"I don't think anybody can understand what it feels like."
"It'll pass."
"No, it won't. Not ever."
"Everything passes."
Widen tried calling Loderup again. Still no answer. Wallander went to the bathroom and took a shower. Widen lent him a shirt, which also smelled of horse.
"How's it going? The horse business," Wallander said.
"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. Horses with real quality are often a handful. Like people. Full of themselves, and capricious. I sometimes wonder if she should have a mirror in her stall. 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?" Wallander said.
"They eat in the stables," Widen said. "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."
The third time he called, Linda answered. Wallander could hear she was asking lots of questions, but Widen said only what he was supposed to.
"She was very relieved," he said when the call was over. "And she promised to stay put."
They ate their pizzas. A cat jumped up onto the table. Wallander gave it a piece. He noticed that even the cat smelled of horse.
"The fog is lifting," Widen said. "Did I ever tell you I'd been in South Africa? Apropos of what you were just saying."
"No," Wallander said, 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 look 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 by 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, apologising for their existence. I've never seen anything like it and I'll never forget it."
He wiped his mouth and went out. Wallander thought about what he had said. Then he realised that he could put it off no longer: he would 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 whisky bottle, half empty. He took a mouthful and then another. He watched Widen ride past the window on a brown horse.
First I get burgled. Then they blow up my flat. 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. He did not wake up again for another four hours.
Widen was in the kitchen, reading an evening paper. "You're wanted," he said.
Wallander looked at him uncomprehendingly. "I'm what?"
"You're wanted. They've sent out an APB. You can also read between the lines that they think you've gone off your head."
Wallander grabbed the newspaper. There was a picture of him, and of Bjork.
Widen wasn't exaggerating. He was a wanted man. He and Konovalenko. The reporter quoted a police source as saying that he might not be in full possession of his faculties.
Wallander stared in horror at the paper. "Call my daughter," he said.
"I already did," Widen said. "I told her you were
compos mentis
."
"Did she believe you?"
"Of course she did."
Wallander sat there for a while, then he made up his mind. He would play the role they had given him. A chief detective inspector, temporarily out of his mind, missing. That would give him the thing he needed above all else. Time.
When Konovalenko caught sight of Wallander in the fog, in the field with the sheep, he realised to his amazement that he was up against a worthy opponent. It was at the very instant that Mabasha was thrown backwards, 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 policeman who had defied him time and time again. He had underestimated him. Then Rykoff was hit by two bullets that ripped open his rib cage. Using Mabasha as a shield, Konovalenko withdrew to the beach, knowing that the policeman 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 his mobile phone. She was waiting in Ystad with a car. He ran to the perimeter fence, scrambled onto the road, and found a sign pointing to Kaseberga. He directed her out of Ystad by telephone, talking to her all the time, urging 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 the first ruthless Swede he had come across. Yet he could not believe what had happened. The man was just a local police officer, after all. There was something about his behaviour that simply did not add up.
Tania arrived, Konovalenko took the wheel, and they drove to the house near Tomelilla.
"Where's Vladimir?" she said.
"We were forced to split up. I'll get him later."
"What about the African?"
"Dead."
"The policeman did that?"
Tania realised something had gone wrong when Konovalenko did not answer her question. He was driving too fast. Something had exasperated him. And Tania understood that Vladimir too was dead. She said nothing, and managed to keep up the facade until they got back to the house where 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. Tsiki watched them from the sofa, never moving. Konovalenko had the impression he was performing on a stage with Tsiki the only member of the audience. Once Tania had lapsed almost into unconsciousness, Konovalenko got changed and poured himself a glass of vodka. That Mabasha was at last dead did not give him the satisfaction he had anticipated. It solved certain immediate problems, not least the worry over his dealings with Kleyn. But the problem of the policeman was now exacerbated. He would come after him. He would pick up the trail once more.
Konovalenko poured another 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, 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. Preparations for the assassination in South Africa would have to wait.
He knew what was the policeman's weak spot. That was what Konovalenko wanted to get at. But where was the daughter? Somewhere not far away, presumably in Ystad, but not in the flat.
It took him an hour to work out a solution. It was a plan fraught with risk. 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.
"I gather the big man won't be coming back," Tsiki said suddenly. His voice was very husky, his English singsong.
"He made a mistake," Konovalenko said. "He was too slow."
That was all Tsiki said that night. He got up from the sofa and went to his room. It occurred to Konovalenko that, despite everything, he preferred the replacement Kleyn had sent. He would mention this when he called South Africa the following night.
