“Awake?” he asked.
“I needed some sleep,” said Wallander.
Then he told him what had happened. Sten Widen listened in silence, expressionless. Wallander started with the disappearance of Louise Akerblom. He talked about the man he had killed.
“I just had to get away,” he concluded. “I know of course my colleagues will be looking for me now. But I’ll have to tell them a white lie. Say I passed out and lay behind a bush. But I’d be grateful if you could do one thing for me. Call my daughter and tell her I’m OK. And tell her she should stay where she is.”
“Should I tell her where you are?”
“No. Not yet. But you’ve got to convince her.”
Sten Widen nodded. Wallander gave him the number. But there was no answer.
“You’ll have to keep on trying until you reach her,” he said.
One of the stable girls came into the kitchen. Wallander nodded, and she introduced herself as Kristina.
“You can go get a pizza,” said Sten Widen. “Buy a few newspapers, too. There isn’t a bite to eat in the house.”
Sten Widen gave the girl some money. She drove off in the Duett.
“You said you started singing again,” said Wallander.
Sten Widen smiled for the first time. Wallander could remember that smile, but it was many years since he had last seen it.
“I’ve joined the church choir at Svedala,” ha said. “I sometimes sing solos at funerals. I realized I was missing it. But the horses don’t like it if I sing in the stables.”
“Do you need an impresario?” wondered Wallander. “It’s hard to see how I can keep going as a cop after all this.”
“You killed in self-defense,” said Sten Widen. “I’d have done the same thing. Just thank your lucky stars you had a gun.”
“I don’t think anybody can understand what it feels like.”
“It’ll pass.”
“Never.”
“Everything passes.”
Sten Widen tried calling again. Still no answer. Wallander went out to the bathroom and took a shower. He borrowed a shirt from Sten Widen. That also smelled like horses.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“How’s what going?”
“The horse business.”
“I’ve got one that’s good. Three more that might become good. But Fog’s got talent. She’ll bring in the money. She might even be a possibility for the Derby this year.”
“Is she really called Fog?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I was thinking about last night. If I’d had a horse I might have been able to catch up with Konovalenko.”
“Not on Fog you wouldn’t. She throws riders she doesn’t know. Talented horses are often a handful. Like people. Full of themselves, and whimsical. I sometimes wonder if she should have a mirror in the horse box. But she runs fast.”
The girl called Kristina came back with the pizza and some newspapers. Then she went out again.
“Isn’t she going to eat?” asked Wallander.
“They eat in the stables,” said Sten Widen. “We have a little kitchen there.” He took the top newspaper and leafed through. One of the pages attracted his attention.
“It’s about you,” he said.
“I’d rather not know. Not yet.”
“As you like.”
Sten Widen got a reply the third time he called. It was Linda who answered, not Wallander’s father. Wallander could hear she was insisting on asking lots of questions. But Sten Widen only said what he was supposed to.
“She was very relieved,” he said when the call was over. “She promised to stay put.”
The ate their pizzas. A cat jumped up onto the table. Wallander gave it a piece. He noticed the cat smelled like horses, too.
“The fog’s lifting,” said Sten Widen. “Did I ever tell you I’d been in South Africa? Apropos of what you were just saying.”
“No,” said Wallander, surprised. “I didn’t know that.”
“When nothing came of the opera-singing business, I went away,” he said. “I wanted to get away from everything, you’ll remember that. I thought I might become a big game hunter. Or go looking for diamonds in Kimberley. Must have been something I’d read. And I actually went. Got as far as Cape Town. I stayed for three weeks, and then I’d had enough. Ran away. Came back here. And so it was horses instead, when Dad died.”
“Ran away?”
“The way those blacks were treated. I was ashamed. It was their country, but they were forced to go around cap in hand, apologizing for their existence. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ll never forget it.”
He wiped his mouth and went out. Wallander thought about what he had said. Then he realized he would soon have to go back to the police station in Ystad.
He went into the room where the telephone was, and found what he was looking for. A half-empty whiskey bottle. He unscrewed the cap, took a large mouthful, and then another. He watched Sten Widen ride past the window on a brown horse.
First I get burgled. Then they blow my apartment up. What next?
He lay down on the sofa again, and pulled the blanket up to his chin. His fever had been imagined, and his headache was gone. He would have to get up again soon.
Victor Mabasha was dead. Konovalenko had shot him. The investigation into Louise Akerblom’s disappearance and death was littered with dead bodies. He could see no way out. How were they ever going to catch up with Konovalenko?
After a while he fell asleep. He did not wake up again for another four hours.
Sten Widen was in the kitchen, reading an evening paper.
“You’re wanted,” he said.
Wallander looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“Who is?”
“You,” repeated Sten Widen. “You’re wanted. They’ve sent out an APB. You can also read between the lines that they think you’ve gone temporarily insane.”
