The White Lioness

by Henning Mankell

  Jan Kleyn sometimes liked to make his presence felt by introducing a touch of the macabre. In this case, moreover, the jackal skin would act as a decoy, diverting the detectives who would arrive later to investigate the murder. An intelligence officer shot in a hospital would cause quite a stir in the Johannesburg homicide department. They would try to establish a link between the murder and the work Pieter van Heerden was doing. His links with President de Klerk would make it all the more imperative to solve the murder. Jan Kleyn had therefore decided to point the police in a direction that was bound to lead nowhere. Black criminals sometimes amused themselves by introducing some ritual element or other into their crimes. That was especially true in cases of robbery with violence. They were not content with smearing blood on the walls. The perpetrator often left some kind of symbol by the victim’s side. A broken branch, or stones arranged in a certain pattern. Or an animal skin.

  Kleyn had immediately thought of a jackal. As far as he was concerned, that was the role van Heerden had been playing: exploiting other people’s abilities, other people’s information, and passing them on in a way he should never have contemplated.

  He observed van Heerden’s horrified expression.

  “The operation’s been cancelled,” said Jan Kleyn in a hoarse voice.

  Then he threw the jackal skin over van Heerden’s face and pumped three bullets into his head. A stain started to spread over the pillow. Kleyn put the pistol in his pocket and opened a drawer in the bedside table. He took van Heerden’s wallet, and left the room. He managed to get away as unobtrusively as he came. Afterwards, the guards would be unable to give any clear description of the man who had robbed and killed van Heerden.

  Robbery with violence was how the police classified the attack, which was eventually written off. But President de Klerk was not convinced. As far as he was concerned, van Heerden’s death had been his last communique. There was no longer any doubt about it. The conspiracy was a fact.

  Whoever was behind the plot meant business.

  A Flock of Sheep in the Fog

  Chapter Fifteen

  On Monday, May 4, Kurt Wallander was ready to turn over responsibility for the investigation into Louise Åkerblom’s death to one of his colleagues. It was not because he felt the fact they were getting nowhere reflected badly on his abilities as a policeman. It was down to something quite different. A feeling he had that was getting stronger and stronger. It was quite simply that he couldn’t raise the effort anymore.

  The investigation was completely stalled on Saturday and Sunday. It was the May Day holiday weekend, and people were away or unobtainable. It was practically impossible to get any response from the technical guys in Stockholm. The hunt for an unknown man who shot a young policeman in the capital was still going at full throttle.

  The investigation into Louise Åkerblom’s death was shrouded in silence. Björk had been struck down by a sudden severe attack of gallstones on Friday night and rushed to the hospital. Wallander visited him early on Saturday to receive instructions.

  When he got back from the hospital, Wallander sat down with Martinson and Svedberg in the conference room at the station.

  “Today and tomorrow Sweden is closed down,” said Wallander. “The results of the various technical tests we’re waiting for are not going to be here before Monday. That means we can use the next two days to go through the material we already have. I also think it would be a good idea for you, Martinson, to show your face at home and spend some time with your family. I suspect next week might be a bit busy. But let’s keep our wits about us for a while this morning. I want us to go through the whole thing so far just one more time, right from the start. I also want you to answer a question, both of you.”

  He paused for a moment before continuing.

  “I know this isn’t in accordance with police procedures,” he said, “but throughout this investigation I’ve had the feeling there’s something funny going on. I can’t put it any clearer than that. What I want to know is, have either of you had the same feeling? As if we were up against a crime that doesn’t fit into the usual patterns?”

  Wallander had expected a surprised reaction, possibly even skepticism. But Martinson and Svedberg shared his feeling.

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like this,” said Martinson. “Of course, I don’t have as much experience as you, Kurt. But I have to admit I’m baffled by the whole business. First we try to catch somebody who’s carried out the horrific murder of a woman. The deeper we dig, the harder it is to understand why she’s been murdered. In the end we come back to the feeling that her death is just an incident on the periphery of something quite different, something bigger. I didn’t get much sleep this last week. That’s unusual for me.”

  Wallander nodded and looked at Svedberg.

  “What can I say?” he began, scratching his bald head. “Martinson’s already said it, better than I could put it. When I got home last night I made a list: dead woman, well, black finger, blown-up house, radio transmitter, pistol, South Africa. Then I sat staring at that list for over an hour, as if it were a rebus. It’s like we can’t grasp that there just don’t seem to be any connections and contexts in this investigation. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a feeling of wandering around in the dark as I do now.”

  “That’s what I wanted to know,” said Wallander. “I guess it’s not insignificant that we all feel the same about this investigation. Nevertheless, let’s see if we can manage to penetrate a bit of this darkness Svedberg is talking about.”

  They went through the investigation right from the beginning. It took them nearly three hours; afterward, they felt once again that they hadn’t made any big mistakes, despite everything. But they also hadn’t found any new clues.

