The White Lioness

The Woman from Ystad
Chapter One

Louise Akerblom, a real estate agent, left the Savings Bank in Skurup shortly after three o’clock in the afternoon on Friday, April 24. She paused for a moment on the sidewalk and sucked the fresh air into her lungs, figuring out what to do next. What she wanted most of all was to leave work right now and drive home to Ystad. She had promised a widow who called her that morning to stop by at a house the woman wanted to sell.

She tried to figure out how long it would take. An hour, maybe; hardly more. And she had to buy some bread. Her husband Robert usually baked all the bread they needed, but he hadn’t managed to that week. She crossed over the square and turned off to the left where the bakery was. An old-fashioned bell tinkled as she opened the door. She was the only customer; later, the lady behind the counter would remember that Louise Akerblom seemed to be in a good mood, and chatted about how nice it was that spring had arrived at last.

She bought some rye bread, and decided to surprise the family with napoleons for dessert. Then she returned to the bank, where her car was parked out back. On the way she met the young couple from Malmo to whom she had just sold a house. They had been at the bank tying up loose ends, paying the seller his money, signing the contract and the loan agreement. She was delighted for them, their joy at owning their own home. At the same time, she felt uneasy. Would they manage the mortgage and interest payments? Times were hard, and hardly anybody could feel secure in their work any more. What would happen if he lost his job? She had run a careful check on their finances. Unlike many other young people, they had not thoughtlessly run up credit card debts, and the young housewife seemed to be the thrifty type. They would no doubt cope with buying their house. If not, she would see it advertised again soon enough. Maybe she or Robert would be the one to sell it. It wasn’t unusual nowadays for her to sell the same house two or three times in the course of just a few years.

She unlocked the car and dialed the number of the Ystad office on the car phone. Robert had already gone home. She heard his voice on the answering machine informing callers that Akerblom’s Real Estate was closed for the weekend, but would reopen Monday morning at eight o’ clock.

At first she was surprised to hear Robert had left so early. Then she remembered he was due to meet their accountant that afternoon. She left a message on the answering machine: “Hi there! I’m just going to take a look at a house at Krageholm. Then I’ll be off to Ystad. It’s a quarter after three. I’ll be home by five.” She replaced the car phone in its holder. Robert might go back to the office after his meeting with the accountant.

She pulled over a plastic folder lying on the seat, and took out the map she had drawn from the widow’s description. The house was on a side road between Krageholm and Vollsjo. It would take her just over an hour to get there, look at the house and grounds, then drive back to Ystad.

Then she hesitated. It can wait, she thought. I’ll take the coast road home and stop for a while and look at the sea instead. I’ve already sold one house today: that’ll have to be enough.

She began humming a hymn, started the engine, and drove out of Skurup. When she came to the Trelleborg exit, though, she changed her mind once more. She wouldn’t have time to look at the widow’s house Monday or Tuesday. The lady might be disappointed, and turn to some other agency. They couldn’t afford to let that happen. Times were hard enough as it was. The competition was getting stiffer and stiffer. Nobody could afford to pass up anything that came their way, unless it was completely impossible.

She sighed and turned off in the other direction. The coast road and the sea would have to wait. She kept glancing at the map. Next week she would buy a map holder so she didn’t have to keep turning her head to check that she was on the right road. The widow’s house shouldn’t be all that hard to find even if she had never been on the road the lady described. She knew the district inside out. She and Robert would have been running the real estate agency for ten years come next year.

That thought surprised her. Ten years already. Time had passed so quickly, all too quickly. During those ten years she had given birth to two children and worked diligently with Robert to establish the firm. When they started up, times were good; she could see that. Now, they would never have managed to break into the market. She ought to feel pleased. God had been good to her and her family. She would talk to Robert again and suggest they could afford to increase their contributions to Save the Children. He would be doubtful, of course; he worried about money more than she did. No doubt she could talk him into it, though. She usually did.

