The White Lioness

Chapter Five

They gathered at five o’clock in one of the conference rooms at the police station. Wallander could not remember a more silent meeting.

In the middle of the table, on a plastic cloth, was the black finger.

He could see that Bjork had angled his chair so he couldn’t see it.

Everyone else stared at the finger. Nobody said a word.

After a while, an ambulance arrived from the hospital and removed the severed remnant. Once it was gone, Svedberg went to get a tray of coffee cups, and Bjork commenced proceedings.

“Just for once, I’m speechless,” was his opening gambit. “Can any of you suggest a plausible explanation?”

Nobody responded. It was a pointless question.

“Wallander,” said Bjork, trying another angle, “could you perhaps give us a summary of where we’ve gotten so far?”

“It won’t be easy,” said Wallander, “but I’ll give it a shot. The rest of you can fill in the gaps.”

He opened his notebook and leafed through.

“Louise Akerblom went missing almost exactly four days ago,” he began. “To be more precise, ninety-eight hours ago. Nobody’s seen her since, as far as we know. While we were looking for her, and not least for her car, a house exploded just where we think she might be found. We now know the occupant is deceased, and the house was up for sale. The representative of the estate is a lawyer who lives in Varnamo. He’s at a loss to explain what has happened. The house has been empty for more than a year. The beneficiaries have not yet been able to decide whether to sell or to keep it in the family, and rent it. It’s not impossible that some of the heirs might buy out the rest. The lawyer’s name is Holmgren, and we’ve asked our colleagues in Varnamo to discuss the matter with him. At the very least, we want the names and addresses of the rest of the beneficiaries.”

He took a slurp of coffee before proceeding.

“The fire broke out at nine o’clock,” he said. “The evidence suggests some form of powerful explosive was used, with a timing device. There is absolutely no reason to suppose the fire was started by any other, natural causes. Holmgren was quite certain there were no propane canisters in the house, for instance. The whole house was rewired just last year. While the fire was being fought, one of our police dogs sniffed out a human finger some twenty-five meters from the blaze. It’s an index finger or middle finger from a left hand. In all probability, it belonged to a man. A black man. Our technical guys have run a fine-tooth comb over whatever parts of the heart of the fire and the surrounding area are accessible, but they’ve found nothing more. We’ve run an intensive line search over the whole area, and found nothing at all. No sign of the car, no sign of Louise Akerblom. A house has blown up, and we’ve found a finger belonging to a black man. That’s about it.”

Bjork made a face.

“What do the medics have to say?” he asked.

“Maria Lestadius from the hospital was here,” said Svedberg. “She says we should get onto the forensic lab right away. She claims she’s not competent to read fingers.”

Bjork squirmed on his chair.

“Say that again,” he said. “‘Read fingers’?”

“That’s the way she put it.” Svedberg seemed resigned. It was a well-known peculiarity of Bjork’s, picking on inessentials.

Bjork thumped the table almost absentmindedly.

“This is awful,” he said. “To put it bluntly, we don’t know anything at all. Hasn’t Robert Akerblom been able to give us any pointers?”

Wallander made up his mind on the spot to say nothing about the handcuffs, not for now. He was afraid that might take them in directions that were of less than immediate significance. Besides, he was not convinced the handcuffs had any direct connection with her disappearance.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “I think the Akerbloms were the happiest family in the whole of Sweden.”

“Might she have gone over the top, from a religious point of view?” asked Bjork. “We’re always reading about those crazy sects.”

“You can hardly call the Methodists a ‘crazy sect’,” said Wallander. “It’s one of our oldest free churches. I have to admit I’m not sure just what they stand for.”

“We’ll have to look into that,” said Bjork. “What do you think we should do now?”

“Let’s hope for what tomorrow might bring,” said Martinson. “We might get some calls.”

“I’ve already got personnel to man the telephones,” said Bjork. “Anything else we should be doing?”

