The White Lioness

Chapter Twenty-seven

A long time ago, Karl Evert Svedberg had decided to become a cop for a very particular reason, and one reason only-a reason he tried to keep secret.

He was terrified of the dark.

Ever since he was a child he had slept with the bedside lamp lit. Unlike most other people, he did not notice his fear of the dark receding as he grew older. On the contrary, it had become worse when he was a teenager. And so had his feeling of shame at suffering from a defect that could hardly be classified as anything other than cowardice. His father was a baker who rose at half past two every morning; he therefore suggested his son should follow him into the business. As he would sleep in the afternoons, the problem would solve itself. His mother was a milliner, considered by her dwindling circle of customers to be very skillful at creating individual and expressive ladies’ hats, and she regarded the problem as altogether more serious. She took her son to a child psychologist, who was convinced the problem would disappear in time. But the opposite occurred. He became even more scared. He could never figure out what was the cause of it all, though. In the end he decided to become a cop. He thought his fear of the dark might be countered by boosting his personal courage. But now, this spring day, Tuesday, May 19, he woke up with his bedside lamp on. Moreover, it was his custom to lock the bedroom door. He lived alone in an apartment in central Ystad. He was born in the town, and disliked leaving it-even for short periods.

He put the light out, stretched, and got up. He had slept badly. The developments concerning Kurt Wallander had made him upset and scared. He could see that he had to assist Wallander. During the night he had worried about what he could do without breaking the vow of silence Wallander had imposed upon him. In the end, shortly before dawn, he made up his mind. He would try to track down the house where Konovalenko was hiding. He guessed it was highly likely that Wallander’s daughter was being held prisoner there.

He got to the police station just before eight. The only starting point he had was what had happened at the military training ground a few hours previously. It was Martinson who had gone though the few belongings he found in the dead men’s clothes. There was nothing remarkable. Nevertheless, as dawn broke, Svedberg decided to go through the material one more time. He went to the room where the various pieces of evidence and other finds from several crime scenes were kept, and identified the relevant plastic bags. Martinson had found nothing at all in the African’s pockets, which seemed significant in itself. Svedberg replaced the bag containing nothing more than a few grains of dust. Then he carefully tipped out onto the table the contents of the other bag. Martinson had found cigarettes, a lighter, grains of tobacco, unclassifiable bits of dust, and other odds and ends one would expect to find in the fat man’s pocket. Svedberg contemplated the objects on the table in front of him. His interest was immediately focused on the cigarette lighter. It had an advertising slogan that was almost completely worn away. Svedberg held it up to the light and tried to figure out what it said. He replaced the bag, and took the lighter to his office. At ten-thirty they were due at a meeting to establish how things were going in the attempt to capture Konovalenko and Wallander. He wanted the time before that meeting to himself. He took a magnifying glass from a drawer, adjusted the desk lamp, and started to study the lighter. After a minute or so, his heart started beating faster. He had managed to figure out the text, and it presented a clue. If the clue would lead to a solution was too early to say, of course. But the lighter sported an advertising slogan for ICA in Tomelilla. That was not conclusive evidence in itself. Rykoff could have picked it up more or less anywhere. But if Rykoff had in fact been at the ICA store in Tomelilla, it was not impossible that a checkout assistant might be able to remember a man who spoke broken Swedish, and most obviously of all, was incredibly fat. He put the lighter in his pocket and left the police station without saying where he was going.

He drove to Tomelilla, went into the ICA store, showed his ID, and asked to see the manager. This turned out to be a young man by the name of Sven Persson. Svedberg showed him the lighter and explained what he wanted to know. The manager thought for a while, then shook his head. He could not remember a fat guy being in the store recently.

“Talk to Britta,” he said. “The girl at the check-out. But I’m afraid she has a pretty bad memory. Well, she’s scatterbrained at least.”

“Is she the only check-out person?” wondered Svedberg.

“We have an extra one on Saturdays,” said the manager. “She’s not in today.”

“Call her,” said Svedberg. “Ask her to come here at once.”

“Is it that important?”

“Yes. Immediately.”

The manager disappeared to make the call. Svedberg had left no doubt about what he wanted. He waited until Britta, a woman in her fifties, was through with the customer she was dealing with and who had produced a wad of various coupons for discounts and special offers. Svedberg identified himself.

“I want to know if you’ve had a big, fat guy shopping here recently,” he said.

“We get lots of fat guys shopping here,” said Britta unsympathetically.

Svedberg rephrased the question.

“Not just fat,” he said. “Positively obese. Absolutely enormous. And a guy who speaks bad Swedish as well. Has anyone of that description been here?”

