The White Lioness

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.

The previous evening he had tried to start thinking again.

In one sense his situation was easy to assess. He was a wanted man, and they were looking for him. But he could be wounded, he could be dead. Moreover, he had pointed guns at his colleagues and thus demonstrated that he was out of his mind. In order to catch Konovalenko they would also have to track down Chief Inspector Wallander from Ystad. So far, his situation was quite clear. The previous day, when Sten Widen told him what was in the evening papers, he had decided to play the part assigned to him. That would give him time. And he needed that time in order to catch up with Konovalenko and, if necessary, kill him.

Wallander realized he was setting up a sacrificial lamb. Himself. He doubted whether the police could arrest Konovalenko without more cops being injured, perhaps killed. And therefore he would sacrifice himself. The very thought terrified him. But he felt he could not run away. He had to achieve what he had set out to do, regardless of the consequences.

Wallander tried to imagine what Konovalenko was thinking. He concluded that Konovalenko could not be completely indifferent to his existence. Even if Konovalenko did not regard him as a worthy adversary, he must have gathered that Wallander was a cop who went his own way and did not hesitate to use a gun if necessary. If nothing else that should have earned him a certain amount of respect, even if Konovalenko knew deep down that the basic assumption was false. Wallander was a cop who never took unnecessary risks. He was both cowardly and cautious. When he reacted in primitive fashion, it was always because he was in desperate circumstances. But by all means let Konovalenko go on thinking I’m not the man I really am, thought Wallander.

He had also tried to figure out what Konovalenko had in mind. He had returned to Skane, and succeeded in killing Victor Mabasha. Wallander had difficulty in believing he was acting on his own. He had brought Rykoff with him, but how had he managed to get away without outside help? Rykoff’s wife, Tania, must be around, and maybe other henchmen Wallander didn’t know about. They had rented a house under a false name before. Maybe they’ve hidden themselves away again in some remote house out in the sticks.

Having got that far, Wallander realized there was another important question still waiting to be resolved.

What happens after Victor Mabasha, he wondered. What about the assassination that was the center of everything that’s happened? What about the invisible organization that’s pulling all the strings, even Konovalenko’s? Will the whole thing be called off? Or will these faceless men keep on trekking towards their goal?

He drank his coffee, and concluded there was only one thing open to him. He had to make sure Konovalenko could find him. When they attacked the apartment, they were looking for him as well. Victor Mabasha’s last words were that he didn’t know where Wallander was. Konovalenko wanted to know.

He could hear footsteps in the hall. Sten Widen came in. He was dressed in dirty overalls and muddy boots.

“We’re racing at Jagersro today,” he said. “How about coming along?”

Wallander was tempted, just for a moment. He welcomed anything that could divert his thoughts.

“Is Fog running?” he asked.

“She’s running, and she’s going to win,” said Sten Widen. “But I doubt whether the gamblers will have enough faith in her. That means you could earn a few kronor.”

“How can you be so sure she’s the best?” wondered Wallander.

“She’s a temperamental beast,” said Sten Widen, “but today she’s raring to go. She’s restless in her box. She can sense the chips are down. And the opposition is not all that brilliant. There are a few horses from Norway I don’t know much about. But I guess she can beat them as well.”

“Who’s the owner of this horse?” asked Wallander.

“Some businessman by the name of Morell.”

Wallander recognized the name. He had heard it not long ago, but could not remember the context.

“Stockholmer?”

“No. From Skane.”

Something clicked for Wallander. Peter Hanson and his pumps. A fence by the name of Morell.

“What line of business is this Morell in?” asked Wallander.

“To tell you the truth, I think he’s a little shady,” said Sten Widen. “Or so rumor has it. But he pays his training bills on time. No business of mine where the money comes from.”

Wallander had no more questions.

“I don’t think I’ll come, thanks all the same,” he said.

“Ulrika bought in some food,” said Sten Widen. “We’ll be taking the horses off in an hour or two. You’ll have to look after yourself.”

“What about the Duett? asked Wallander. ”Will you leave it here?”

“You can borrow it if you like,” said Sten Widen. “But remember to fill the tank. I keep forgetting.”