“Let’s face it,” said Wallander, “we have nothing to go on. We have a finger. That means that somewhere or other, there’s a black man missing a finger on his left hand. That means in turn he needs help from a doctor or a hospital. If he hasn’t shown up already, he will do sooner or later. We can’t exclude the possibility that he might contact the police. Nobody cuts his own fingers off. Well, not very often. In other words, somebody has subjected him to torture. Needless to say, it’s possible he might have fled the country already.”

“Fingerprints,” said Svedberg. “I don’t know how many Africans there are in this country, legally or illegally, but there’s a chance we might be able to trace a print in our files. We can send out a request to Interpol as well. To my knowledge a lot of African states have been building up advanced criminal files these last few years. There was an article about it in Swedish Policeman magazine a month or two ago. I agree with Kurt. Even if we can’t see any connection between Louise Akerblom and this finger, we have to assume there might be one.”

“Shall we give this to the newspapers?” Bjork wondered. “The cops are looking for the owner of a finger. That should get a headline or two, anyway.”

“Why not?” said Wallander. “We’ve got nothing to lose.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Bjork. “Let’s wait a bit. I agree every hospital in the country should be alerted, though. Surely the medics have a duty to inform the police if they suspect an injury has been caused by a criminal action?”

“They’re also bound by confidentiality,” said Svedberg. “But of course the hospitals should be contacted. Health centers, too. Does anybody know how many medical practitioners we have in this country?”

Nobody knew.

“Ask Ebba to find out,” said Wallander.

It took her ten minutes to call the secretary of the Swedish Medical Association.

“There are just over twenty-five thousand doctors in Sweden,” said Wallander, when she had reported to the conference room.

They gaped in astonishment.

Twenty-five thousand doctors.

“Where are they all when we need ’em?” wondered Martinson.

Bjork was starting to get impatient.

“Is this getting us anywhere?” he asked. “If not, we’ve all got plenty to do. We’ll have another meeting tomorrow morning at eight.”

“I’ll see to the hospital business,” said Martinson.

They had just collected their papers and got to their feet when the telephone rang. Martinson and Wallander were already out in the corridor when Bjork called them back.

“Breakthrough!” he said, his face flushed. “They think they’ve found the car. It was Noren on the phone. Some farmer showed up at the fire and asked the police if they were interested in something he’d found in a pond a few kilometers away. Out towards Sjobo, I think he said. Noren drove to the spot and saw a radio antenna sticking out of the mud. The farmer, whose name is Antonson, was sure the car wasn’t there a week ago.”

“Right, let’s get the hell out of here,” said Wallander. “We’ve got to get that car up tonight. We can’t wait until tomorrow. We’ll have to find searchlights and a crane.”

“I hope there’s nobody in the car,” said Svedberg.

“That’s exactly what we’re going to find out,” said Wallander. “Come on.”

The pond was difficult to get to, close to a thicket, to the north of Krageholm on the way to Sjobo. It took the police three hours to get searchlights and a mobile crane on site, and it was half past nine before they had managed to attach a cable to the car. Then Wallander contrived to slip and fall halfway into the pond. He borrowed overalls from Noren, who had a spare in his car. But he hardly noticed he was wet and starting to feel cold. All his attention was concentrated on the car.

He was both tense and uncomfortable. He hoped it was the right car. But he was afraid Louise Akerblom might be found inside it.

“One thing’s for sure, in any case,” said Svedberg. “This was no accident. The car was driven into the mud so that it wouldn’t be seen. Probably in the middle of the night. Whoever did it couldn’t see the aerial sticking up.”

Wallander nodded. Svedberg was right.

The cable slowly tightened. The mobile crane strained against its stanchions and started to pull.

The rear end slowly came into view.

Wallander looked at Svedberg, who was an expert on cars.

“Is it the right one?” he asked.

“Hang on a bit,” said Svedberg, “I can’t see yet.”

Then the cable came loose. The car vanished back into the mud.

They had to start all over again.

Half an hour later, the crane started pulling once more.

Wallander kept looking from the slowly emerging car to Svedberg, and back again.

Suddenly, Svedberg nodded.

“That’s the one. It’s a Toyota Corolla. No doubt about it.”

Wallander aimed one of the searchlights. Now they could see the car was dark blue.