Wallander grabbed hold of the newspaper. There was a picture of him, and of Bjork.
Sten Widen was telling the truth. He was a wanted man. He and Konovalenko. They also suspected he might not be fit to look after himself.
Wallander stared in horror at Sten Widen.
“Call my daughter,” he said.
“I already did,” he said. “And I told her you were still compos mentis.”
“Did she believe you?”
“Yes. She believed me.”
Wallander sat there motionless. Then he made up his mind. He would play the role they had given him. A chief detective inspector from Ystad, temporarily out of his mind, missing and wanted. That would give him the thing he needed above all else.
Time.
When Konovalenko caught sight of Wallander in the fog down by the sea, in the field with the sheep, he realized to his astonishment that he was up against a worthy opponent. It was at the very moment Victor Mabasha was thrown backwards and was dead before he hit the ground. Konovalenko heard a roar coming out of the fog, and turned around while crouching down. And there he was, the chubby provincial cop who had defied him time and time again. Konovalenko could now see he had underestimated him. He watched as Rykoff was hit by two bullets that ripped open his rib cage. Using the dead African as a shield, Konovalenko backed up as far as the beach, knowing that Wallander would come after him. He would not give up, and it was clear now that he was dangerous.
Konovalenko ran along the beach in the fog. At the same time he called Tania on the mobile phone he had with him. She was waiting at the square in Ystad with a car. He got as far as the perimeter fence, scrambled up onto the road, and saw a sign pointing to Kaseberga. He directed her out of Ystad by telephone, talking to her all the time, and urged her to drive carefully. He said nothing about Vladimir being dead. That would come later. All the time he kept an eye out behind him. Wallander was not far away and he was dangerous, the first ruthless Swede he had come up against at close quarters. He could not believe what had happened. Wallander was just a pro
vincial cop, after all. There was something about his behavior that simply did not add up.
Tania arrived, Konovalenko took over the wheel, and they drove back to the house near Tomelilla.
“Where’s Vladimir?” she asked.
“He’ll be coming later,” replied Konovalenko. “We were forced to split up. I’ll get him later.”
“What about the African?”
“Dead.”
“The cop?”
No answer. Tania realized something had gone wrong. Konovalenko was driving too fast. There was something bugging him.
It was while they were still in the car that Tania realized Vladimir was dead. But she said nothing, and managed to keep up the facade until they got back to the house where Sikosi Tsiki was sitting on a chair watching them, his face devoid of expression. Then she started screaming. Konovalenko slapped her, on the cheek with the flat of his hand at first, then harder and harder. But she kept on screaming until he managed to force some sedatives down her throat, so many they practically knocked her out. Sikosi Tsiki sat watching them the whole time from the sofa, without moving. Konovalenko had the impression he was performing on a stage, with Sikosi Tsiki the only member of the audience, albeit an attentive one. Once Tania had sunk into the no-man’s-land between deep sleep and unconsciousness, Konovalenko got changed and poured himself a glass of vodka. The fact that Victor Mabasha was dead at last did not give him the satisfaction he had expected. It solved the immediate practical problems, not least his sensitive relationship with Jan Kleyn. But he knew Wallander would come after him.
He would not give in. He would pick up the trail once more.
Konovalenko drank another glass of vodka.
The African on the sofa is a dumb animal, he thought. He watches me all the time, not in a friendly way, not unfriendly either, just watching. He says nothing, asks nothing. He could sit like that for days on end if anyone asked him to.
Konovalenko still had nothing to say to him. With every minute that passed, Wallander would be getting closer. What was needed now was an offensive on his part. Preparing for the actual assignment, the assassination in South Africa, would have to wait for a while.
He knew Wallander’s weak spot. That was what Konovalenko wanted to get at. But where was his daughter? Somewhere not far away, presumably in Ystad. But not in the apartment.
It took him an hour to figure out a solution to the problem. It was a very risky plan. But he had realized there was no such thing as a risk-free strategy as far as this remarkable cop Wallander was concerned.
Since Tania was the key to his plan and she was going to be asleep for many hours, all he needed to do was to wait. But he did not forget for one moment that Wallander was out there in the fog and darkness, and that he was getting closer all the time.
“I gather the big man won’t be coming back,” Sikosi Tsiki said suddenly. His voice was very husky, his English singsong.
“He made a mistake,” said Konovalenko. “He was too slow. Perhaps he thought there was a way back. But there isn’t.”
That was all Sikosi Tsiki said that night. He got up from the sofa and went back to his room. It occurred to Konovalenko that, despite everything, he preferred the replacement Jan Kleyn had sent. He would remember to point that out when he called South Africa the following night.
He was the only one still awake. The drapes were carefully drawn, and he refilled his glass with vodka.
He went to bed shortly before five in the morning.