He was the only one awake. He went to bed shortly before 5 a.m.
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 sedatives Konovalenko had given her, and the shock of Vladimir's death. But she was also determined. The policeman who visited them in Hallunda had killed her husband. Konovalenko had described his death in a way that bore little resemblance to what had happened. 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.
A woman in a glass cage in the reception area at the police station smiled at her. "How can I help you?" she said.
"My car has been broken into," Tania said.
"Oh dear," the receptionist said. "I'll see if there's anybody who can deal with you. The whole place is upside down today."
"I can imagine," Tania said. "Wasn't it awful, what happened?"
"I never thought we'd live to see anything like this happening in Ystad," the receptionist said.
She tried several extensions. Eventually someone answered.
"Is that Martinsson? Do you have time to deal with a car break-in?"
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 else. And it won't take long."
The man on the phone gave in.
"You can talk to Detective Inspector Martinsson," she said, pointing. "Third door on the left."
Tania knocked and walked into the office, which was extremely untidy. The man behind the desk looked worn out 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," Tania said. "The thief got away with my radio."
"They usually do," Martinsson said.
"Please excuse me," Tania said, "but could I have a glass of water? I have such a cough."
Martinsson 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 identified the address book in the mess on his desk. As soon as Martinsson 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 quickly on a piece of paper in her bag. She replaced the address book and looked around the office.
Martinsson returned 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 gave him details of the imaginary break-in. She gave the registration number of a car she had seen parked in the town. They had taken a radio, and a bag of several bottles of spirits. Martinsson wrote it all down, and when he had finished he asked her to read it through and sign it. She called herself Irma Alexanderson, and gave an address on the Malmo Road. She handed the form back to Martinsson.
"You must be very worried about your colleague," she said in a friendly tone. "What was his name? Wallander?"
"Yes," said Martinsson. "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."
Martinsson looked up at her with somewhat renewed interest. "She's back here again now," he said.
"Really?" Tania said. "She must have been very lucky, then, when the apartment burned down."
"She's with her grandfather," Martinsson said, replacing the telephone receiver.
Tania got up. "I won't disturb you any longer," she said. "Thanks for your help."
"No problem," Martinsson said, 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 blonde hair meant he would never be able to recognise her.
She nodded to the woman in reception, passed a group of journalists waiting for a press conference due to begin any time now, and left the police station.
Konovalenko was waiting at the petrol station on the hill leading down to the town. She got into his 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. "And when we've got her, we've got him as well."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Wallander dreamed he was walking on water. The world he found himself in was a strange blue colour. The sky and its jagged clouds were blue, the edge of a forest in the far distance was blue, and the cliff face was cluttered with blue birds roosting. And the sea he was walking on too. Konovalenko was also somewhere in the dream. Wallander had been following his tracks in the sand. But then, instead of turning up towards the slope away from the beach, they went straight out to sea. In his dream it was obvious that he should follow them, so he walked on the water. It was like walking over a thin layer of fine glass splinters. The surface was uneven, but it bore his weight. Somewhere, beyond the last of those blue islets, close to the horizon, was Konovalenko.
He remembered the dream when he woke up early on Sunday morning, May 17. He was on the sofa in Widen's house. He went out into the kitchen and saw that it was 5.30 a.m. A quick look into Widen's bedroom revealed that he was already gone. Wallander poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table.
Last night he had tried to start thinking again. In one sense his situation was easy to assess. He was a wanted man, and they were looking for him. But he could be wounded, he could be dead. Moreover, he had threatened his colleagues with weapons and thereby demonstrated that he was out of his mind. To catch Konovalenko they would also have to track down Chief Inspector Wallander from Ystad. So far, so clear. Yesterday, when Widen told him what was in the papers, he had decided to play the part assigned to him. It would give him time to catch up with Konovalenko and, if necessary, to kill him.
He was taking the role of sacrificial lamb. He doubted whether Konovalenko could be arrested without officers being injured or killed. Therefore he would sacrifice himself. The thought terrified him, but he could not run away. He had to achieve what he had set out to do, regardless of the consequences.
Wallander tried to imagine what Konovalenko was thinking. He could not now ignore Wallander. He might not regard him as a worthy adversary, but he would have gathered that Wallander was a police officer who went his own way and did not hesitate to use a gun if necessary. That should have earned him a measure of respect. In reality Wallander was a policeman who never took unnecessary risks, was both cowardly and cautious. And if he acted in primitive fashion, it was because he was in desperate circumstances. But let Konovalenko go on thinking that he was the other Wallander.