  “It’s all very obscure, to say the least,” said Wallander, summing up. “The only real clue we have is a black finger. We can also be pretty sure the man who lost his finger was not alone, assuming he’s the one who did it. Alfred Hanson had rented the house to an African. We know that for sure. But we’ve no idea who this man is who calls himself Nordström and paid ten thousand kronor up front. Nor do we know what the house was used for. When it comes to the connection between these people and Louise Åkerblom or the blown-up house, the radio transmitter, and the pistol, we only have vague and unsubstantiated theories. There’s nothing so dangerous as investigations that invite guessing rather than logical thinking. The theory that seems most likely just now, despite everything, is that Louise Åkerblom happened to see something she shouldn’t have seen. But what kind of people turn that into a reason for an execution? That’s what we have to find out.”

  They sat around the table in silence, thinking over what he had said. A cleaning lady opened the door and peeked in.

  “Not now,” said Wallander.

  She shut the door again.

  “I think I’ll spend the day going through the tipoffs we’ve had,” said Svedberg. “If I need any help, I’ll let you know. I’m hardly going to have time for anything else.”

  “It might be as well to sort out Stig Gustafson once and for all,” said Martinson. “I can start by checking his alibi, in so far as that’s possible on a day like today. If necessary I’ll drive over to Malmö. But first I’ll try and track down that flower seller Forsgård he claims to have met in the john.”

  “This is a murder investigation,” said Wallander. “Track these people down even if they’re in their vacation homes trying to get some peace and quiet.”

  They agreed to meet again at five to see where they were. Wallander got some coffee, went to his office and called Nyberg at home.

  “You’ll have my report on Monday,” said Nyberg. “But you already know the most important parts.”

  “No,” said Wallander. “I still don’t know why the house burned down. I don’t know the cause of the fire.”

  “Maybe you ought to talk to the chief fire officer about that,” said Nyberg. “He might have a good explanation. We’
re not ready yet.”

  “I thought we were working together,” said Wallander, irritated. “Us and the fire service. But maybe there’ve been some new instructions I don’t know about?”

  “We don’t have an obvious explanation,” said Nyberg.

  “What do you think, then? What does the fire service think? What does Peter Edler think?”

  “The explosion must have been so powerful that there’s nothing left of the detonator. We’ve discussed the possibility of a series of explosions.”

  “No,” said Wallander. “There was only one bang.”

  “I don’t mean it quite like that,” said Nyberg patiently. “You can plan ten explosions within a second if you’re smart enough. We’d be talking about a chain with a tenth-of-a-second delay between each charge. But that increases the effect enormously. It has to do with the changed air pressure.”

  Wallander thought for a moment.

  “We’re not talking about a bunch of amateurs, then?” he said.

  “No way.”

  “Can there be any other explanation for the fire?”

  “Hardly.”

  Wallander glanced at his papers before going on.

  “Can you say anything else about the radio transmitter?” he ventured. “There’s a rumor that it was made in Russia.”

  “That’s not just a rumor,” said Nyberg. “I have had confirmation. I’ve had help from the army guys.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “No idea. The army is very interested to know how it got here. It’s a mystery.”

  Wallander pressed ahead.

  “The pistol butt?”

  “Nothing new on that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not really. The report isn’t going to reveal anything surprising.”

  Wallander brought the call to a close. Then he did something he’d made up his mind to do during that morning’s meeting. He dialed the number of police headquarters in Stockholm and asked to speak with Inspector Lovén. Wallander had met him the previous year, while investigating a raft carrying two bodies that were washed up at Mossby Beach. Although they only worked together for a few days, Wallander could see he was a good detective.

  “Inspector Lovén isn’t available at the moment,” said the operator at HQ.

  “This is Inspector Wallander, Ystad. I have an urgent message. It has to do with the policeman killed in Stockholm a few days ago.”

  “I’ll see if I can find Inspector Lovén,” said the operator.

  “It’s urgent,” Wallander repeated.

  It took Lovén exactly twelve minutes to call back.

  “Wallander,” he said. “I thought of you the other day when I read about the murder of that woman. How’s it going?”

  “Slowly,” said Wallander. “How about you?”

  “We’ll get him,” said Lovén. “We always get the guys who shoot one of ours sooner or later. You had something to tell us in that connection?”

  “Could be,” said Wallander. “It’s just that the woman down here was shot through the head. Just like Tengblad. I think it would be a good idea to compare the bullets as soon as possible.”

  “Yeah,” said Lovén. “Don’t forget, this guy was shooting through a windshield. Must have been hard to make out a face on the other side. And it’s a hell of a shot if you can get somebody in the middle of the forehead when they’re in a moving car. But you’re right, of course. We ought to check it out.”

  “Do you have a description of the guy?” asked Wallander.

  The reply came without a pause.

  “He stole a car from a young couple after the murder,” said Loven. “Unfortunately they were so scared they’ve only been able to give us very confused accounts of what he looked like.”

  “They didn’t happen to hear him speak, did they?” Wallander wondered.

  “That was the only thing they agreed on,” said Lovén. “He had some sort of a foreign accent.”