She tried to remember. At the same time Svedberg could see her growing curiosity was affecting her concentration.

“He hasn’t done anything in the least exciting,” said Svedberg. “I just want to know if he’s been in here.”

“No,” she said. “If he was that fat, I’d have remembered the guy. I’m dieting myself, you see. So I look at people.”

“Have you been away at all lately?”

“No.”

“Not even for an hour?”

“Well, I sometimes have to go out an errand.”

“Who does the check-out then?”

“Sven.”

Svedberg could feel any hope he had ebbing away. He thanked her for her assistance and wandered around the shop while waiting for the part-timer. As he did so, his mind was working overtime, trying to figure what to do if the lead given by the inscription on the cigarette lighter went nowhere. Where could he find another starting point?

The girl who worked Saturdays was young, barely more than seventeen. She was strikingly corpulent, and Svedberg dreaded having to talk with her about fat people. The manager introduced her as Annika Hagstrom. Svedberg was unsure how to start. The manager had withdrawn discreetly. They were standing by some shelves stacked high with food for dogs and cats.

“I gather you work here on Saturdays,” Svedberg began hesitantly.

“I’m out of work,” said Annika Hagstrom. “There aren’t any jobs. Sitting here on Saturdays is all I do.”

“It can be pretty bad just now,” said Svedberg, trying to sound understanding.

“Actually, I’ve wondered about becoming a cop,” said the girl.

Svedberg stared at her in astonishment.

“But I’m not sure I’m the type to wear a uniform,” she went on. “Why aren’t you wearing a uniform?”

“We don’t always have to,” said Svedberg.

“Maybe I’ll think again, then,” said the girl. “Anyway, what have I done?”

“Nothing,” said Svedberg. “I just wanted to ask if you’d seen a male personage in this shop who looked a little unusual.”

He groaned inwardly at his clumsy way of putting it.

“What do you mean, unusual?”

“A guy who is very fat, and speaks bad Swedish.”

“Oh, him,” she said immediately.

Svedberg stared at her.

“He was here last Saturday,” she continued.

Svedberg took a notebook out of his pocket.

“When?” he asked.

“Shortly after nine.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what he bought?”

“Quite a lot. Several packets of tea, among other things. He filled four bags.”

That’s him, thought Svedberg. Russians drink tea like we drink coffee.

“How did he pay?”

“He was carrying money loose in his pocket.”

“How did he seem? Was he nervous? Or what?”

Her answers were all immediate and specific.

“He was in a hurry. He practically stuffed the food into the bags.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No.”

“How do you know he had a foreign accent, then?”

“He said hello and thank you. You could tell right away.”

Svedberg nodded. He had just one more question.

“You don’t happen to know where he lives, I suppose?” he wondered.

She furrowed her brow and thought hard.

Surely she can’t have an answer for that one as well, Svedberg thought quickly.

“He lives somewhere in the direction of the quarry,” she said.

“Quarry?”

“Do you know where the college is?”

Svedberg nodded. He knew.

“Drive past there then take a left,” she said. “Then left again.”

“How do you know he lives there?”

“Then next in line was an old guy called Holgerson,” she said. “He always gossips when he pays. He said he’d never seen a guy as fat as that before. Then he said he’d seen him outside a house down by the quarry. There are quite a few empty houses there. Holgerson knows about everything that happens in Tomelilla.”

Svedberg put his notebook away. He was in a hurry now.

“I’ll tell you something.” he said. “I guess you really should become a cop.”

“What did he do?” she asked.

“Nothing,” said Svedberg. “If he comes back it’s very important you don’t say somebody’s been asking about him. Least of all a cop.”

“I won’t say a word,” she said. “Would it be possible to come and see you at the police station some time?”

“Just call and ask for me,” said Svedberg. “Ask for Svedberg. That’s me. I’ll show you around.”

Her face lit up.

“I’ll do that,” she said.

“Not just now, though,” said Svedberg. “Wait a few weeks. We’re pretty busy right now.”

He left the store and followed the directions she had given him. When he came to an exit leading to the quarry, he stopped the car and got out. He had a pair of binoculars in the glove compartment. He walked to the quarry and climbed up onto an abandoned stone crusher.

There were two houses on the other side of the quarry, a fair distance apart. One of them was rather decrepit, but the other seemed to be in better condition. He could see no cars parked in the courtyard, and the house looked deserted. Even so, he had the feeling that this was the place. It was remote. There was no road nearby. Nobody would take that dead-end track unless they had business at the house.