He had tried to work out what Konovalenko was up to. He had come back to Skane; he had found and now killed Mabasha. He couldn't be on his own. He had brought Rykoff with him, but how had he managed to get away without help? Rykoff's wife, Tania, must be around, and maybe other henchmen Wallander didn't know about. They had rented a house under a false name before.
Having got that far, Wallander realised there was another important question still waiting to be resolved. What happens after Mabasha? What about the assassination that was the mainspring of everything that's happened? What about the invisible organisation that's pulling all the strings, even Konovalenko's? Will the whole thing be called off ? Or will these faceless men keep on?
He drank his coffee, and decided that there was only one course open to him. He had to make sure Konovalenko could find him. When they attacked the flat, they were looking for him as well. Mabasha's last words were that he didn't know where Wallander was. Konovalenko wanted to know.
He heard footsteps in the hall. Widen came in, dressed in dirty overalls and muddy boots.
"We're racing at Jagersro today," he said. "How about coming along?"
Wallander was tempted, just for a moment. He welcomed any diversion.
"Is Fog running?" he asked.
"She's running, and she's going to win," Widen said. "But I doubt whether the gamblers will have enough faith in her. That means you could earn a few kronor."
"How can you be so sure?"
"She's a temperamental beast," Widen said, "but today she's raring to go. She's restless in her box. She can sense the chips are down. And the opposition is not all that brilliant. There are a few horses from Norway I don't know much about. But I am confident she can beat them as well."
"Who's the owner of this horse?" Wallander said.
"A businessman by the name of Morell."
Wallander recognised the name. He had heard it not long ago, but could not remember the context. "Stockholmer?"
"No. From Skane."
It came back to him. Peter Hanson and his pumps. A fence by the name of Morell.
"What line of business is this Morell in?"
"To tell you the truth, I think he's a little shady, or so rumour has it. But he pays his training bills on time. No business of mine where the money comes from."
"I don't think I'll come, thanks all the same," Wallander said.
"Ulrika brought in some food," Widen said. "We'll be taking the horses off in an hour or two. You'll have to look after yourself."
"What about the Duett? Will you leave it here?"
"Borrow it if you like," Widen said. "But remember to fill the tank. I keep forgetting."
Wallander watched the horses being led into the horse-box. Soon afterwards he too was on his way to Ystad. He took the risk of driving down Mariagatan. It looked pretty desolate. A yawning hole in the wall, ringed by scorched bricks where the window used to be. He stopped only briefly, before driving through town. As he passed the training ground he saw a squad car parked well back from the perimeter fence. Now the fog had lifted, the distance seemed shorter. He drove on and turned off to the harbour at Kaseberga. He knew he might be recognised, but the photograph of him in the newspapers was not a good likeness. The problem was that he might run into somebody he knew. He stopped by a phone booth and dialled his father's number. As he had hoped, his daughter answered.
"Where are you?" she said. "What are you up to?"
"Just listen," he said. "Can anybody overhear you?"
"How could anybody? Grandpa's painting."
"Nobody else?"
"There's nobody here, I told you!"
"Haven't the police put a guard there yet? Isn't there a car parked on the road?"
"Nilson's tractor is in one of the fields."
"What? Nothing else?"
"Papa, there's nobody here. Stop worrying."
"I'll be there in a few minutes," he said. "Don't say anything to your grandfather."
"Have you seen what they put in the papers?"
"We can talk about that later."
He replaced the receiver, thinking how pleased he was that it had not yet been confirmed that he killed Rykoff. Even if the police knew, they wouldn't release the information until Wallander was found. He was sure of that, after all his years in the force.
He drove straight to his father's house. He left the car on the main road and walked the last bit, taking a path on which he knew he could not be seen. She was standing at the door, waiting. When they got into the hallway, she hugged him. They stood in silence. He did not know what she was thinking. As far as he was concerned, though, it was proof that they were on the way to being so close that words were sometimes unnecessary.
They sat at the kitchen table. "Grandpa won't show up for quite some time yet," she said. "I could learn a lot from his working discipline."
"Or stubbornness," he said. They both burst out laughing. Then he grew serious again. He told her slowly what had happened, and why he had decided to accept the role of a man on the run.
"What do you think you'll achieve? All by yourself?"
