The White Lioness

Chapter Twenty-four

Kurt Wallander had always imagined death as black.

Now, as he stood on the beach shrouded in fog, he realized that death did not respect colors. Here it was white. The fog enclosed him completely; he thought he could hear the gentle lapping of waves on the shore, but it was the fog that dominated and strengthened his feeling of not knowing which way to turn.

When he had been higher up on the training ground, surrounded by invisible sheep, and it was all over, he did not have a single clear thought in his head. He knew Victor Mabasha was dead, that he himself had killed a human being, and that Konovalenko had escaped yet again, swallowed up by all the whiteness surrounding them. Svedberg and Martinson had emerged from the fog like two pale ghosts of themselves. He could see in their faces his own horror at being surrounded by dead bodies. He had felt simultaneously a desire to run away and never come back, but also to continue the hunt for Konovalenko. Afterwards he recalled what happened in those few moments as something peripheral to him, seen from a distance. It was a different Wallander standing there, waving his guns around. Not him, but somebody who had temporarily possessed him. Only when he yelled at Martinson and Svedberg to keep their distance, then skidded and scrambled up the slope finding himself being alone in the fog, did he slowly begin to understand what had happened. Victor Mabasha was dead, shot through the head, just like Louise Akerblom. The fat man had started back and flung his hands in the air. He was also dead, and Wallander had shot him.

He yelled out, like a solitary human foghorn in the mist. There’s no turning back, he told himself desperately. I’ll disappear into this fog. When it lifts, I won’t exist any more.

He tried to gather the last vestiges of reason he thought he still had left. Go back, he told himself. Go back to the dead men. Your colleagues are there. You can continue the search for Konovalenko together.

Then he walked away. He could not go back. If he had one duty left, it was to find Konovalenko, kill him if that could not be avoided, but preferably catch him and hand him over to Bjork. Once that was done he could sleep. When he woke up again, the nightmare would be over. But that was not true. The nightmare would still be there. In shooting Rykoff, he had done something he would never be able to shake off. And so he might just as well go hunting for Konovalenko. He had a vague feeling he was already trying to find some way to atone for the killing of Rykoff.

Konovalenko was somewhere out there in the fog. Maybe close by. Helplessly, Wallander fired a shot straight into the whiteness, as if trying to split the fog. He brushed aside the sweaty hair that was sticking to his forehead. Then he saw he was bleeding. He must have cut himself when Rykoff shattered the window panes on Mariagatan. He looked down at his clothes, and saw they were soaked in blood. It was dripping down onto the sand. He stood still, waiting for his breathing to calm down. Then he continued. He could follow Konovalenko’s tracks in the sand. He tucked the pistol in his belt. He held the shotgun cocked and ready, at hip level. It seemed to him from Konovalenko’s footprints that he had been moving quickly, running perhaps. He speeded up, following the scent like a dog. The thick fog suddenly gave him the impression he was standing still while the sand was moving. Just then, he noted that Konovalenko had stopped and turned around before running off in a different direction. The tracks led back up to the cliff. Wallander realized they would disappear as soon as they came to the grass. He scrambled up the slope and saw he was at the eastern edge of the training ground. He stopped to listen. Far behind him he could hear the sound of a siren fading away into the distance. Then a sheep bleated, very close by. Silence once again. He followed the fence northwards. It was the only bearing he had. He half-expected Konovalenko to loom up out of the fog at any moment. Wallander tried to imagine what it must be like to be shot through the head. But he could not feel anything. The whole purpose of his life just now was to follow that fence along the perimeter of the training ground, nothing else. Konovalenko was somewhere out there with his gun and Wallander was going to find him.

When Wallander hit the road to Sandhammaren, there was nothing to see but fog. He thought he could make out the dim shape of a horse on the other side, standing motionless, ears cocked.

Then he stood in the middle of the road and urinated. In the distance he could hear a car going by on the road to Kristianstad.

He started walking towards Kaseberga. Konovalenko had disappeared. He had escaped yet again. Wallander was walking aimlessly. Walking was easier than standing still. He wished Baiba Leipa would emerge from the whiteness and come towards him. But there was nothing. Just him and the damp asphalt.

A bicycle leaned against the remains of an old milk pallet. It was unlocked, and it seemed to Wallander someone had left it there for him. He used the baggage rack for the shotgun and cycled off. As soon as possible he turned off the road onto the dirt roads criss-crossing the plain. Eventually he came to his father’s house. It was dark, apart from a single lamp outside the front door. He stood still and listened. Then he hid the bicycle behind the shed. He tiptoed carefully over the gravel. He knew his father had a spare key hidden underneath a broken flowerpot on the outside stairs leading down to the cellar. He unlocked the door to his father’s studio. There was an inside room where he kept his paints and old canvases. He closed the door behind him and switched on the light. The brightness from the bulb took him by surprise. It was as if he expected the fog to be here as well. He ducked under the cold water tap and tried to rinse the blood off his face. He could see his reflection in a broken mirror on the wall. He did not recognize his own eyes. They were staring, bloodshot, shifting anxiously. He heated up some coffee on the filthy electric hot plate. It was four in the morning. He knew his father generally got up at half past five. He would have to be gone by then. What he needed just now was a hideaway. Various alternatives, all of them impossible, flashed through his mind. But in the end he decided what to do. He drank his coffee, left the studio, crossed over the courtyard, and carefully unlocked the door to the main house. He stood in the hall, and could smell the acrid, oldmannish aroma in his nostrils. He listened. Not a sound. He went cautiously into the kitchen where the telephone was, closing the door behind him. To his surprise he remembered the number. With his hand on the receiver, he thought about what he was going to say. Then he dialed.

