The White Lioness

Chapter Four

The clock beside Kurt Wallander’s bed rang at a quarter to five. He groaned, and put the pillow over his face.

He groaned, and put the pillow over his face.

I get far too little sleep, he thought dejectedly. Why can’t I be one of those cops who put everything to do with work aside as soon as they get home?

He stayed in bed, and turned his mind back to his short visit at Robert Akerblom’s house the night before. It had been pure torture to look into his distraught eyes and tell him they hadn’t managed to find his wife. Kurt Wallander had gotten out of the house just as quickly as he could, and he felt ill as he drove back home. Then he’d lain awake until a quarter to three, despite feeling tired out, more or less exhausted.

We’ve got to find her, he thought. Now. Soon. Dead or alive. We’ve just got to find her.

He had arranged with Robert Akerblom to get back in touch the next morning, as soon as the search had begun again. Wallander realized he would have to go through Louise Akerblom’s personal belongings, in order to find out what she was really like. Somewhere in the back of Wallander’s mind was the nagging thought that there was something highly peculiar about her disappearance. There were peculiar circumstances every time a person went missing; but there was something in this case that was different from anything he had experienced before. He wanted to know what it was.

Wallander forced himself to get out of bed, switched on the coffee machine, and went to turn on the radio. He cursed when he remembered the burglary, and it occurred to him that nobody would have time to worry about that investigation, given the new circumstances.

He took a shower, got dressed, and had his coffee. The weather did not exactly improve his temper. It was pouring, and the wind was up. It was the worst weather imaginable for a line search. All day long the fields and coppices around Krageholm would be full of exhausted, irritable cops, dogs with their tails between their legs, and angry conscripts from the local regiment. Still, that was Bjork’s problem. His job was to go through Louise Akerblom’s belongings.

He got into his car and drove out to the shattered oak. Bjork was pacing impatiently up and down the verge.

“What awful weather,” he said “Why does it always have to rain when we’re out looking for somebody?”

“Hmm,” said Wallander. “It’s odd.”

“I’ve talked to the Lieutenant-Colonel: his name’s Hernberg,” said Bjork. “He’s sending two busloads of conscripts, at seven o’clock. I think we might as well start right away. Martinson’s done all the spadework.”

Wallander nodded appreciatively. Martinson was good when it came to line searches.

“I thought we’d call a press conference for ten o’clock,” said Bjork. “It would help if you could be there. We’ll have to have a photo of her by then.”

Wallander gave him the one he had in his inside pocket. Bjork contemplated Louise Akerblom’s picture.

“Nice girl,” he said. “I hope we find her alive. Is it a good likeness?”

“Her husband thinks it is.”

Bjork put the photo into a plastic wallet he carried in one of his raincoat pockets.

“I’m going to their house,” said Wallander. “I think I can be of more use there.”

Bjork nodded. As Wallander made to walk over to his car, Bjork grabbed him by the shoulder.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Is she dead? Is there some crime behind all this?”

“It can hardly be anything else,” said Wallander. “Unless she’s been hurt and is lying in agony somewhere or other. But I don’t think so.”

“It doesn’t look good,” said Bjork. “Not good at all.”

Wallander drove back to Ystad. The gray sea was looking very choppy.

When he entered the house in Akarvagen, two little girls stood staring at him, wide-eyed.

“I’ve told them you’re a cop,” said Robert Akerblom. “They know Mom’s lost, and you’re looking for her.”

Wallander nodded and tried to smile, despite the lump that came into his throat.

“My name’s Kurt,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“Maria and Magdalena,” answered the girls, one after another.

“Those are lovely names,” said Wallander. “I’ve got a daughter named Linda.”

“They’re going to be at my sister’s today,” said Robert Akerblom. “She’ll be here shortly to pick them up. Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

“Yes, please,” said Wallander.

He hung up his overcoat, removed his shoes, and went into the kitchen. The two girls were standing in the doorway, watching him.

Where shall I start? wondered Wallander. Will he understand that I have to open every drawer, and go through every one of her papers?

The two girls were picked up, and Wallander finished his tea.