Wallander watched the horses being led into the big horse boxes, and driven off. Not long afterwards he was also on his way. When he got to Ystad he took the risk of driving down Mariagatan. It looked pretty desolate. A yawning hole in the wall, surrounded by filthy bricks, showed where the window used to be. He stopped only briefly, before driving right through town. As he passed the military training ground he noted a squad car parked a long way from the perimeter. Now the fog had disappeared, the distance seemed shorter than he remembered it. He drove on and turned off down to the harbor at Kaseberga. He knew there was a risk he might be recognized, but the photo of him in the newspapers was not a particularly good likeness. The problem was he might bump into somebody he knew. He went into a phone booth and called his father. Just as he had hoped, his daughter answered.

“Where are you?” she asked. “What are you up to?”

“Just listen,” he said. “Can anybody overhear you?”

“How could anybody? Grandad’s painting.”

“Nobody else?”

“There’s nobody here, I told you!”

“Haven’t the police stationed a guard yet? Isn’t there a car parked on the road?”

“There’s Nilson’s tractor in one of the fields.”

“Nothing else?”

“Dad, there’s nobody here. Stop worrying about it.”

“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” he said. “Don’t say anything to your grandad.”

“Have you seen what they put in the papers?”

“We can talk about that later.”

He replaced the receiver, thinking how pleased he was nobody had yet confirmed that he killed Rykoff. Even if the police knew, they wouldn’t release the information until Wallander returned. He was quite sure of that, after all his years in the force.

He drove straight to his father’s house from Kaseberga. He left the car on the main road and walked the last bit, taking a path where he knew he could not be seen.

She was standing at the door, waiting for him. When they got into the hallway, she hugged him. They stood there in silence. He did not know what she was thinking. As far as he was concerned, though, it was proof that they were on the way to establishing a relationship so close that words were sometimes unnecessary.

They sat in the kitchen, opposite each other at the table.

“Grandad won’t show up for quite some time yet,” she said. “I could learn a lot from his working discipline.”

“Or stubbornness,” he said.

They both burst out laughing at the same time.

Then he grew serious again. He told her slowly what had happened, and why he had decided to accept the role of a wanted man, a half-crazy cop on the loose.

“Just what do you think you’ll achieve? All by yourself?”

He could not make up his mind whether fear or skepticism lay behind her question.

“I’ll lure him out. I’m well aware I’m no one-man army. But if this thing is going to be solved, I have to take the first step myself.”

Quickly, as if in protest at what he had just said, she changed the subject.

“Did he suffer a lot?” she asked. “Victor Mabasha?”

“No,” Wallander replied. “It was over in a flash. I don’t think he had any idea he was going to die.”

“What’ll happen to him now?”

“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “I guess there’ll be an autopsy. Then it’s a matter of whether his family want him buried here, or in South Africa. Assuming that’s where he comes from.”

“Who is he, in fact?”

“I don’t know. I sometimes felt I’d established some kind of contact with him. But then he slipped away again. I can’t say I know what he was thinking deep down. He was a remarkable man, very complicated. If that’s how you get when you live in South Africa, it must be a country you wouldn’t even want to send your worst enemy to.”

“I want to help you,” she said.

“You can,” said Wallander. “I want you to call the police station and ask to speak with Martinson.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “I’d like to do something nobody else can do.”

“That’s not the kind of thing you can plan in advance,” said Wallander. “That just happens. When it happens.”

She called the police station and asked to speak with Martinson. But the switchboard could not track him down. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and asked what she should do. Wallander hesitated. But then he realized he could not afford to wait, nor pick and choose. He asked her to get Svedberg instead.

“He’s in a meeting,” she said. “Not to be disturbed.”

“Tell her who you are,” said Wallander. “Say it’s important. He has to leave the meeting.”

It was a few minutes before Svedberg came to the phone. She handed the receiver to Wallander.

“It’s me,” he said. “Kurt. Don’t say anything. Where are you?”

“In my office.”

“Is the door closed?”

“Just a moment.”

Wallander could hear him slamming the door.

“Kurt,” he said. “Where are you?”

“I’m somewhere where you’ll never be able to find me.”

“Damn, Kurt.”

“Just listen. Don’t interrupt. I need to meet you. But only on condition you don’t say a word to anybody. Not to Bjork, not to Martinson, nobody. If you can’t promise that I’ll hang up right away.”

“Right now we’re in the conference room discussing how to scale up the search for you and Konovalenko,” said Svedberg. “It’ll be absurd if I can’t go back to that meeting and not say I’ve just been talking with you.”

“That can’t be helped,” said Wallander. “I think I have good reason for doing what I’m doing. I’m intending to cash in on the fact that I’m wanted.”

