There, he thought. The sheep can guide me. He crouched down and ran toward the hole in the fence, then lay down staring into the fog. He could see and hear nothing. A car approached from the direction of Ystad and slowed to a halt. A man got out. Wallander saw it was the man who had promised to call the police. He had a shotgun in his hand. Wallander crept back through the fence.
“Stay here,” he said. “Back the car up about a hundred meters. Stay there and wait till the police arrive. Show them this hole in the fence. Say there are at least two guys with weapons out there. One of them has some kind of automatic. Can you remember all that?”
The man nodded.
“I brought this shotgun,” he said.
Wallander hesitated a moment.
“Show me how it works,” he said. “I know next to nothing about shotguns.”
The guy looked at him in surprise. Then he showed him the safety catch and how to load. Wallander could see it was a pumpaction model. He grabbed it and stuffed a handful of spare cartridges in his pocket.
The guy went back to his car and Wallander crawled through the fence again. A sheep bleated once more. The sound came from the right, somewhere between a clump of trees and the slope down to the sea. Wallander tucked his pistol into his belt and started to edge his way toward where the sheep were bleating restlessly.
The fog was very thick by now.
Martinson was woken up by the telephone call from emergency headquarters. They told him about the shooting and fire on Mariagatan, and also the message Wallander had given the guy on the outskirts of Ystad. He was wide awake immediately, and started getting dressed as he dialed Björk’s number. It seemed to Martinson it took forever for the message to penetrate Björk’s sleepy brain, but half an hour later the largest squad the Ystad police could possibly muster at such short notice was assembled outside the police station. Reinforcements were also on their way from surrounding districts. In addition, Björk had found time to call and wake up the police commissioner, who had asked to be informed as soon as the arrest of Konovalenko was imminent.
Martinson and Svedberg regarded the crowd of cops with some displeasure. They both felt that a smaller squad could be just as effective in a much shorter time. But Björk was going by the book. He did not dare risk exposing himself to criticism afterward.
“This’ll be a disaster,” said Svedberg. “We’ve got to take care of this ourselves, you and me. Björk will just mess things up. If Wallander is out there on his own and Konovalenko is as dangerous as we think he is, he needs us right now.”
Martinson nodded and went over to Björk.
“While you are assembling the squad, Svedberg and I will go on ahead,” he said.
“Out of the question,” said Björk. “We have to follow the rules.”
“You do that while Svedberg and I use our common sense,” said Martinson angrily, and walked away. Björk yelled after him, but Svedberg and Martinson leapt into a squad car and drove off. They also signaled Norén and Peters that they should follow.
They drove out of Ystad at very high speed. They allowed the patrol car to overtake and then lead the way with flashing blue lights and siren. Martinson drove, with Svedberg by his side fumbling with his pistol.
“What have we got?” asked Martinson. “The training ground just before the turnoff to Kåseberga. Two armed men. One of them Konovalenko.”
“We’ve got nothing,” said Svedberg. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to this.”
“Explosion and shooting on Mariagatan,” Martinson went on. “How does it all hang together?”
“Let’s hope Björk can figure that out with the help of his rule book,” said Svedberg.
Outside the police station in Ystad things were rapidly deteriorating into chaos. Telephone calls were pouring in from terrified people living on Mariagatan. The fire brigade was busy putting out the fire. Now it was up to the police to find out what lay behind the shooting. The fire chief, Peter Edler, announced that the street in front of the house was covered with blood.
Björk was under pressure from all sides, but finally made up his mind to let Mariagatan wait. His first priority was to catch Konovalenko and the other man, and to give Wallander some assistance.
“Is there anybody here who knows how big the training ground is?” asked Bjork.
Nobody knew how long it was, but Björk was sure it stretched from the road right down to the beach. He could see they knew too little to think of doing anything but try and surround the whole area.
More cars kept arriving from surrounding districts. Because they were after someone who had killed a cop, even off-duty men were turning up.
After consulting an officer from Malmö, Björk decided they would make final plans for surrounding the place once they got there. A car had also been sent to the army barracks to pick up some reliable maps.
The long caravan of cars left Ystad shortly before one in the morning. A few private cars that happened to be passing by joined in out of curiosity. The fog was now drifting down over central Ystad.
At the training ground they met the man who had spoken first with Wallander, and then with Martinson and Svedberg.
“Has anything happened?” asked Björk.
“Nothing at all,” said the man.
Just then a single shot rang out somewhere in the middle of the training ground. It was followed shortly afterwards by a long salvo. Then all was silent again.
“Where are Martinson and Svedberg?” asked Björk in a voice betraying his fear.
“They ran into the training ground,” answered the man.
“And Wallander?”
“I haven’t seen him since he went off into the fog.”
The searchlights on the squad car roofs were lighting up the fog and the sheep.
“We must let them know we’re here,” said Björk. “We’ll surround the place as best as we can.”
A few minutes later his voice rang out over the whole training ground. The loudspeaker echoed spookily. Then they spread themselves around the perimeter, and started the wait.
