town,” said Loven. “We have to get them now. And quick.”

  “Concentrate on Konovalenko,” said Wallander. “I think the African is less important.”

  “If only I could understand the connection between them,” said Loven.

  “They were in the same place when Louise Akerblom was murdered,” said Wallander. “Then Konovalenko did a bank job and shot a cop. The African wasn’t there then.”

  “But what does that mean?” asked Loven. “I can’t see any real connection, just a vague link that doesn’t make sense.”

  “We know quite a bit even so,” said Wallander. “Konovalenko seems to be obsessed with wanting to kill that African. The most likely explanation is they started out friends but had a falling out.”

  “But where does your real estate agent fit into all this?”

  “She doesn’t. I guess we can say she was killed by accident. Like you just said, Konovalenko is ruthless.”

  “All that boils down to one single question,” said Loven. “Why?”

  “The only person who can answer that is Konovalenko,” said Wallander.

  “Or the African,” said Loven. “You’re forgetting him, Kurt.”

  After the telephone call to Loven, Wallander finally made up his mind to get Victor Mabasha out of the country. But before he could do anything he must be quite certain the African wasn’t the one who had shot Louise Akerblom after all.

  How am I going to establish that, he wondered. I’ve never come across anybody with a face so expressionless. With him I can’t decide where truth stops and lies start.

  “The best thing you can do is to stay here in the apartment,” he told Victor Mabasha. “I still have a lot of questions I want answered. You might just as well get used to that.”

  Apart from the car trip on Sunday, they spent the whole weekend in the apartment. Victor Mabasha was exhausted, and slept most of the time. Wallander was worried that his hand would turn septic. At the same time he regretted ever having let him into his apartment. Like so often before, he had followed his intuition rather than his reason. Now he could see no obvious way out of his dilemma.

  On Sunday evening he drove Linda out to see his father. He dropped her on the main road so he would not have to put up with his father’s complaints about not even having time for a cup of coffee.

  Monday finally came, and he returned to the police station. Bjork welcomed him back. Then they got together with Martinson and Svedberg in the conference room. Wallander reported selectively on what had happened in Stockholm. There were lots of questions. But the bottom line was that nobody had much to say. The key to the whole business was in Konovalenko’s hands.

  “In other words, we just have to wait until we pick him up,” was Bjork’s conclusion. “That’ll give us some time to sort out the stacks of other matters waiting for our attention.”

  They sorted out what needed needed dealing with most urgently. Wallander was assigned to find out what happened to three trotting horses that had been rustled from stables near Skarby. To the astonishment of his colleagues, he burst out laughing.

  “It’s a bit absurd,” he said, apologetically. “A missing woman. And now missing horses.”

  He hardly got back to his office before he received the visit he was expecting. He was not sure which of them would actually turn up to ask the question. It could be any one of his colleagues. But it was in fact Martinson who knocked and entered.

  “Have you got a minute?” he asked.

  Wallander nodded.

  “There’s something I need to ask you,” Martinson went on.

  Wallander could see he was embarrassed.

  “I’m listening,” said Wallander.

  “You were seen with an African yesterday,” said Martinson. “In your car. I just thought…”

  “You thought what?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “Linda is back together with her Kenyan again.”

  “I thought that would be it.”

  “You said a moment ago you didn’t really know what you thought.”

  Martinson threw out his arms and made a face. Then he retreated in a hurry.

  Wallander ignored the case of the missing horses, shut the door Martinson had left open, and sat down to think. Just what were the questions he wanted to ask Victor Mabasha? And how would he be able to check his answers?

  In recent years Wallander had often encountered foreign citizens in connection with various investigations, and had spoken to them both as victims and possible perpetrators. It often occurred to him that what he used to regard as absolute truth when it came to right and wrong, guilt and innocence, might not necessarily apply any more. Nor had he realized that what was regarded as a crime, serious or petty, might vary according to the culture one grew up in. He often felt helpless in such situations. He felt he simply did not have the grounds for asking questions that could lead to a crime being solved or a suspect released. The very year his former colleague and mentor, Rydberg, died, they had spent a lot of time discussing the enormous changes that were taking place in their country, and indeed the world at large. The police would be faced with quite different demands. Rydberg sipped his whiskey and prophesied that within the next ten years Swedish cops would be forced to cope with bigger changes than they had ever experienced before. This time, though, it would not be just fundamental organizational reforms, but it would affect police work on the ground.

  “This is something I’m not going to have to face,” Rydberg had said one evening as they sat on his cramped little balcony. “Death comes to us all. I sometimes feel sad that I won’t be around to see what comes next. It’s bound to be difficult. But stimulating. You’ll be there, though. And you’ll have to start thinking along completely different lines.”

  “I wonder if I’ll manage to cope,” was Wallander’s reply. “I keep wondering more and more often whether there’s life beyond the police station.”

  “If you’re thinking of sailing to the West Indies, make sure you never come back,” said Rydberg ironically. “People who go off somewhere and then come back again are seldom any better off for their adventure. They’re fooling themselves. They haven’t come to terms with the ancient truth that you can never run away from yourself.”