The car slowly emerged from the pond. The crane stopped. Svedberg looked at Wallander. They walked over and looked in, one at each side.

The car was empty.

Wallander opened the trunk.

Nothing.

“The car’s empty,” he told Bjork.

“She could still be in the pond,” said Svedberg.

Wallander nodded. The pond was about a hundred meters in circumference, but the aerial had been visible, so it couldn’t be very deep.

“We need some divers,” he said to Bjork. “Now, right away.”

“A diver wouldn’t be able to see anything, it’s too dark,” said Bjork. “We’d better wait till the morning.”

“They only need to wade along the bottom,” said Wallander. “Dragging grappling irons between them. I don’t want to wait till tomorrow.”

Bjork gave in. He went over to one of the police cars and made a call. Meanwhile Svedberg had opened the driver’s door and poked around with a torch. He carefully worked loose the soaking wet car telephone.

“The last number called is usually registered,” he said. “She might have made some other call, as well as the one to the answering machine at the office.”

“Good,” said Wallander. “Good thinking, Svedberg.”

While they were waiting for the divers, they made a preliminary search of the car. Wallander found a paper bag in the back seat, with soggy pastries.

Everything fits in so far, he thought. But then what happened? On the road? Who did you meet, Louise Akerblom? Somebody you’d arranged to see?

Or somebody else? Somebody who wanted to meet you, without your knowing about it?

“No purse,” said Svedberg. “No brief case. Nothing in the glove compartment apart from the log book and insurance documents. And a copy of the New Testament.”

“Look for a handwritten map,” said Wallander.

Svedberg did not find one.

Wallander walked slowly around the car. It was undamaged. Louise Akerblom had not been involved in an accident.

They sat in one of the patrol cars, drinking coffee from a thermos. It had stopped raining, and there was barely a cloud in the sky.

“Is she in the pond?” wondered Svedberg.

“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “Could be.”

Two young divers arrived in one of the fire brigade’s emergency vehicles. Wallander and Svedberg shook hands-they had met them before.

“What are we looking for?” asked one of the divers.

“Maybe a body,” said Wallander. “Maybe a briefcase, or a purse. Maybe something else we don’t know about.”

The divers made their preparations, then waded out into the dirty, stagnant water, holding a line with grappling irons between them.

The cops watched in silence.

Martinson showed up just as the divers had completed their first drag.

“It’s the right car, I see,” said Martinson.

“She could be in the pond,” said Wallander.

The divers were conscientious. One of them would occasionally stop and pull at the grappling iron. A collection of various objects was starting to build up on the shore. A broken sled, parts of a threshing attachment, some rotten tree branches, a rubber boot.

It was past midnight. Still no sign of Louise Akerblom.

“There’s nothing more in there,” said one of the divers. “We can try again tomorrow, if you think it would be worth it.”

“No point,” said Wallander. “She’s not there.”

They exchanged a few brief pleasantries, then drove off to their respective homes.

Wallander had a beer and a couple of crusty rolls when he got back. He was so exhausted, he couldn’t think straight. He didn’t bother to get undressed, just lay down on the bed with a blanket over him.

By seven-thirty on Wednesday morning, April 29, Wallander was back at the police station.

A thought had struck him while he was in the car. He looked up Pastor Tureson’s telephone number. Tureson himself answered. Wallander apologized for calling so early, then asked if they could meet some time that day.

“Is it about anything in particular?” asked Tureson.

“No,” replied Wallander. “I’ve just had a few thoughts that raise a few questions I’d like answering. You never know what might be important.”

“I heard the radio reports,” said Tureson. “And I’ve read the papers. Is there anything new?”

“She’s still missing,” said Wallander. “I can’t say very much about how the investigation is proceeding, for technical reasons.”

“I understand,” said Tureson. “Forgive me for asking. I am worried about Louise’s disappearance, though, naturally.”

They agreed to meet at eleven o’clock, at the Methodist chapel.

Wallander put the phone down, and went in to Bjork’s office. Svedberg was already sitting there, yawning, and Martinson was on Bjork’s phone. Bjork was drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk. Martinson replaced the receiver, making a face.