“How?”

“I’ll tell you when we meet. Make up your mind now!”

There was a long pause. Wallander waited. He could not predict what Svedberg would decide.

“I’ll come,” said Svedberg eventually.

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

Wallander described the way to Stjarnsund.

“Two hours from now,” said Wallander. “Can you make that?”

“I’ll have to make sure I can,” said Svedberg.

Wallander hung up.

“I want to be certain somebody knows what I’m doing,” he said.

“In case something happens?”

Her question came so suddenly Wallander had no time to think of an evasive answer.

“Yes,” he said. “In case something happens.”

He stayed for another cup of coffee. As he was getting ready to leave, he suddenly hesitated.

“I don’t want to make you any more worried than you already are,” he said, “but I don’t want you to leave these four walls for the next few days. Nothing’s going to happen to you. It’s probably just to make me sleep easier at night.”

She patted his cheek.

“I’ll stay here,” she said. “Don’t you worry.”

“Just a few more days,” he said. “It can hardly be more than that. This nightmare will be over by then. Then I’ll have to get used to the fact that I killed somebody.”

He turned and left before she had chance to say anything. He could see in the rearview mirror that she had followed him to the road and was watching him drive away.

Svedberg was on time.

It was ten to three when he turned into the courtyard.

Wallander put on his jacket and went out to meet him.

Svedberg looked at him and shook his head.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I think I can handle it,” said Wallander. “But thanks for coming.”

They went out onto the bridge over the old moat around the ruined castle. Svedberg stopped, leaned over the rail and contemplated the green sludge below.

“It’s hard to grasp that this sort of thing can happen,” he said.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that we nearly always act against our better judgment,” said Wallander. “We think we can stop something happening just by refusing to acknowledge it.”

“But why Sweden?” Svedberg wondered. “Why choose this country as their starting point?”

“Victor Mabasha had a possible explanation,” said Wallander.

“Who?”

Wallander realized Svedberg did not know what the dead African was called. He repeated the name. Then he went on.

“It was partly because this is where Konovalenko was established, of course,” he said. “But it was just as important to lay a smoke screen. The crucial thing for the guys behind this business is that nothing can be tracked down. Sweden is a country where it’s easy to get lost. It’s simple to cross the border without being noticed, and it’s easy to disappear. He had a simile for it. He said South Africa is a cuckoo who often lays her eggs in other people’s nests.”

They continued towards the castle that had collapsed long ago. Svedberg looked around.

“I’ve never been here before,” he said. “I wonder what it was like, being a cop when this castle was in its prime.”

They wandered in silence around the crumbled remains of what had once been high walls.

“You have to understand, Martinson and I were really shaken,” said Svedberg. “You were covered in blood, your hair was standing on end, and you were waving guns around in both hands.”

“Yes, I realize that,” said Wallander.

“But it was wrong of us to tell Bjork you seemed to be out of your mind.”

“I sometimes wonder if I am, in fact.”

“What are you thinking of doing?” asked Svedberg.

“I’m thinking of enticing Konovalenko to come after me,” said Wallander. “Now I think that’s the only way to make him come out of hiding.”

Svedberg looked at him, a serious expression on his face.

“What you’re doing is dangerous,” he said.

“It’s less risky when you can anticipate the danger,” said Wallander, wondering as he did so what his words really meant.

“You’ve got to have backup,” Svedberg insisted.

“He wouldn’t come out then,” said Wallander. “It’s not enough for him just to think I’m on my own. He’ll check. He won’t pounce until he’s absolutely certain.”

“Pounce?”

Wallander shrugged.

“He’ll try to kill me,” he said. “But I’ll make sure he doesn’t succeed.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Svedberg stared at him in amazement. But he said nothing.

They started back, and stopped once again on the bridge.

“There’s something I want to ask you,” said Wallander. “I’m worried about my daughter. Konovalenko’s unpredictable. That’s why I want you to give her a bodyguard.”

“Bjork will want an explanation,” said Svedberg.

“I know,” said Wallander. “That’s why I’m asking you. You can talk with Martinson. Bjork doesn’t really need to know.”

“I’ll try,” said Svedberg. “I can see why you’re worried.”

They started walking again, left the bridge and puffed their way up the hill.

“By the way, somebody who knows your daughter came to see Martinson,” said Svedberg, trying to change the subject to something less solemn.

Wallander stared at him in amazement.