He waited, binoculars ready. It started drizzling.

After nearly half an hour, the door suddenly opened. A woman stepped out. Tania, he thought. She stood quite still, smoking. Svedberg could not see her face because she was half-hidden by a tree.

He dropped his binoculars. It must be the place, he thought. The girl in the store had her eyes and ears about her, and a good memory as well. He climbed down from the stone crusher and went back to his car. It was already after ten. He decided to call the police station and report sick. He had no time to sit around in meetings.

Now he must talk to Wallander.

Tania threw down her cigarette and stubbed it out with her heel. She was standing out in the courtyard, in the drizzle. The weather was in tune with her mood. Konovalenko had withdrawn with the new African, and she had no interest in whatever they were talking about. Vladimir had kept her informed while he was alive. She knew some important politician in South Africa was going to be killed. But she had no idea who or why. No doubt Vladimir had told her, but she had forgotten.

She went out into the yard in order to have a few minutes to herself. She still had barely had time to work out the implications of Vladimir’s death. She was also surprised by the sorrow and pain she felt. Their marriage had never been more than a practical arrangement that suited them both. When they fled the collapsing Soviet Union, they were able to give each other some support. Afterwards, when they came to Sweden, she gave her life some purpose by helping Vladimir with his various undertakings. All that changed when Konovalenko suddenly turned up. At first Tania was quite attracted to him. His decisive manner, his self-confidence stood in sharp contrast to Vladimir’s personality, and she did not hesitate when Konovalenko started to take a serious interest in her. It did not take her long to see he was just using her, however. His lack of emotion, his intense contempt for other people horrified her. Konovalenko came to dominate their lives totally. Occasionally, late at night, she and Vladimir had talked about getting out, starting all over again, far away from Konovalenko’s influence. But nothing had ever come of it, and now Vladimir was dead. She was standing in the courtyard, thinking about how much she missed him. She had no idea what would happen next. Konovalenko was obsessed with wiping out this policeman who had killed Vladimir and caused him so much trouble. She guessed thoughts about the future could wait until it was all over, the cop dead and the African back in South Africa to carry out his assignment. She realized she was dependent on Konovalenko, whether she liked it or not. She was in exile, and there was no going back. She had vague and increasingly rare thoughts about Kiev, the city both she and Vladimir came from. What hurt was not all the memories, but her conviction that she would never again see the place and the people who used to be the foundation of her life. The door had slammed inexorably behind her. It was locked, and the key had been tossed away. The final remnants had gone with Vladimir.

She thought about the girl being held prisoner in the cellar. That was the only thing she had asked Konovalenko about these last few days. What would happen to her? He said they would let her go once he had captured her father. But she wondered from the first if he really meant that. She shuddered at the thought of him killing her as well.

Tania had trouble sorting out her own feelings on this matter. She could feel unreserved hatred for the girl’s father, who had killed her husband, and barbarically to boot, although Konovalenko had not explained in any detail what he meant by that. But sacrificing the policeman’s daughter as well was going too far, she thought. At the same time she knew she could do nothing to prevent it happening eventually. The slightest sign of resistance on her part would only result in Konovalenko turning his deadly attention to her as well.

She was shivering in the rain, which had grown heavier, and went back into the house. The mumbling sound of Konovalenko’s voice could be heard from behind the closed door. She went out into the kitchen and looked at the hatch in the floor. The clock on the wall indicated it was time to give the girl something to eat and drink. She had already prepared a plastic carrier bag with a flask and some sandwiches. So far the girl in the cellar had never touched the food she had been given. Each time Tania came back up with what she had taken down last time. She switched on the light Konovalenko had rigged up. She carried a flashlight in one hand.

Linda had crept into a corner. She lay there rolled up, as if suffering severe stomach cramps. Tania shone the flashlight on the pot they had left on the stone floor. It was unused. She was full of pity for the girl. At first she was so preoccupied with the pain she felt after Vladimir’s death, there had been no room for anything else. But now, when she saw the girl rolled up, paralyzed with fear, she had the feeling there was no limit to Konovalenko’s cruelty. There was absolutely no reason why she should be in a dark cellar. And with chains around her legs. She could have been kept locked in one of the rooms upstairs, tied so she could not leave the house.

The girl did not move, but she followed Tania’s movements with her eyes. Her cropped hair made Tania feel sick. She crouched down beside the motionless girl.

“It’ll be over soon,” she said.

The girl did not answer. Her eyes stared straight into Tania’s.

“You must try and eat something,” she said. “It’ll be over soon.”