“We have a press conference at ten o’clock,” he said. “That means we shall have to make your wife’s name public, and ask for anybody who might have seen her to come forward. As you will realize, that implies something else. We can no longer exclude the possibility that a crime might have been committed.”

Wallander had foreseen the risk that Robert Akerblom might go to pieces and start weeping. But the pale, hollow-eyed man, immaculately dressed in suit and tie, seemed to be in control of himself this morning.

“We have to go on believing there’s a natural explanation in spite of everything,” said Wallander. “But we can no longer exclude anything at all.”

“I understand,” said Robert Akerblom. “I’ve been clear about that all the time.”

Wallander pushed his teacup to one side, said thank you, and got to his feet.

“Have you thought of anything else we ought to know about?” he asked.

“No,” said Robert Akerblom. “It’s a complete mystery.”

“Let’s go through the house together,” said Wallander. “Then I hope you will understand I have to look through all her clothes, drawers, everything that could give us a clue.”

“She keeps everything in orderly fashion,” said Robert Akerblom.

They started upstairs, and worked their way down to the basement and the garage. Wallander noticed that Louise Akerblom was extremely fond of pastel shades. Nowhere was there a dark drape or table cloth to be seen. The house exuded joie de vivre. The furniture was a mixture of old and new. Even when he was drinking his tea, he noticed how well the kitchen was equipped with machines and devices. Obviously, their everyday life was not restricted by excessive puritanism.

“I’ll have to drive down to the office for a while,” said Robert Akerblom when they had finished their tour of the house. “I take it I can leave you here on your own.”

“No problem,” said Wallander. “I’ll save my questions till you get back. Or I’ll give you a call. In any case, I have to leave for the station shortly before ten, for the press conference.”

“I’ll be back before then,” said Robert Akerblom.

When Wallander was on his own, he started his methodical search of the house. He opened all the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen, examined the refrigerator and the freezer.

One thing intrigued him. In a cupboard under the sink was a well-stocked supply of liquor. That didn’t fit in with the impression he had of the Akerblom family.

He continued with the living room, without finding anything of note. Then he went upstairs. He ignored the girls’ room. He searched the bathroom first, reading the labels on bottles from the pharmacist and noting some of Louise Akerblom’s medications in his pocket book. He stood on the bathroom scales, and made a face when he saw how much he weighed. Then he moved on to the bedroom. He always felt uncomfortable going through a woman’s clothes, like somebody was watching him without his knowing it. He went through all the pouches and cardboard boxes in the wardrobes. Then he came to the chest of drawers where she kept her underwear. He found nothing that surprised him, nothing that told him anything he didn’t know already. When he was through, he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around the room.

Nothing, he thought. Absolutely nothing.

He sighed, and moved on to the next room, which was furnished as a study. He sat at the desk, opening drawer after drawer. He immersed himself in photo albums and bundles of letters. He didn’t come across a single photograph in which Louise Akerblom was not smiling or laughing.

He replaced everything carefully, closed the drawer, and tried the next one. Tax returns and insurance documents, school reports and conveyancing deeds, nothing that struck him as odd.

It was only when he opened the bottom drawer in the last of the chests that he was surprised. At first he thought it contained nothing but plain white writing paper. When he felt the bottom of the drawer, however, his fingers came into contact with a metal object. He took it out and sat there, frowning.

It was a pair of handcuffs. Not toy handcuffs; real ones. Made in England.

He put them on the desk in front of him.

They don’t have to be significant, he thought. But they were well hidden. And I suspect Robert Akerblom would have taken them away, if he knew they were there.

He closed the drawer and put the handcuffs in his pocket.

Then he went down to the basement rooms and the garage. On a shelf over a little workbench he found a few neatly made balsawood model airplanes. He pictured Robert Akerblom in his mind’s eye. Maybe he’d once dreamed of becoming a pilot?

The telephone started ringing in the background. He hurried to answer it right away.

It was nine o’clock by this time.

“Could I speak with Inspector Wallander?” It was Martinson’s voice.

“Speaking,” said Wallander.

“You’d better get out here,” said Martinson. “Right away.”