  Wallander could feel his excitement growing. He told Lovén about his conversation with Alfred Hanson and about the man who had paid ten thousand kronor to rent an empty house out in the sticks.

  “We’ll obviously have to look into this,” said Lovén when Wallander was through. “Even if it does sound odd.”

  “The whole business is very odd,” said Wallander. “I could drive up to Stockholm on Monday. I suspect that’s where my African is.”

  “Maybe he was mixed up in the tear gas attack on a discotheque in the Söder district of Stockholm,” said Loven.

  Wallander vaguely remembered seeing something about that in the Ystad Chronicle the previous day.

  “What attack was that?” he asked.

  “Somebody threw some tear gas canisters into a club in Söder,” said Lovén. “A discotheque with lots of Africans among the clientele. We’ve never had any trouble there before. But we have now. Somebody fired a few shots as well.”

  “Take good care of those bullets,” said Wallander. “Let’s take a close look at them as well.”

  “You think there’s only one gun in this country?”

  “No. But I’m looking for links. Unexpected links.”

  “I’ll set things in motion here,” said Lovén. “Thanks for calling. I’ll tell the people running the investigation you’ll be coming on Monday.”

  They assembled as agreed at five o’clock, and the meeting was very short. Martinson had managed to confirm so much of Stig Gustafson’s alibi that he was well on the way to being excluded from the investigation. All the same, Wallander felt doubtful, without being quite sure why.

  “Let’s not let him go altogether,” he said. “We’ll go through all the evidence concerning him one more time.”

  Martinson stared at him in surprise.

  “What exactly do you expect to find?” he asked.

  Wallander shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m just worried about letting him go too soon.”

  Martinson was about to protest, but checked himself. He had great respect for Wallander’s judgement and intuition.

  Svedberg had worked his way through the stack of tips the police had received so far. There was nothing that obviously threw new light on either Louise Åkerblom’s death or the blown-up house.

  “You’d think somebody would have noticed an African missing a finger,” was Wallander’s comment.

  “Maybe he doesn’t exist,” said Martinson.

  “We’ve got the finger,” said Wallander. “Whoever lost it was no spook.”

  Then Wallander reported on how far he had gotten. They all agreed he should go to Stockholm. There could be a link, no matter how unlikely it seemed, between the murders of Louise Åkerblom and Tengblad.

  They concluded the meeting by going through the heirs to the house that had been blown up.

  “They can wait,” said Wallander afterwards. “There’s not a lot here that looks like it will get us anywhere.”

  He sent Svedberg and Martinson home and stayed behind in his office a little longer. He called the prosecutor, Per Akeson, at home, giving him a brief summary of where they stood.

  “It’s not good if we can’t solve this murder quickly,” said Åkeson.

  Wallander agreed. They decided to meet first thing Monday morning to go through the investigation so far, step by step. Wallander could see Akeson was afraid of being accused later of allowing a carelessly conducted investigation to go ahead. He ended the conversation, turned off his desk lamp, and left the station. He drove down the long-drawn-out hill and turned into the hospital parking lot.

  Björk was feeling better and expected to be discharged some time Monday. Wallander gave him a report, and Björk also thought Wallander ought to go to Stockholm.

  “This used to be a quiet district,” said Björk as Wallander was getting ready to leave. “Nothing much used to happen here to attract attention. Now that’s all changed.”

  “It’s not just here,” said Wallander. “What you are ta
lking about belongs to a different age.”

  “I guess I’m getting old,” sighed Björk.

  “You’re not the only one,” said Wallander.

  The words were still echoing in his ears as he left the hospital. It was nearly half past six, and he was hungry. He did not feel like cooking at home, and he decided to eat out. He went home, took a shower, and changed. Then he tried to call his daughter Linda in Stockholm. He let the phone ring for quite some time. In the end he gave up. He went down to the basement and booked himself a time in the laundry room. Then he walked in to the town center. The wind had dropped, but it was chilly.

  Getting old, he thought to himself. I’m only forty-four and I’m already feeling worn out.

  His train of thought suddenly made him angry. It was up to him and nobody else to decide if he was getting old before his time. He could not blame his work, nor his divorce that was already five years ago. The only question was how he would be able to change things.

  He came to the square and wondered where he ought to eat. In a sudden fit of extravagance, he decided to go to the Continental. He went down Hamngatan, paused for a moment to look at the display in the lamp shop, then continued as far as the hotel. He nodded to the girl at the front desk, recalling that she had been in the same class as his daughter.

  The dining room was almost empty. Just for a moment he had second thoughts. Sitting all by himself in a deserted dining room seemed like too much solitude. But he sat down anyway. He had made up his mind, and couldn’t be bothered to start rethinking now.

  I’ll turn over a new leaf tomorrow, he thought, grimacing. He always put off the most important matters affecting his own life. When he was at work, on the other hand, he insisted on arguing for precisely the opposite approach. Always do the most important things first. He had a split personality.

  He took a seat in the bar. A young waiter came over to the table and asked what he would like to drink. Wallander had a feeling he recognized the waiter, but could not quite place him.