“The tipoffs have started coming in,” he said. “There doesn’t seem to be anything worthwhile yet. Somebody called to say he was absolutely certain he had seen Louise Akerblom at Las Palmas airport last Thursday. The day before she vanished, that is.”

“Let’s get started,” said Bjork, interrupting him.

The chief constable had obviously slept badly. He seemed tired and irritated.

“Let’s continue where we left off yesterday,” said Wallander. “The car will have to be gone over thoroughly, and the telephone tipoffs dealt with as they come in. I intend to drive out to the scene of the fire again, to see what the technicians have come up with. The finger is on its way to forensics. The question is, shall we let the media know about that or not?”

“Let’s do it,” said Bjork without hesitation. “Martinson can help me write a press release. I guess there’ll be an uproar once the editorial staff get hold of that.”

“It would be better if Svedberg took care of it,” said Martinson. “I’m busy contacting twenty-five thousand Swedish doctors. Plus an endless list of health centers and emergency clinics. That takes time.”

“OK,” said Bjork. “I’ll get onto that lawyer in Varnamo. We’ll meet again this afternoon, unless something happens.”

Wallander went out to his car. It looked like it would be a nice day in Skane. He paused and filled his lungs with fresh air. For the first time that year, he had the feeling spring was on its way.

When he got to the burned-out house, there were two surprises in store for him.

The police technicians had done some fruitful work early that morning. He was met by Sven Nyberg, who had only joined the Ystad force a few months ago. He had been working in Malmo, but did not hesitate to move to Ystad when the opportunity arose. Wallander had not had very much to do with him as yet, but the reputation that preceded him suggested he was a skillful investigator at the scene of the crime. Wallander had discovered for himself that he was also brusque and hard to make contact with.

“I think you ought to look at a couple of things,” said Nyberg.

They walked over to a little rain shelter that had been rigged up over four posts.

Some twisted bits of metal were lying on a sheet of plastic.

“A bomb?” Wallander asked.

“No,” said Nyberg. “We’ve found no trace of a bomb so far. But this is at least as interesting. You’re looking at some bits from a big radio installation.”

Wallander stared at him aghast.

“A combined transmitter and receiver,” said Nyberg. “I can’t tell you what type or what make it is, but it’s definitely an installation for radio buffs. You might well think it’s a bit odd to find something like this in a deserted house. Especially one that’s been blown up.”

Wallander nodded.

“You’re right,” he said. “I want to know more about this.”

Nyberg picked up another piece of metal from the plastic sheet.

“This is at least as interesting,” he said. “Can you see what it is?”

Wallander thought it looked like a pistol butt.

“A gun,” he said.

Nyberg nodded.

“A pistol,” he said. “There was presumably a live magazine in place when the house blew up. The pistol was smashed to bits when the magazine exploded, due either to the fire or the pressure waves. I also have a suspicion this is a pretty unusual model. The butt is extended, as you can see. It’s certainly not a Luger or a Beretta.”

“What is it, then?” asked Wallander.

“Too early to say,” said Nyberg. “But I’ll let you know as soon as we find out.”

Nyberg filled his pipe and lit up.

“What do you think about this little lot?” he asked.

Wallander shook his head.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so confused,” he answered, honestly. “I can’t find any links. All I know is I’m looking for a missing woman, and all the time I keep coming across the strangest things. A severed finger, parts of a powerful radio transmitter, unusual weapons. Maybe it’s precisely these unusual features I should use as a starting point? Something I haven’t come across before in all my police experience?”

“Patience,” said Nyberg. “We’ll establish the links sooner or later, no doubt.”

Nyberg went back to his meticulous piecing together of the jigsaw. Wallander wandered around for a while, trying yet again to summarize everything to his own satisfaction. In the end he gave up.

He got into his car and called the station.

“Have we had many tipoffs?” he asked Ebba.

“The calls are coming in non-stop,” she replied. “Svedberg stopped by a couple of minutes ago, and said some of the people offering information seemed reliable and interesting. That’s all I know.”