Tania arrived at the police station in Ystad just before one in the afternoon on Saturday, May 16. She was still groggy, as a result of the shock over Vladimir’s death and the strong sedatives Konovalenko had given her. But she was also determined. Wallander was the guy who had killed her husband. The cop who visited them in Hallunda. Konovalenko had described Vladimir’s death in a way that bore little resemblance to what actually happened in the fog. As far as Tania was concerned, Wallander was a monster of uncontrolled, sadistic brutality. For Vladimir’s sake she would play the part Konovalenko had given her. Eventually there would be an opportunity to kill him.
She entered the reception area at the police station. A woman in a glass cage smiled at her.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“My car was broken into,” said Tania.
“Oh, dear,” said the receptionist. “I’ll see if there’s anybody who can deal with you. The whole place is upside down today.”
“I can imagine,” said Tania. “Wasn’t it awful, what happened.”
“I never thought we’d live to see anything like this happening in Ystad,” said the receptionist. “But obviously, you never know.”
She tried several numbers. Eventually someone answered.
“Is that Martinson? Do you have time to deal with a theft from a car?”
Tania could hear an excited voice at the other end of the line, harassed, negative. But the woman would not give up.
“We have to try and function normally, in spite of everything,” she said. “I can’t find anybody but you. And it won’t take long.”
The man on the phone conceded.
“You can talk to Detective Inspector Martinson,” she said, pointing. “Third door on the left.”
Tania knocked and entered the office, which was in a terrible mess. The man behind the desk looked weary and harassed. His desk was stacked up with paper. He looked at her with ill-concealed irritation, but he invited her to sit down and started rummaging through a drawer for a form.
“Car break-in,” he said.
“Yes,” said Tania. “The thief got away with my radio.”
“They usually do,” said Martinson.
“Please excuse me,” said Tania, “but I wonder if could have a glass of water? I have such a nagging cough.”
Martinson looked at her in surprise.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Of course you can have a glass of water.”
He got up and left the room.
Tania had already noticed the address book on his desk. As soon as Martinson went out, she picked it up and found the letter W. Wallander’s home number at the Mariagatan apartment was listed, and his father’s number as well. Tania wrote it down quickly on a piece of paper she had in her coat pocket. Then she replaced the address book and looked around the office.
Martinson came back with a glass of water, and a cup of coffee for himself. The telephone started ringing, but he picked up the receiver and laid it on the desk. Then he asked his questions and she described the imaginary break-in. She gave the registration number of a car she had seen parked in the center of town. They had taken a radio, and a bag containing liquor. Martinson wrote it all down, and when he had finished he asked her to read it through and sign. She called herself Irma Alexanderson, and gave an address on the Malmo Road. She handed the sheet of paper back to Martinson.
“You must be very worried about your colleague,” she said in a friendly tone. “What was his name, now? Wallander?”
“Yes,” said Martinson. “It’s not easy.”
“I’m sorry for his daughter,” she said. “I used to be her music teacher once upon a time. But then she moved to Stockholm.”
Martinson looked at her with somewhat renewed interest.
“She’s back here again now,” he said.
“Really?” said Tania. “She must have been very lucky, then, when the apartment burned down.”
“She’s with her grandfather,” said Martinson, replacing the telephone receiver.
Tania got up.
“I won’t disturb you any longer,” she said. “Many thanks for your help.”
“No problem,” said Martinson, shaking her by the hand.
Tania knew he would forget her the moment she left the room. The dark wig she was wearing over her own blond hair meant he would never be able to recognize her.
She nodded to the woman in reception, passed by a crowd of journalists who were waiting for a press conference due to begin any time n
ow, and left the police station.
Konovalenko was waiting in his car at the gas station on the hill leading to the town center. She got into the car.
“Wallander’s daughter is staying with his father,” she said. “I’ve got his telephone number.”
Konovalenko looked at her. Then he broke into a smile.
“We’ve got her,” he said quietly. “We’ve got her. And when we’ve got her, we’ve got him as well.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Wallander dreamed he was walking on water.
The world he found himself in was a strange blue color. The sky and its jagged clouds were blue, the edge of a forest in the far distance was also blue, and the cliff face was cluttered with blue birds roosting. And there was the sea he was walking on as well. Konovalenko was also somewhere in the dream. Wallander had been following his tracks in the sand. But then, instead of turning up toward the slope leading away from the beach, they went straight out into the sea. In his dream it was obvious that he should follow them. And so he walked on water. It was like walking over a thin layer of fine glass splinters. The surface of the water was uneven, but it bore his weight. Somewhere, beyond the last of those blue islets, close to the horizon, was Konovalenko.
He remembered his dream when he woke up early on Sunday morning, May 17. He was on the sofa in Sten Widen’s house. He padded out into the kitchen and noted it was half past five. A quick look into Sten Widen’s bedroom revealed that he was up already, and had gone out to the horses. Wallander poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table.
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