She suddenly realized she was on the wrong road, and braked. Thinking about the family and the past ten years had made her miss the first exit. She laughed to herself, shook her head, and looked around carefully before making a U-turn and retracing her steps.

Skane is a beautiful place, she thought to herself. Pretty and open. Yet secretive as well. What seemed at first sight to be so flat could suddenly change and reveal deep hollows with houses and farms like isolated islands. She never ceased to be amazed by the changing nature of the landscape when she drove around to look at houses or show them to prospective buyers.

She pulled onto the shoulder after Erikslund to check the directions the widow had given. She was right. She took a left and could see the road to Krageholm ahead of her; it was beautiful. The terrain was hilly, and the road wriggled its way through the Krageholm forest where the lake lay glittering away beyond the deciduous woods to the left. She had often driven along that road, and never tired of it.

After some seven kilometers she started looking for the final turnoff. The widow had described it as a dirt road, ungraveled but easily negotiable. She slowed down when she saw it and turned right; according to the map, the house would be on the left-hand side in about a kilometer.

After three kilometers the road suddenly petered out, and she realized she must be wrong after all.

Just for a moment she was tempted to forget about the house and drive straight home instead. But she resisted the thought and went back to the Krageholm road. About five hundred meters further north she turned right again. There were no houses answering to the description here, either. She sighed, turned around, and decided to stop and ask the way. Shortly before, she had passed a house half hidden behind a clump of trees.

She stopped, switched off the engine and got out of the car. There was a fresh smell from the trees. She started walking towards the house, a white-painted, half-timbered, U-shaped building, the kind Skane is full of. Only one of the wings was still standing, however. In the middle of the front yard was a well with a black-painted pump.

She hesitated, and stopped. The house seemed completely deserted. Maybe it was best to go home after all, and hope the widow wouldn’t be upset.

I can always knock, she thought. That doesn’t cost anything.

Before she came to the house, she passed a large, red-painted barn. She couldn’t resist the temptation to peek in through the high, half-open doors.

She was surprised by what she saw. There were two cars in there. She was not well-versed in cars, but she couldn’t help noticing that one was an extremely expensive Mercedes, and the other an equally valuable BMW.

There must be somebody in, then, she thought, and continued toward the whitewashed house. Somebody who’s not short of cash.

She knocked at the door, but nothing happened. She knocked again, harder this time; still no answer. She tried to peek in through a window next to the door, but the drapes were drawn. She knocked a third time, before going to see if there was a back door.

Behind the house was an overgrown orchard. The apple trees had certainly not been pruned for twenty or thirty years. Some half-rotten garden furniture was standing under a pear tree. A magpie flapped its wings loudly and flew away. She couldn’t find a door, and returned to the front of the house.

I’ll knock just one more time, she thought. If nobody answers, I’ll go back to Ystad. There’ll be time to stop by the sea for a while before I need to start making dinner.

She hammered on the door.

Still no answer.

She could feel rather than hear that someone had come up behind her from the courtyard. She turned abruptly.

The man was about a meter away from her. He was motionless, looking straight at her. She saw he had a scar on his forehead.

She suddenly felt uneasy.

Where had he come from? Why hadn’t she heard him? The courtyard was graveled. Had he crept up on her?

She took a step toward him and tried to sound normal.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she said. “I’m a real estate agent, and I’m lost. I just wanted to ask my way.”

The man did not answer.

Maybe he’s not Swedish, she thought. Maybe he couldn’t understand what she was saying. There was something strange about his appearance that made her think he could be a foreigner.

She suddenly knew she had to get away. The motionless man and his cold eyes were scaring her.

“I won’t disturb you any longer,” she said. “Sorry to intrude.”

She started to walk away but stopped in mid-stride. The motionless man had suddenly come to life. He took something out of his jacket pocket. At first she couldn’t see what it was. Then she realized it was a pistol.

Slowly, he raised the gun and pointed it at her head.

Good God, she managed to think.

Good God, please help me. He’s going to kill me.

Good God, help me.

It was a quarter to four in the afternoon of April 24, 1992.