Wallander gave her the number of the Methodist chapel, and made up his mind to do another thorough search of Louise Akerblom’s desk at the office, when he’d finished talking to the minister. He had a guilty conscience for not having followed up his first cursory search.

He drove back to Ystad. As he had plenty of time before he was due to meet Tureson, he parked at the Square and went into the radio store. Without wasting much time thinking about it, he signed up for a credit purchase of a new hi-fi installation. Then he drove home to Mariagatan and set it up. He’d bought a CD of Puccini’s Turandot. He put it on, lay back on the sofa, and tried to think of Baiba Liepa. But instead, Louise Akerblom’s face kept filling his mind.

He woke with a start and looked at his watch. He cursed when he realized he ought to have been at the chapel ten minutes ago.

Pastor Tureson was waiting for him in a back room, a sort of storeroom and office combined. Tapestries with various Bible quotations were hanging on the walls. A coffee machine stood on a window ledge.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Wallander.

“I’m well aware you police have a lot to do,” said Tureson.

Wallander sat down on a chair and took out his notebook. Tureson offered him a cup of coffee, but he declined.

“I’m trying to build up an image of just what Louise Akerblom, is really like,” he began. “Everything I’ve found out so far seems to indicate just one thing: Louise Akerblom was a woman completely at peace with herself who would never voluntarily leave her husband and her children.”

“That’s the Louise Akerblom we all know,” said Tureson.

“At the same time, that makes me suspicious,” said Wallander.

“Suspicious?”

Tureson looked puzzled.

“I just cannot believe that such perfect individuals exist,” Wallander explained. “Everybody has his or her secrets. The question is: what are Louise Akerblom’s? I take it for granted she hasn’t vanished voluntarily because she hasn’t been able to cope with her own good fortune.”

“You’d get the same answers from every single member of our church, Inspector,” said Tureson.

Afterwards, Wallander could never manage to put his finger on just what had happened; but there was something in Tureson’s response that made him sit up and take notice. It was as if the minister were defending Louise Akerblom’s image, even though it was not being questioned, apart from the general points Wallander was making. Or was there something else he was defending?

Wallander rapidly shifted his position and put a question that had seemed less important previously.

“Tell me about your congregation,” he said. “Why does one choose to become a member of the Methodist church?”

“Our faith and our interpretation of the Bible stand out as being right,” came Tureson’s reply.

“Is that justified?” Wallander wondered.

“In my opinion and that of my congregation it is,” said Pastor Tureson. “Needless to say, members of other denominations would disagree. That’s only natural.”

“Is there anybody in your congregation who doesn’t like Louise Akerblom?” asked Wallander, and immediately got the impression the man opposite was hesitating just a fraction too long before replying.

“I can’t imagine there would be,” said Pastor Tureson.

There it is again, thought Wallander. Something evasive, something not quite straightforward about his answer.

“Why don’t I believe you?” he asked.

“But you should, Inspector,” said Tureson. “I know my congregation.”

Wallander suddenly felt tired. He could see he would have to put his questions rather differently if he was going to succeed in throwing the minister off balance. A full frontal attack it would have to be.

“I know that Louise Akerblom has enemies in your congregation,” he said. “Never mind how I know. But I’d like to hear your views.”

Tureson stared hard at him for some time before replying.

“Not enemies,” he said. “But it is true that one of our members had an unfortunate relationship with her.”

He got up and went over to a window.

“I’ve been wavering,” said Pastor Tureson. “I almost called you last night, in fact. But I didn’t. I mean, everybody hopes Louise will come back to us. That everything will turn out to have a natural explanation. All the same, I’ve been getting more and more worried. I have to admit that.”

He returned to his chair.

“I also have responsibilities to all the other members of my church,” he said. “I don’t want to have to put anybody in a bad light, to make an accusation that later proves to be completely wrong.”

“This conversation is not an official interrogation,” said Wallander. “Whatever you say will go no further. I’m not taking minutes.”

“I don’t know how to put it,” said Pastor Tureson.

“Tell it as it is,” said Wallander. “That’s generally the simplest way.”