“At home?”

“In his office. She was reporting a theft from her car. She’d been your daughter’s teacher or something. I don’t remember exactly.”

Wallander stopped dead.

“One more time,” he said. “Just what are you saying?”

Svedberg said it again.

“What was her name?” asked Wallander.

“I’ve no idea.”

“What did she look like?”

“You’d better ask Martinson that.”

“Try and remember exactly what he said!”

Svedberg pondered.

“We were having coffee,” he said. “Martinson was complaining about being interrupted all the time. He says he’ll get an ulcer from all the work piling up. ‘At least they could stop breaking into cars just now. A woman came in, by the way. Somebody had broken into her car. She asked about Wallander’s daughter. If she was still living in Stockholm.’ Something along those lines.”

“What did Martinson tell her? Did he tell that woman my daughter is here?”

“I don’t know.”

“We must call Martinson,” said Wallander. He started rushing towards the house. He broke into a run, with Svedberg after him.

“Get Martinson on the phone,” said Wallander when they were inside. “Ask him if he said where my daughter is right now. Find out what that woman was called. If he asks why, just tell him you’ll explain later.”

Svedberg nodded.

“You don’t believe there was a car theft?”

“I don’t know. But I can’t take any risks.”

Svedberg got hold of Martinson almost right away. He wrote down a few notes on a scrap of paper. Wallander could hear Martinson was very perplexed by Svedberg’s questions.

When the call was over, Svedberg had started to share Wallander’s worry.

“He said he’d told her.”

“Told her what?”

“That she was staying with your father out at Osterlen.”

“Why did he do that?”

“She asked him.”

Wallander looked at the kitchen clock.

“You’d better make the call,” he said. “My father might answer. He’s probably eating just now. Ask to talk to my daughter. Then I’ll take over.”

Wallander gave him the number. It rang for a long time before anybody answered. It was Wallander’s father. Svedberg asked to speak to his granddaughter. When he heard the reply, he cut the conversation short.

“She went down to the beach on her bike,” he said.

Wallander felt a stabbing pain in his stomach.

“I told her to stay indoors.”

“She left half an hour ago,” said Svedberg.

They took Svedberg’s car, and drove fast. Wallander did not say a word. Svedberg occasionally glanced at him. But he said nothing.

They came to the Kaseberga exit.

“Keep going,” said Wallander. “Next exit.”

They parked as close to the beach as they could get. There were no other cars. Wallander raced onto the sands with Svedberg behind him. The beach was deserted. Wallander could feel panic rising. Once again he had the invisible Konovalenko breathing down his neck.

“She could be behind one of the sand dunes,” he said.

“Are you sure this is where she’ll be?” wondered Svedberg.

“This is her beach,” said Wallander. “If she goes to the beach, this is where she comes. You go that way, I’ll go this way.”

Svedberg walked back towards Kaseberga while Wallander continued in an easterly direction. He tried to convince himself that he had no need to worry. Nothing had happened to her. But he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t stayed inside the house as promised. Was it really possible that she did not understand how serious it was? In spite of all that had happened?

Occasionally he would turn around and look toward Svedberg. Nothing as yet.

Wallander suddenly thought of Robert Akerblom. He would have said a prayer in this situation, he told himself. But I have no god to pray to. I don’t even have any spirits, like Victor Mabasha. I have my own joy and sorrow, that’s all.

There was a guy with a dog on top of the cliff, gazing out to sea. Wallander asked him if he had seen a solitary girl walking along the beach. But the guy shook his head. He had been on the beach with his dog for twenty minutes, and had been alone the whole time.

“Have you seen a man?” asked Wallander, and described Konovalenko.

The guy shook his head again.

Wallander walked on. He felt cold even though there was a trace of spring warmth in the wind. He started walking faster. The beach seemed endless. Then he looked around again. Svedberg was a long way away, but Wallander could see somebody standing by his side. Suddenly, Svedberg started waving.

Wallander ran all the way back. When he got to Svedberg and his daughter he was shattered. He looked at her without saying anything while he waited to get his breath back.

“You were supposed not to leave the house,” he said. “Why did you?”

“I didn’t think a walk along the beach would matter,” she said. “Not when it’s light. It’s nighttime when things happen, isn’t it?”

Svedberg drove and the other two sat in the back seat.

“What shall I tell Grandad?” she asked.

“Nothing,” answered Wallander. “I’ll talk to him tonight. I’ll play cards with him tomorrow. That will cheer him up.”