Wallander could feel his heart beating faster.

“Have you found her?” he asked.

“No,” said Martinson. “Not her, and not the car either. But there’s a house on fire not far away. Or to be more accurate, the house exploded. I thought there might be a link.”

“I’m on my way,” said Wallander.

He scribbled a note for Robert Akerblom and left it on the kitchen table.

On the way to Krageholm he tried to work out the implications of what Martinson had said. A house had exploded? What house?

He overtook three large trucks in succession. The rain was now so heavy the wipers could only keep the windshield partially clear.

Just before he reached the shattered oak tree, the rain eased a little and he could see a column of black smoke rising above the trees. A police car was waiting for him by the oak. One of the cops inside indicated he should turn off. As they swung in from the main road, Wallander noted the road was one of those he’d taken in error the previous day, the one with the most tire ruts.

There was something else about that road, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was right now.

When he got to the scene of the fire, he recognized the house. It was to the left, and hardly visible from the road. The firefighters were already hard at work. Wallander got out of his car, and was immediately hit by the heat from the fire. Martinson was striding towards him.

“People?” asked Wallander.

“None,” said Martinson. “Not as far as we know. In any case, it’s impossible to go inside. The heat is terrific. The house has been empty for over a year since the owner died. One of the local farmers told me the background. Whoever was dealing with the estate couldn’t make up his mind whether to rent it or sell it.”

“Let’s hear it,” said Wallander, eying the enormous clouds of smoke.

“I was out on the main road,” said Martinson. “One of the army search lines had gotten into a bit of a mess. Then there was this sudden bang. It sounded like a bomb going off. At first I thought an airplane had crashed. Then I saw the smoke. It took me five minutes at most to get here. Everything was in flames. Not just the house, but the barn as well.”

Wallander tried to think.

“A bomb,” he said. “Could it have been a gas leak?”

Martinson shook his head.

“Not even twenty canisters of propane could have made an explosion like that,” he said. “Fruit trees in the back have snapped off. Or been blown up by the roots. It must have been set up.”

“The whole area is crawling with cops and soldiers,” said Wallander. “An odd time to choose for arson.”

“Exactly what I thought,” said Martinson. “That’s why I thought right away there could be a connection.”

“Any ideas?” asked Wallander.

“No,” said Martinson. “None at all.”

“Find out who owns the house,” said Wallander. “Who’s responsible for the estate. I agree with you, this seems to be more than just a coincidence. Where’s Bjork?”

“He already left for the station, to get ready for the press conference,” said Martinson. “You know how nervous he always gets when he has to face journalists who never write what he says. But he knows what’s happened. Svedberg’s been speaking to him. He knows you’re here as well.”

“I’ll have a closer look at this when they’ve put the fire out,” said Wallander. “But it would be a good idea for you to detail some guys to run a fine-tooth comb over this area.”

“Looking for Louise Akerblom?” asked Martinson.

“For the car in the first place,” replied Wallander.

Martinson went off to talk to the farmer. Wallander stayed put, staring at the raging fire.

If there is a connection, what is it? he wondered. A woman goes missing and a house explodes. Right under the noses of guys doing an intensive search.

He looked at his watch. Ten to ten. He beckoned to one of the firemen.

“When will I be able to start rooting around in there?” he asked.

“It’s burning pretty fast,” said the firefighter. “By this afternoon you should be able to get close to the house in any case.”

“Good,” said Wallander. “It seems to have been a hell of a bang,” he went on.

“That wasn’t started with a match,” said the fireman. “I wouldn’t be surprised if a hundred kilos of dynamite went off.”

Wallander drove back towards Ystad. He called Ebba in reception and asked her to tell Bjork he was on his way.

Then he suddenly remembered what it was he’d forgotten. The previous evening one of the patrol car crews reported they’d nearly been hit by a Mercedes speeding down one of the dirt roads. Wallander was pretty sure it was the very track where the house had exploded.

Too many coincidences, he thought. Soon we’ll have to find something that makes it all start to add up.

Bjork was pacing up and down restlessly in the reception area at the police station when Wallander got there.