He could not make up his mind whether fear or scepticism lay behind her question. "I'll lure him out. I know I'm no one-man army, but if this thing is going to be solved, I have to take the first step myself."
Quickly, as if in protest at what he had just said, she changed the subject. "Did he suffer a lot?" she asked. "Your African?"
"No," Wallander said. "I don't think he had any idea he was going to die."
"What'll happen to him now?"
"I've no idea," Wallander said. "There'll be an autopsy. Then it's a matter of whether his family want him buried here, or in South Africa. Assuming that is where he comes from."
"Who is he, in fact?"
"I don't know. I sometimes felt I'd made some kind of contact with him. But then he slipped away again. I don't know what he was thinking deep down. He was a remarkable man, very complicated. If that's how you get when you live in South Africa, it must be a country you wouldn't want to send your worst enemy to."
"I want to help you," she said.
"You can," Wallander said. "You can call the police station and ask to speak with Martinsson."
"That's not what I mean," she said. "I'd like to do something nobody else can do."
"That's not the kind of thing you plan in advance," Wallander said. "That just happens. When it happens."
She called the police station and asked to speak with Martinsson, but the switchboard could not track him down. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and asked what she should do. Wallander hesitated, but he realised he could not afford to wait, nor pick and choose. He asked her to get Svedberg instead.
"He's in a meeting," she said. "Not to be disturbed."
"Tell her who you are," Wallander said. "Say it's important."
It was a few minutes before Svedberg came to the phone. She handed the receiver to Wallander.
"It's me," he said. "Kurt. Don't say anything. Where are you?"
"In my office."
"Is the door closed?"
"Just a moment." Wallander could hear him slamming the door.
"Kurt," he said. "Where are you?"
"I'm somewhere where you'll never be able to find me."
"Damn it, Kurt."
"Just listen. Don't interrupt. I need to see you, but only on condition that you don't say a word to anyone. To Bjork, Martinsson, anybody. If you can't give me your word I'll hang up."
"We're in the conference room right now, discussing how to build up the search for you and the Russian," Svedberg said. "It'll be ridiculous if I go back to that meeting and not say I've just been talking with you."
"That can't be helped," Wallander said. "I think I have good reason for doing what I'm doing. I'm intending to exploit the fact that I'm wanted."
"How so?"
"I'll tell you when we meet. Make up your mind, now!"
There was a long pause.
"I'll come," Svedberg said, eventually.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Wallander told him the way to Stjarnsund. "Two hours from now. Can you manage that?"
"I'll have to make sure I can," Svedberg said.
Wallander hung up.
"Somebody has to know what I'm doing," he said.
"In case something happens?"
Her question came so suddenly Wallander had no time to think of an evasive answer. "Yes," he said. "In case something happens."
He stayed for another cup of coffee. As he was getting ready to leave, he hesitated. "I don't want to make you any more worried than you already are," he said, "but I don't want you to leave these four walls for the next few days. Nothing's going to happen to you. It's to make me sleep easier at night, that's all."
She patted his cheek. "I'll stay here," she said. "Don't you worry."
"Just a few more days," he said. "It can hardly be more than that. This nightmare will be over in that time. Then I'll have to get used to the fact that I killed a man."
He left before she had a chance to say anything more. He could see in the rear-view mirror that she had followed him to the road and was watching him drive away.
Svedberg was there on time. It was 2.50 p.m. when he turned into the courtyard. Wallander put on his jacket and went out to meet him. Svedberg looked at him and shook his head.
"What are you up to?" he said.
"I think I can handle it," Wallander said. "And thanks for coming."
They walked to the bridge over the old moat around the ruined castle. Svedberg leaned over the rail and contemplated the green sludge below, and Wallander told him what Mabasha had revealed to him, and what Konovalenko's part in the plot had been.
"It's hard to grasp that this sort of thing can happen," Svedberg said, horrified.
"We think we can stop something happening just by refusing to acknowledge it," Wallander said.
"But why Sweden? Why choose Sweden as their starting point?"
"The African had a possible explanation," Wallander said. "He claimed that it was partly because this is where Konovalenko was established, of course, but the crucial thing for the people behind this business is that nothing can be tracked down. Sweden is a country where it's easy to get lost; it's simple to cross the border, and it's easy to disappear. He had a simile for it. Mabasha said South Africa is a cuckoo, she often lays her eggs in other people's nests."
"I've never been here before," Svedberg said. "I wonder what it was like, being a policeman, as it were, when the castle was in its prime."