They separated on the road not far from the house.

Svedberg and Wallander drove back to Stjarnsund.

“I want that guard starting tonight,” said Wallander.

“I’ll go and tell Martinson right away,” said Svedberg. “We’ll arrange it somehow.”

“A police car parked on the road,” said Wallander. “I want it to be obvious the house is being watched.”

Svedberg got ready to leave.

“I need a few days,” said Wallander. “Until then you can keep on looking for me. But I’d like you to call me here occasionally.”

“What shall I tell Martinson?” wondered Svedberg.

“Tell him you got the idea of guarding my father’s house yourself,” said Wallander. “You can figure out how best to convince him.”

“You still don’t want me to fill Martinson in?”

“It’s enough for you to know where I am,” said Wallander.

Svedberg left. Wallander went to the kitchen and fried a couple of eggs. Two hours later the horse trailer returned.

“Did she win?” asked Wallander as Sten Widen came into the kitchen.

“She won,” he replied. “But barely.”

Peters and Noren were in their patrol car, drinking coffee.

They were both in a bad mood. They had been ordered by Svedberg to guard the house where Wallander’s father lived. The longest shifts were when your car was standing still. They would be sitting here until somebody came to relieve them. That was many hours away yet. It was a quarter past eleven at night. Darkness had fallen.

“What do you think’s happened to Wallander?”

“No idea,” said Noren. “How many times do I have to say the same thing? I don’t know.”

“It’s hard not to think about it,” Peters went on. “I’m sitting here wondering whether he might be an alcoholic.”

“Why should he be?”

“Do you remember that time we caught him drunk?”

“That’s not the same as being alcoholic.”

“No. But still.”

The conversation petered out. Noren got out of the car and stood legs apart to urinate.

That was when he saw the fire. At first he thought it was the reflection from a car’s headlights. Then he noticed smoke spiraling up from where the fire was burning.

“Fire!” he shouted to Peters.

Peters got out of the car.

“Can it be a forest fire?” wondered Noren.

The blaze was in a clump of trees on the far side of the nearest group of fields. It was hard to see where the center was because the countryside was undulating.

“We’d better drive over and take a look,” said Peters.

“Svedberg said we weren’t to leave our posts,” said Noren. “No matter what happened.”

“It’ll only take ten minutes,” said Peters. “We have a duty to intervene if we find a fire.”

“Call Svedberg first and get permission,” said Noren.

“It’ll only take ten minutes,” said Peters. “What are you scared of?”

“I’m not scared,” said Noren. “But orders are orders.”

They did as Peters wanted even so. They found their way to the fire via a muddy tractor track. When they got there, they found an old oil drum. Somebody had filled it with paper and plastic to make a good blaze. By the time Peters and Noren arrived, the fire was almost out.

“Funny time to burn garbage,” said Peters, looking round.

But there was no sign of anybody. The place was deserted.

“Let’s get back,” said Noren.

Barely twenty minutes later they were back at the house they were supposed to be guarding. All seemed to be quiet. The lights were out. Wallander’s father and daughter were asleep.

Many hours later they were relieved by Svedberg himself.

“All quiet,” said Peters.

He did not mention the excursion to the burning oil drum.

Svedberg sat dozing in his car. Dawn broke, and developed into morning.

By eight o’clock he started wondering why there was nobody up. He knew Wallander’s father got up early.

By half past eight, he had the distinct impression something was wrong. He got out of his car, crossed the courtyard to the front door and tried the handle.

The door was not locked. He rang the bell and waited. Nobody opened. He entered the dark vestibule and listened. Not a sound. Then he thought he could hear a scratching sound somewhere or other. It sounded like a mouse trying to get through a wall. He followed the noise until he found himself in front of a closed door. He knocked. By way of answer he could hear a muffled bellowing. He flung open the door. Wallander’s father was lying in bed. He was tied up, with a length of black tape over his mouth.

Svedberg stood quite still. He carefully removed the tape and untied the ropes. Then he searched through the whole house. The room in which he assumed Wallander’s daughter slept was empty. There was nobody in the house but Wallander’s father.

“When did it happen?” he asked.

“Last night,” said Wallander’s father. “Just after eleven.”

“How many of them were there?”

“One.”

“One?”

“Just one. But he had a gun.”

Svedberg stood up. His head was a complete blank.

Then he went out to the telephone to call Wallander.