“I’ll never get used to press conferences,” he said. “What’s all this about a fire that Svedberg called to inform me about? He expressed himself very oddly, I must say. He said the house and barn had exploded. What did he mean by that? What house was he talking about?”

“Svedberg’s description was probably accurate,” said Wallander. “It can hardly have anything to do with the press conference on the disappearance of Louise Akerblom, though, so I suggest we talk about it later. The guys out there might have more information by then, anyway.”

Bjork nodded.

“Let’s keep this simple,” he said. “A brief and straightforward reference to her being missing, hand out the photos, appeal to the general public. You can deal with questions about how the investigation is going.”

“The investigation isn’t really going at all,” said Wallander. “If only we’d traced her car. But we’ve got nothing.”

“You’d better make something up,” said Bjork. “Police who claim they have nothing to tell reporters are fair game. Never forget that.”

The press conference took just over half an hour. In addition to the local papers and local radio, the local reps for the Express and Today had shown up. Nobody from the Stockholm papers, though. They won’t arrive until we’ve found her, thought Wallander. Assuming she’s dead.

Bjork opened the press conference and announced that a woman was missing in circumstances the police considered to be serious. He described the woman and her car, and distributed photographs. Then he invited questions, nodded towards Wallander, and sat down. Wallander mounted the little dais and waited.

“What do you think has happened?” asked the reporter from the local radio station. Wallander had never seen him before. The local radio station always seemed to be changing personnel.

“We don’t think anything,” answered Wallander. “But the circumstances suggest we should be taking the disappearance of Louise Akerblom seriously.”

“Tell us about the circumstances, then,” suggested the local reporter.

Wallander waded in.

“We must be clear about the fact that most people in this country who go missing in one way or another turn up again sooner or later. Two times out of three there is a totally natural explanation. One of the most common is forgetfulness. Just occasionally there are signs to suggest there could be another explanation. Then we treat the disappearance very seriously.”

Bjork raised his hand.

“Which is not to say, of course, that the police don’t take all cases of missing persons very seriously,” he explained.

Oh my God, thought Wallander.

The man from the Express, a young guy with a red beard, raised his hand and spoke up.

“Can’t you be a bit more precise?” he said. “You’re not excluding the possibility that a crime may have been committed. Why aren’t you? I also think it’s not clear where she disappeared, and who was the last to see her.”

Wallander nodded. The journalist was right. Bjork had been vague on several important counts.

“She left the Savings Bank in Skurup just after three last Friday afternoon,” he said. “An employee at the bank saw her start her car and drive off around a quarter past three. We can be quite sure about the time. Nobody saw her after that. Moreover we are quite sure she took one of two possible routes. Either the E14 towards Ystad, or she might have driven past Slimminge and Rogla towards the Krageholm district. As you heard, Louise Akerblom is a real estate agent. She might have gone to see a house that was being put up for sale. Or she might have driven straight home. We’re not sure what she decided to do.”

“Which house?” asked one of the local press reporters.

“I can’t answer that question for reasons connected with the investigation,” replied Wallander.

The press conference died out of its own accord. The local radio reporter interviewed Bjork. Wallander talked to one of the local press reporters in the corridor outside. When he was alone, he fixed himself a cup of coffee, went into his office and called the scene of the fire. He got hold of Svedberg, who told him that Martinson had already diverted a group of searchers to concentrate on the area around the burning house.

“I’ve never seen a fire like this one,” said Svedberg. “There won’t be a single roof beam left when it’s over.”

“I’ll be out there this afternoon,” said Wallander. “I’m going out to Robert Akerblom’s place again. Call me there if anything develops.”

“We’ll call you,” said Svedberg. “What did the press have to say?”

“Nothing worth commenting on,” said Wallander, putting the phone down.

That moment Bjork knocked on his door.

“That went pretty well,” he said. “No dirty tricks, just reasonable questions. Let’s just hope they write what we want them to.”

“We’ll have to detail a few extra people to man the phones tomorrow,” said Wallander, not bothering to comment on his assessment of the press conference. “When a religious mother of two disappears, I’m afraid lots of folk who’ve seen nothing at all will be calling in. Giving the police the benefit of their blessing and prayers. Quite apart from those we hope might really have something useful to tell us.”