Her fear has already started to consume her, Tania thought. It’s gnawing away at her from the inside.

Suddenly she knew she would have to help Linda. It could cost her her life. But she had no choice. Konovalenko’s evil was to great to bear, even for her.

“It’ll be over soon,” she whispered, placing the bag by the girl’s face and going back up the stairs. She closed the hatch and turned around.

Konovalenko was standing there. She gave a start and squealed softly. He had a way of creeping up on people without a sound. She sometimes had the feeling his hearing was unnaturally well developed. Like a nocturnal animal, she thought. He hears what other people can’t.

“She’s asleep,” said Tania.

Konovalenko looked at her sternly. Then he suddenly smiled and left the kitchen without saying a word.

Tania flopped into a chair and lit a cigarette. She noticed her hands were shaking. But she knew now the resolve that had formed within her was irreversible.

Shortly after one o’clock Svedberg called Wallander.

He picked up the receiver after the first ring. Svedberg had been sitting in his apartment for some time, trying to figure out how to convince Wallander he should not challenge Konovalenko on his own again. But he realized Wallander was no longer acting rationally. He had reached a point where emotional impulses were just as strong as reason in guiding his actions. The only thing he could do was to urge Wallander not to confront Konovalenko on his own. In a way he is not responsible for his actions, Svedberg thought. He is being driven by fear of what might happen to his daughter. There’s no telling what he might do.

He came straight to the point.

“I’ve found Konovalenko’s house,” he said.

He had the feeling Wallander winced at the other end of the line.

“I found a clue in the stuff Rykoff had in his pockets,” he went on. “I don’t need to go into details, but it led me to an ICA store in Tomelilla. A check-out girl with a phenomenal memory pointed me in the right direction. The house is just to the east of Tomelilla. By a quarry that doesn’t seem to be in commission any more. It used to be a farm.”

“I hope nobody saw you,” said Wallander.

Svedberg could hear how tense and weary he was.

“Not a soul,” he said. “No need to worry.”

“How could I not worry?” asked Wallander.

Svedberg did not answer.

“I think I know where that quarry is,” Wallander went on. “If what you say is right, that gives me an advantage over Konovalenko.”

“Have you heard from him again?” asked Svedberg.

“Twelve hours means eight o’clock tonight,” said Wallander. “He’ll be on time. I’m not going to do anything until he contacts me again.”

“It’ll be catastrophic if you try to take him on your own,” said Svedberg. “I can’t bear to think what would happen.”

“You know there’s no other possibility,” said Wallander. “I’m not going to tell you where I shall meet him. I know you mean well. But I can’t take any risks. Thank you for finding the house for me. I won’t forget that.”

Then he hung up.

Svedberg was left sitting there with the receiver in his hand.

What should he do now? It had not occurred to him that Wallander might simply withhold vital information.

He replaced the receiver, convinced that while Wallander might not think he needed any help, Svedberg certainly did. The only question was who he could get to go with him.

He went over to a window and looked out at the church tower half-hidden by the rooftops. When Wallander was on the run after that night at the military training ground, he had chosen to contact Sten Widen, he thought. Svedberg had never met the guy before. He had never even heard Wallander mention him. Nevertheless, they were obviously close friends who had known each other for a long time. He was the one Wallander turned to for help. Now Svedberg decided to do the same thing. He left the apartment and drove out of town. The rain had grown heavier, and a wind was getting up. He followed the coast road, thinking how all the things that had happened lately must come to an end soon. It was all too much for a little police district like Ystad.

He found Sten Widen out in the stable. He was standing in front of a stall fitted with bars in which a horse was pacing up and down restlessly and occasionally delivering a vicious kick at the woodwork. Svedberg said hello and stood by his side. The restless horse was very tall and thin. Svedberg had never sat on a horse’s back in his whole life. He had a great fear of horses and could not understand how anyone would voluntarily spend his life training them and looking after them.

“She’s sick,” said Sten Widen suddenly. “But I don’t know what’s matter with her.”

“She seems a bit restless,” said Svedberg cautiously.

“That’s the pain,” said Sten Widen.

Then he drew the bolt and entered the stall. He grabbed the halter and the horse calmed down almost immediately. Then he bent down and examined her left foreleg. Svedberg leaned carefully over the edge of the stall to look.

“It’s swollen,” said Sten Widen. “Can you see?”

Svedberg could not see anything of the sort. But he muttered something in agreement. Sten Widen patted the horse for a while, then emerged from the stall.

“I need to talk to you,” said Svedberg.

“Let’s go in,” said Sten Widen.