“Two years ago, our church welcomed a new member,” Tureson began. “He was an engineer on one of the Poland ferries, and he started coming to our services. He was divorced, thirty-five, friendly and considerate. He soon became well liked and much appreciated by other church members. About a year ago, though, Louise Akerblom asked to speak to me. She was very insistent that her husband Robert shouldn’t know anything about it. We sat here in this room, and she told me that the new member of our congregation had started pestering her with declarations of love. He was sending her letters, stalking her, calling her. She tried to put him off as nicely as she could, but he persisted and the situation was becoming intolerable. Louise asked me to have a word with him. I did so, and suddenly he seemed to change into an altogether different person. He fell into a terrible rage, claimed that Louise had let him down, and that he knew I was the one having a bad influence on her. He claimed she was actually in love with him, and wanted to leave her husband. It was totally absurd. He stopped coming to our meetings, he gave up his job on the ferry, and we thought he’d disappeared for good. I simply told the rest of the congregation that he’d moved away from town, and was too shy to say goodbye. It was a great relief for Louise, of course. But then about three months ago, it all started again. One evening Louise noticed him standing on the street outside their house. It was a terrible shock for her, naturally. He started pestering her with declarations of love all over again. I have to admit, Inspector Wallander, that we actually considered calling in the police. Now, of course, I’m sorry we didn’t. It might just have been a coincidence, naturally. But I begin to wonder more and more as the days pass.”

At last, thought Wallander. Now I have something to get my teeth into. Even if I don’t understand what’s going on regarding black fingers, blown-up radio stations and rare pistols. Now I have something to get my teeth into.

“What’s the man called?” he asked.

“Stig Gustafson.”

“Any idea of his address?”

“No. I’ve got his social security number, though. He fixed the church’s heating system on one occasion, and we paid him.”

Tureson went over to a desk and leafed through a file.

“570503-0370,” he said.

Wallander closed his notebook.

“You were right to tell me about this,” he said. “I’d have found out about it sooner or later, anyway. This way, we save time.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Tureson suddenly exclaimed.

“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “To be absolutely honest with you, I just don’t know the answer to that question.”

Wallander shook hands with the minister and left the church. It was a quarter past twelve.

Now, he thought, at last I have something to go on.

He almost ran to his car and drove straight to the station. He hurried up to his office in order to summon his colleagues to a meeting. Just as he was sitting down at his desk, the phone rang. It was Nyberg, who was still rummaging through the ashes.

“Found something new?” asked Wallander.

“No,” said Nyberg. “But I’ve just realized what the make on the handgun is. The one we found the butt of.”

“I’m writing it down,” said Wallander, taking out his notebook.

“I was right when I said it was an unusual pistol,” Nyberg went on. “I doubt if there are many of them in this country.”

“So much the better,” said Wallander, “Makes it easier to trace.”

“It’s a 9mm Astra Constable,” said Nyberg. “I saw one at a gun show in Frankfurt once upon a time. I’ve got a pretty good memory for guns.”

“Where is it made?” asked Wallander.

“That’s what so odd about it,” said Nyberg. “As far as I know, it’s only manufactured legally in one country.”

“Which?”

“South Africa.”

Wallander put his pen down.

“South Africa?”

“Yes.”

“Why’s that?”

“I can’t tell you why a particular gun is popular in one country but not in another. It just is.”

“Damn it. South Africa?”

“There’s no denying it gives us a link to that finger we found.”

“What’s a South African pistol doing in this country?”

“That’s your job to find out,” said Nyberg.

“OK,” said Wallander. “It’s good that you called me right away. We’ll talk about this again later.”

“I just thought you’d want to know,” said Nyberg, and hung up.

Wallander got out of his chair and went over to the window.

A couple of minutes later, he’d made up his mind.

They’d give priority to finding Louise Akerblom and checking out Stig Gustafson. Everything else would have to take a back seat for the time being.

This is as far as we’ve gotten, thought Wallander. This is as far as we’ve gotten, a hundred and seventeen hours after Louise Akerblom disappeared.

He picked up the telephone.

Suddenly he didn’t feel the slightest bit tired.