“Assuming we don’t find her during the course of today,” said Bjork.

“I don’t believe that, and neither do you,” said Wallander.

Then he told the story of the remarkable fire. The explosion. Bjork listened with a worried look on his face.

“What does all this mean?” he asked.

Wallander stretched out his arms.

“I don’t know. I’m going back to see Robert Akerblom now, though. Find out what else he’s got to say.”

Bjork stood in the door.

“We’ll have a debriefing in my office at five o’clock,” he said.

Just as Wallander was about to leave his office, he remembered he’d forgotten to ask Svedberg to do something for him. He called the scene of the fire once more.

“Do you remember how a police car nearly crashed into a Mercedes last night?” he asked.

“I have a vague memory,” said Svedberg.

“Find out all you can about the incident,” Wallander went on. “I have a strong suspicion that Mercedes has something to do with the fire. I’m not quite so sure whether it has anything to do with Louise Akerblom.”

“Roger,” said Svedberg. “Anything else?”

“We have a meeting here at five o’clock,” said Wallander, replacing the receiver.

A quarter of an hour later he was back in Robert Akerblom’s kitchen. He sat down on the same chair he’d occupied a few hours earlier, and had another cup of tea.

“Sometimes you get called out on some sudden emergency,” said Wallander. “There’s been a major fire incident. But it’s under control now.”

“I understand,” said Robert Akerblom politely. “I’m sure it’s not easy, being a cop.”

Wallander observed the man opposite him at the table. At the same time, he could feel the handcuffs in his trouser pocket. He wasn’t looking forward to the interrogation he was about to launch.

“I have a few questions,” he said. “We can talk just as easily here as anywhere else.”

“Of course,” said Robert Akerblom. “Ask as many questions as you like.”

Wallander noticed he was irritated by the gentle and yet unmistakably admonishing tone in Robert Akerblom’s voice.

“I’m not sure about the first question,” said Wallander. “Does your wife have any medical problems?”

The man looked at him in surprise.

“No,” he said. “What are you getting at?”

“It just occurred to me she might have heard she was suffering from some serious illness. Has she been to the doctor lately?”

“No. And if she’d been ill, she’d have told me.”

“There are some serious illnesses people are sometimes hesitant to talk about,” said Wallander. “Or at least, they need a few days to gather together their thoughts and emotions. It’s often the case that the sick person is the one who has to console whoever it is he or she tells.”

Robert Akerblom thought for a moment before answering.

“I’m sure that’s not the case here,” he said.

Wallander nodded and went on.

“Did she have a drinking problem?” he asked.

Robert Akerblom winced.

“How can you ask such a question?” he said after a moment’s silence. “Neither of us so much as touches a drop of alcohol.”

“Nevertheless the cupboard under the sink is full of liquor,” said Wallander.

“We have nothing against other people drinking,” said Robert Akerblom. “Within reason, of course. We sometimes have guests. Even a little real estate agency like ours occasionally needs to entertain its clients.”

Wallander nodded. He had no reason to question the response. He took the handcuffs out of his pocket and put them on the table. He kept his eye on Robert Akerblom’s reaction the whole time.

It was exactly what he had expected. Incomprehension.

“Are you arresting me?” he asked.

“No,” said Wallander. “But I found these handcuffs in the bottom drawer to the left of the desk, under a stack of writing paper, in your study upstairs.”

“Handcuffs,” said Robert Akerblom. “I’ve never seen them before.”

“As it can hardly have been one of your daughters who put them there, we’ll have to assume it was your wife,” said Wallander.

“I just don’t get it,” said Robert Akerblom.

Suddenly Wallander knew the man across the kitchen table was lying. A barely noticeable shift in his voice, a sudden insecurity in his eyes. But enough for Wallander to register it.

“Could anybody else have put them there?” he went on.

“I don’t know,” said Robert Akerblom. “The only visitors we have are from the chapel. Apart from clients. And they never go upstairs.”

“Nobody else at all?”

“Our parents. A few relatives. The kids’ friends.”