When they entered the house Svedberg saw an elderly lady sitting on a sofa in the untidy living room. She did not seem to fit in with Sten Widen’s surroundings. She was strikingly elegantly dressed, heavily made up, and wearing expensive jewelry. Sten Widen noticed he had seen her.

“She’s waiting for her chauffeur to fetch her,” he said. “She owns two horses I have in training.”

“So that’s it,” said Svedberg.

“A master builder’s widow from Trelleborg,” said Sten Widen. “She’ll be on her way home soon. She comes occasionally and just sits there. I think she’s very lonely.”

Sten Widen said the last words with a degree of understanding that surprised Svedberg.

They sat in the kitchen.

“I don’t really know why I’m here,” said Svedberg. “Or rather, I do know, of course. But what exactly is involved if I ask you to help, I have no idea.”

He explained about the house he had discovered near the quarry outside Tomelilla. Sten Widen stood up and groped around in a drawer crammed full of papers and racing programs. Eventually he produced a dirty, torn map. He unfolded it on the table and Svedberg used a blunt pencil to point out where the house was situated.

“I’ve no idea what Wallander intends to do,” said Svedberg. “All I know is that he intends to confront Konovalenko on his own. He can’t take any risks for the sake of his daughter. One can understand that, of course. The problem is simply that Wallander hasn’t a chance in hell of getting Konovalenko into safe custody on his own.”

“So you’re intending to help him?” said Sten Widen.

Svedberg nodded.

“But I can’t do that on my own either,” he said. “I couldn’t think of anybody to talk to apart from you. It’s just not possible to take another cop. That’s why I came here. You know him, you’re his friend.”

“Maybe,” said Sten Widen.

“Maybe?” said Svedberg, puzzled.

“It’s true we’ve known each other for a long time,” said Sten Widen. “But we haven’t been in close touch for over ten years.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Svedberg. “I thought things were different.”

A car turned into the courtyard. Sten Widen got up and went out with the builder’s widow. It seemed to Svedberg he had made a mistake. Sten Widen was not as close a friend of Wallander’s as he thought.

“What exactly are you thinking of?” asked Sten Widen when he returned to the kitchen.

Svedberg told him. Some time after eight o’clock he would call Wallander. He would not be able to find out exactly what Konovalenko had said. Nevertheless, Svedberg hoped he might be able to persuade Wallander to tell him when the meeting was to take place, if nothing else. Once he knew the time of the meeting, he and preferably somebody else as well would go to the house during the night so they would be there on hand, invisible, in case Wallander needed help.

Sten Widen listened, expressionless. When Svedberg had finished, he got up and left the room. Svedberg wondered if he had gone to the bathroom, perhaps. But when Sten Widen reappeared, he had a rifle in his hand.

“We’d better try and help him,” he said abruptly.

He sat down to examine the rifle. Svedberg put his pistol on the table to show that he was armed as well. Sten Widen made a face.

“Not much to go hunting a desperate madman with,” he said.

“Can you leave the horses?” asked Svedberg.

“Ulrika sleeps here,” he said. “One of the girls who assist me.”

Svedberg felt hesitant in Sten Widen’s presence. His taciturnity and odd personality made it hard for Svedberg to relax. But he was glad he would not be on his own.

Svedberg went home at three in the afternoon. They agreed he would be in touch as soon as he had spoken to Wallander. On the way to Ystad he bought the evening papers that had just arrived. He sat in the car leafing through them. Konovalenko and Wallander were still big news, but they had already been relegated to the inside pages.

Svedberg’s attention was suddenly caught by some headlines. The headlines he had been dreading more than anything else.

And alongside them a photo of Wallander’s daughter.

He called Wallander at twenty past eight.

Konovalenko had made contact.

“I know you won’t want to tell me what’s going to happen,” said Svedberg. “But at least tell me when.”

Wallander hesitated before replying.

“Seven o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Not at the house, though,” said Svedberg.

“No,” said Wallander. “Somewhere else. But no more questions now.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“He’s promised to release my daughter. That’s all I know.”

You know all right, thought Svedberg. You know he’ll try to kill you.

“Be careful, Kurt,” he said.

“Sure,” said Wallander, and hung up.

Svedberg was certain now the meeting would take place at the house by the quarry. Wallander’s reply had come a little bit too readily. He sat quite still.

Then he called Sten Widen. They agreed to meet at Svedberg’s place at midnight, then drive out to Tomelilla.

They drank a cup of coffee in Svedberg’s kitchen.

It was still raining outside.

They set out at a quarter to two in the morning.