Sten Widen answered almost right away. Wallander could hear he was already wide awake. Horsey people get up early, he thought.

“Sten? It’s Kurt Wallander.”

Once upon a time they had been very close friends. Wallander knew he hardly ever displayed a trace of surprise.

“I can hear that,” he said. “You’re calling at four in the morning?”

“I need your help.”

Sten Widen said nothing. He was waiting to hear more.

“On the road to Sandhammaren,” said Wallander. “You’ll have to come and get me. I need to hide in your house for a while. A few hours at least.”

“Where?” asked Sten Widen.

Then he started coughing.

He’s still smoking those cheroots, thought Wallander.

“I’ll wait for you at the Kaseberga exit,” he said. “What kind of car do you have?”

“An old Duett.”

“How long will it take you?”

“It’s thick fog. Say forty-five minutes. Maybe a little less.”

“I’ll be there. Thanks for your help.”

He hung up and left the kitchen. Then he could not resist the temptation. He walked through the living room where the old television set was, and carefully pulled aside the curtain to the guest room where his daughter was sleeping. In the weak light from the lamp outside the kitchen door, he could see her hair and forehead, some of her nose. She was fast asleep.

Then he left the house and cleaned up after himself in the inside room of the studio. He cycled down to the main road and turned right. When he came to the Kaseberga exit he put the bicycle behind a hut belonging to the telephone company, concealed himself in the shadows, and settled down to wait. The fog was just as thick as before. Suddenly a police car flashed past on the way to Sandhammaren. Wallander thought he recognized Peters behind the wheel.

His thoughts turned to Sten Widen. They had not met for over a year. In connection with a criminal investigation Wallander had gotten the idea of calling on him at his stables near the ruined castle at Stjarnsund. That was where he trained a number of trotting horses. He lived alone, probably drank too much and too often, and had unclear relationships with his female employees. Once upon a time they had shared a common dream. Sten Widen had a fine baritone voice. He was going to become an opera singer, and Wallander would be his impresario. But the dream faded away, their friendship dissolved, and finally ceased to be.

Even so, he’s perhaps the only real friend I’ve ever had, thought Wallander as he waited in the fog. If I don’t count Rydberg. But that was something different. We’d never have gotten close to each other if we hadn’t both been cops.

Forty minutes later the wine-red Duett came gliding through the fog. Wallander emerged from behind the hut and got into the car. Sten Widen looked at his face, dirty, smeared with blood. But as usual he displayed no surprise.

“I’ll explain later,” said Wallander.

“When it suits you,” said Sten Widen. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth, and smelled of strong liquor.

They passed the training ground. Wallander crouched down and made himself invisible. There were several police cars by the side of the road. Sten Widen slowed down but did not stop. The road was clear, no roadblocks. He looked across at Wallander, who was still trying to hide. But he said nothing. They drove past Ystad, Skurup, then took a right towards Stjarnsund. The fog was still as thick as ever when they turned into the stable yard. A girl of about seventeen stood yawning and smoking in front of the stalls.

“My face has been in the newspapers and on TV,” said Wallander. “I’d prefer to be anonymous.”

“Ulrika doesn’t read the papers,” said Sten Widen. “If she ever watches TV, it’s just videos. I have another girl, Kristina. She won’t say anything either.”

They went into the untidy, chaotic house. Wallander had the feeling it looked exactly the same as the last time he was there. Sten Widen asked if he was hungry. Wallander nodded and they sat down in the kitchen. He had some sandwiches and a cup of coffee. Sten Widen occasionally went out into the next room. Whenever he came back he smelled even more strongly of spirits.

“Thanks for coming for me,” said Wallander.

Sten Widen shrugged.

“No problem,” he said.

“I need a few hours’ sleep,” Wallander went on. “Then I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

“The horses have to be looked after,” said Sten Widen. “You can sleep in here.”

He got up and Wallander followed him. His exhaustion caught up with him. Sten Widen showed him into a little room with a sofa.

“I doubt if I have any clean sheets. But you can have a pillow and a blanket.”

“That’s more than enough,” said Wallander.

“You know where the bathroom is?”

Wallander nodded. He could remember.

Wallander took off his shoes. You could hear the sand crunching underfoot. He slung his jacket over a chair. Sten Widen stood watching him in the doorway.

“How are things?” Wallander inquired.

“I’ve started singing again,” said Sten Widen.

“You must tell me all about it,” said Wallander.

Sten Widen left the room. Wallander could hear a horse whinnying out in the yard. The last thing he thought before falling asleep was that Sten Widen was just the same as ever. The same tousled hair, the same dry eczema on his neck.

Nevertheless there was something different.

When he woke up, he was not sure where he was at first. He had a headache, and pain all over his body. He put his hand on his forehead and could feel he had a temperature. He lay still under the blanket, which smelled of horses. When he went to check his watch, he found he must have dropped it at some point during the night. He got up and went out into the kitchen. A clock on the wall showed half past eleven. He had slept for over four hours. The fog had lifted somewhat, but was still there. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. Then he stood up and opened various cabinets until he found some painkillers. Shortly afterwards the telephone rang. Wallander heard Sten Widen come in and answer it. The call had to do with hay. They were discussing the price of a delivery. When he finished talking, he came into the kitchen.

“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 provincial 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 now, 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.”