“That’s quite a lot of people,” said Wallander.

“I don’t get it,” said Robert Akerblom again.

Maybe you don’t understand how you could have forgotten to take them away, thought Wallander. Just for now the question is, what do they mean?

For the first time Wallander asked himself whether Robert Akerblom could have killed his own wife. But he dismissed it. The handcuffs and the lie were not enough to overturn everything Wallander had already established.

“Are you certain you can’t explain these handcuffs?” asked Wallander once again. “Perhaps I should point out it’s not against the law to keep a pair of handcuffs in your home. You don’t need a license. On the other hand, of course, you can’t just keep people locked up however you like.”

“Do you think I’m not telling you the truth?” asked Robert Akerblom.

“I don’t think anything,” said Wallander. “I just want to know why these handcuffs were hidden away in a desk drawer.”

“I’ve already said I don’t understand how they could have gotten into the house.”

Wallander nodded. He didn’t think it was necessary to press him any further. Not yet, at least. But Wallander was sure he was lying. Could it be that the marriage concealed a perverted and possibly dramatic sex life? Could that in its turn explain why Louise Akerblom had disappeared?

Wallander slid his teacup to one side, indicating that the conversation was over. He put the handcuffs back in his pocket, wrapped inside a handkerchief. A technical analysis might be able to reveal more about what they’d been used for.

“That’s all for the time being,” said Wallander, getting to his feet. “I’ll be in touch just as soon as I have anything to report. You’d better be ready for a bit of a fuss tonight, when the evening papers come out and the local radio has broadcast its piece. We’ll have to hope it all helps us, of course.”

Robert Akerblom nodded without replying.

Wallander shook hands and went out to his car. The weather was changing. It was drizzling and the wind had eased off. Wallander drove down to Fridolf’s Cafe near the coach station for a coffee and a couple of sandwiches. It was half past twelve by the time he was back behind the wheel and on his way out to the scene of the fire. He parked, clambered over the barriers, and observed that both the house and the barn were already smoking ruins. It was too early yet for the police techies to start their investigation. Wallander approached the seat of the fire and had a word with the man in charge, Peter Edler, whom he knew well.

“We’re soaking it in water,” he said. “Not much else we can do. Is it arson?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Wallander. “Have you seen Svedberg or Martinson?’

“I think they’ve gone for something to eat,” said Edler. “In Rydsgard. And Lieutenant-Colonel Hernberg has taken his soaking wet recruits to their barracks. They’ll be back, though.”

Wallander nodded, and left the fire chief.

A policeman with a dog was standing a few meters away. He was eating a sandwich, and the dog was scratching away at the sooty, wet gravel with one paw.

Suddenly the dog started howling. The cop tugged impatiently at the leash a couple of times, then looked to see what the dog was digging for.

Then Wallander saw him draw back with a start and drop his sandwich.

Wallander couldn’t help being curious, and walked over towards them.

“What’s the dog found?” he asked.

The cop turned round to face Wallander. He was white as a sheet, and trembling.

Wallander hurried over and bent down.

In the mud before him was a finger.

A black finger. Not a thumb, and not a little finger. But a human finger.

Wallander felt ill.

He told the dog handler to get in touch with Svedberg and Martinson right away.

“Get them here immediately,” he said. “Even if they’re halfway through their meal. There’s an empty plastic bag in the back seat of my car. Get it.”

The cop did as he was told.

What’s going on? thought Wallander. A black finger. A black man’s finger. Cut off. In the middle of Skane.

When the cop returned with the plastic bag, Wallander made a temporary cover to protect the finger from the rain. The rumor had spread, and several firefighters gathered around the find.

“We must start looking for the remains of bodies among the ashes,” said Wallander to the fire chief. “God knows what’s been going on here.”

“A finger,” said Peter Edler incredulously.

Twenty minutes later Svedberg and Martinson arrived, and came running up to the spot. They stared at the black finger uncomprehendingly.

Neither had anything to say.

In the end, it was Wallander who broke the silence.

“One thing’s for sure at least,” he said. “This isn’t one of Louise Akerblom’s fingers.”