  “That’s something I’ll never do,” said Wallander. “I don’t have room for such big plans in my
makeup. The most I can do is wonder whether there might be some other job I’d enjoy.”

  “You’ll be a cop as long as you live,” said Rydberg. “You’re like me. Just acknowledge that.”

  Wallander banished all thought of Rydberg from his mind, took out a blank note pad, and reached for a pen.

  Then he just sat there. Questions and answers, he thought. That’s probably where I’m making the first mistake. Lots of people, not least those who come from continents a long way away from ours, have to be allowed to tell the story their own way in order to be able to formulate an answer. That’s something I ought to have learned by now, considering the number of Africans, Arabs, and Latin Americans I’ve met in various contexts. They are often scared by the hurry we’re always in, and they think it’s really a sign of our contempt. Not having time for a person, not being able to sit in silence together with somebody, that’s the same as rejecting them, as being scornful about them.

  Tell their own story, he wrote at the top of the note pad.

  He thought that might put him on the right path.

  Tell their own story, that’s all.

  He slid the note pad on one side and put his feet up on his desk. Then he called home and was told that everything was quiet. He promised to be back in a couple of hours.

  He absentmindedly read through the memo on the stolen horses. It told him nothing more than that three valuable animals had disappeared on the night of May 5. They had been put into their stalls for the night. The next morning, when one of the stable girls opened the doors at about half past five, the stalls were empty.

  He glanced at his watch and decided to drive out to the stables. After speaking to three grooms and the owner’s personal secretary, Wallander was inclined to believe the whole thing could very well be a sophisticated form of insurance fraud. He made a few notes and said he’d be coming back.

  On the way home to Ystad he stopped by a cafe for a cup of coffee.

  He wondered if they had race horses in South Africa.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Sikosi Tsiki came to Sweden on the evening of Wednesday, May 13.

  That very same evening he was told by Konovalenko he would be staying in the southern part of the country. This was where his preparatory training would take place, and he would also leave the country from there. When Konovalenko heard from Jan Kleyn that the replacement was on his way, he had considered the possibility of setting up camp in the Stockholm area. There were lots of possibilities, especially around Arlanda, where the noise of airplanes landing and taking off would drown most other sounds. The necessary shooting practice could take place there. Furthermore there was the problem of Victor Mabasha and the Swedish policeman he hated. If they were still in Stockholm, he would have to stay there until they had been liquidated. Nor could he ignore the probability that the general level of vigilance throughout the country would be higher, now that he had killed the cop. To be on the safe side he decided to proceed on two fronts at the same time. He kept Tania with him in Stockholm, but sent Rykoff to the southern part of the country again with orders to find a suitable house in a remote area. Rykoff had then pointed out on a map an area to the north of Skane called Smaland, claiming it was much easier to find remotely situated houses there. But Konovalenko wanted to be near Ystad. If they did not catch Victor Mabasha and the policeman in Stockholm, they would turn up sooner or later in Wallander’s home town. He was as sure of that as he was that some kind of unexpected relationship had formed between the black man and Wallander. He had some difficulty in understanding what was going on. But nevertheless he was increasingly sure they would be not far away from each other. If he could find one of them, he would also find the other.

  Through a travel agency in Ystad, Rykoff rented a house north east of Ystad, on the way to Tomelilla. The location could have been better, but adjacent to the site was an abandoned quarry that could be used for target practice. As Konovalenko had decreed that Tania could go with them if they did in fact decide to go ahead with this alternative, Rykoff did not need to fill the freezer with food. Instead and on Konovalenko’s orders, he spent his time finding out where Wallander lived, and then keeping his apartment under observation. But Wallander did not show up. The day before Sikosi Tsiki was due to arrive, Tuesday, May 12, Konovalenko decided to stay in Stockholm. Although none of those he sent out looking for Victor Mabasha had seen him, Konovalenko had the distinct feeling he was lying low somewhere in town. He also found it difficult to believe that a cop as careful and well organized as Wallander would return too quickly to his home, which he must expect to be watched.

  Nevertheless that is where Rykoff finally found him, shortly after five o’clock on Tuesday afternoon. The door opened and Wallander stepped out onto the street. He was on his own, and Rykoff, who was sitting in his car, could see right away he was on guard. He left the building on foot, and Rykoff realized he would be spotted at once if he tried to follow him in his car. He was still there ten minutes later when the front door opened once again. Rykoff stiffened. This time two people left the building. The young girl had to be Wallander’s daughter, whom he had never seen before. Behind her was Victor Mabasha. They crossed the street, got into a car, and drove off. Rykoff did not bother following them this time either. Instead he stayed where he was and dialed the number of the apartment in Jarfalla where Konovalenko was staying with Tania. She answered. Rykoff greeted her briefly and asked to speak to Konovalenko. After hearing what Rykoff had to say, Konovalenko made up his mind right away. He and Tania would go to Skane early the next day. They would stay there until they had collected Sikosi Tsiki and killed Wallander and Victor Mabasha; the daughter as well, if necessary. Then they could make up their minds what to do next. But the flat in Jarfalla would be a possibility.

  Konovalenko drove down to Skane with Tania overnight. Rykoff met them at a parking lot on the western edge of Ystad. They drove straight to the house he had rented. Later that afternoon Konovalenko also paid a visit to Mariagatan. He spent some time observing the block where Wallander lived. On the way back he also paused for a while on the hill outside the police station.

  The situation seemed very simple to him. He could not afford to fail again. That would mean the end of his dreams about a future life in South Africa. He was already living dangerously, and knew it. He had not told Jan Kleyn the truth, not admitted that Victor Mabasha was still alive. There was a risk, albeit a small one, that Jan Kleyn had someone passing on information without Konovalenko knowing. He had occasionally sent out scouts to see if they could find anyone shadowing him. But nobody had come across any kind of surveillance that might have been organized by Jan Kleyn.

  Konovalenko and Rykoff spent the day deciding how to proceed. Konovalenko made up his mind from the very first to act resolutely and ruthlessly. It would be a brutal, direct attack.

  “What kind of weapons do we have?” he asked.

  “Practically anything you like short of a rocket launcher,” Rykoff had told him. “We have explosives, long-distance detonators, grenades, automatic rifles, shotguns, pistols, radio equipment.”

  Konovalenko drank a glass of vodka. He would really like most of all to capture Wallander alive. There were some questions he wanted answering before he killed him. But he banished the thought. He could not afford to take any risks.

  Then he made up his mind what to do.

  “Tomorrow morning when Wallander is out, Tania can enter the building and see what the staircase and apartment doors look like,” he said. “You can pretend to be distributing advertising brochures. We can pick up some leaflets from a supermarket. Then the building has to be kept under constant observation. If we’re certain they’re at home tomorrow evening, we’ll make our move then. We’ll blow up the door and rush in with guns blazing. If nothing unexpected happens we’ll kill the pair of them and make our escape.”

  “There are three of them,” observed Rykoff.

  “Two or three,” said Konovalenko. “We can’t let a
nybody survive.”

  “This new African I’m going to pick up this evening, will he be in on it?” wondered Rykoff.

  “No,” said Konovalenko. “He waits here with Tania.”

  His expression was serious as he eyed Rykoff and Tania.

  “The fact is, Victor Mabasha has been dead for several days,” he said. “At least, that’s what Sikosi Tsiki has to believe. Is that clear?”

  They both nodded.

  Konovalenko poured himself and Tania another glass of vodka. Rykoff refused, since he was going to prepare the explosives and did not want to be affected by the alcohol. Besides, he was going to drive to Limhamn later to collect Sikosi Tsiki.

  “Let’s put on a welcoming dinner for the man from South Africa,” said Konovalenko. “None of us enjoys sitting at dinner with an African. But sometimes you have to do it for the sake of the job in hand.”

  “Victor Mabasha didn’t like Russian food,” said Tania.

  Konovalenko thought for a moment.

  “Chicken,” he said eventually. “All Africans like chicken.”

  At six o’clock Rykoff met Sikosi Tsiki at Limhamn. A few hours later they were all sitting around the table. Konovalenko raised his glass.

  “You have a day off tomorrow,” he said. “We get started on Friday.”

  Sikosi Tsiki nodded. The replacement was just as silent as his predecessor.

  Quiet guys, thought Konovalenko. Ruthless when the chips are down. Just as ruthless as I am.

  Wallander devoted most of the first few days after his return to Ystad to planning various forms of criminal activities. He paved the way for Victor Mabasha’s escape from Sweden with dogged persistence. After much soul-searching he had decided it was the only way to get the situation under control. He had severe pangs of guilt, and could not avoid being constantly reminded that what he was doing was downright reprehensible. Even if Victor Mabasha had not killed Louise Akerblom himself, he was present when the murder was committed. Moreover, he had stolen cars and robbed a store. As if that were not enough, he was an illegal immigrant in Sweden, and had been planning to commit a serious crime back home in South Africa. Wallander convinced himself that in spite of everything, this was a way of preventing the crime. In addition, Konovalenko could be prevented from killing Victor Mabasha. He would be punished for the murder of Louise Akerblom once he was caught. What he intended to do now was to send a message to his colleagues in South Africa via Interpol. But first he wanted to get Victor Mabasha out of the country. So as not to attract unnecessary attention, he contacted a travel agency in Malmo to find out how Victor Mabasha could get a flight to Lusaka in Zambia. Mabasha had told him he could not get into South Africa without a visa. But with a fake Swedish passport, he did not need a visa to enter Zambia. He still had enough money for both an airline ticket and the next stage of the journey from Zambia, via Zimbabwe and Botswana. Once he got to South Africa he would slip over the border at an unguarded point. The travel agent in Malmo explained the various choices. They decided in the end that Victor Mabasha would go to London and then take a Zambia Airways flight from there to Lusaka. It meant Wallander would have to get him a false passport. That caused him not only the severest practical problems, but also the worst pangs of conscience. Arranging a false passport at his own police station seemed to him a betrayal of his profession. It did not make things any better to know he had made Victor Mabasha promise to destroy the passport as soon as he had gone through the checks in Zambia.