Once Wallander had crawled into the training ground, he had been completely swallowed up by the fog. Things happened very fast. He walked toward the bleating sheep. He was moving quickly, crouching down, as he had the distinct impression he was in danger of arriving too late. Several times he tripped over sheep lying on the ground, and they ran off bleating. He realized the sheep he was using to guide him were also betraying the fact that he was on his way.
Then he came upon them.
They were at the far side of the artillery range, where it started sloping down to the sea. It was like a still photograph from a film. Victor Mabasha had been forced down on his knees. Konovalenko was standing in front of him, pistol in hand, and Rykoff a few paces to the side, looking fatter than ever. Wallander could hear Konovalenko repeating the same question over and over again.
“Where’s the cop?”
“I don’t know.”
Wallander could hear Victor Mabasha’s voice was defiant. That made him see red. He hated the man who had killed Louise Åkerblom, and no doubt Tengblad as well. At the same time his mind was racing in an attempt to figure out what he should do. If he tried to crawl any closer, they would notice him. He doubted whether he could hit them with his pistol, given the distance. They were out of shotgun range. If he tried to storm them, he would simply be signing his own death warrant. The automatic pistol in Rykoff’s hand would wipe him out.
The only thing he could do was wait and hope his colleagues would turn up soon. But he could hear Konovalenko getting more and more annoyed. He wondered if they could get there in time.
He had his pistol ready. He tried lying so that he could aim with steady hands. He was aiming straight at Konovalenko.
But the end came too soon. And it came so fast, Wallander had no time to react before it was too late. Looking back, he could see more clearly than ever before how quickly you can waste a life.
Konovalenko
repeated his question one last time. Victor Mabasha gave his negative, defiant response. Then Konovalenko raised his pistol and shot Victor Mabasha right through the head. Just as he had killed Louise Åkerblom three weeks previously.
Wallander yelled out and fired. But it was all over. Victor Mabasha had fallen backwards and was lying at an unnatural angle, motionless. Wallander’s bullet had missed Konovalenko. He could see now that the biggest threat was Rykoff’s automatic pistol. He aimed at the fat man and fired shot after shot. To his amazement, he saw Rykoff suddenly twitch, then fall in a heap. When Wallander turned his gun on Konovalenko, he saw that the Russian had lifted up Victor Mabasha and was using him as a shield as he shuffled backwards toward the beach. Although Wallander knew Victor Mabasha was dead, he could not bring himself to shoot. He stood up and yelled at Konovalenko to drop his gun and give himself up. His answer came in the form of a bullet. Wallander flung himself to one side. Victor Mabasha’s body had saved him from being hit. Not even Konovalenko could aim with a steady hand while holding a heavy corpse upright in front of him. In the distance he could hear a single siren approaching. The fog got thicker as Konovalenko got closer to the beach. Wallander followed him, holding both his weapons in position. Suddenly Konovalenko dropped the dead body and disappeared down the slope. Just then Wallander heard a sheep bleat behind him. He spun around and raised both the pistol and the shotgun.
Then he saw Martinson and Svedberg emerging from out of the fog. Their faces were pictures of astonished horror.
“Drop your guns!” yelled Martinson. “It’s us, can’t you see!”
Wallander knew Konovalenko was about to escape yet again. There was no time for explanations.
“Stay where you are,” he yelled. “Don’t follow me!”
Then he started backing away, still pointing his guns. Martinson and Svedberg did not move a muscle. Then he disappeared into the fog.
Martinson and Svedberg looked at each other in horror.
“Was that really Kurt?” wondered Svedberg.
“Yeah,” said Martinson. “But he seemed out of his mind.”
“He’s alive,” said Svedberg. “He’s still alive despite everything.”
They cautiously approached the slope down to the beach where Wallander had disappeared. They could not detect any movements in the fog, but could hear the gentle lapping of the sea on the sand.
Martinson contacted Björk while Svedberg started to examine the two men lying on the ground. Martinson gave Björk precise directions, and called for ambulances.
“What about Wallander?” asked Björk.
“He’s still alive,” replied Martinson. “But I can’t tell you where he is just now.”
Then he switched off his walkie-talkie, before Björk could ask any more questions.
He went over to Svedberg and looked at the man Wallander had killed. Two bullets had gone in just above Rykoff’s navel.
“We’ll have to tell Björk,” said Martinson. “Wallander seemed completely out of his mind.”
Svedberg nodded. He could see they had no choice.
They went over to the other body.
“The man without a finger,” said Martinson. “Now he’s also dead.” He bent down and pointed to the bullet hole in his forehead.
Both of them were thinking the same thing. Louise Åkerblom.
Then the police cars arrived, followed by two ambulances. As the examination of the two bodies got under way, Svedberg and Martinson took Björk aside and led him over to one of the squad cars. They told him what they had seen. Björk looked at them doubtfully.
“This all sounds very strange,” he said. “Even if Kurt can be strange at times, I find it hard to imagine him going crazy.”
“You should have seen what he looked like,” said Svedberg. “He seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown. He pointed guns at us. He had one in each hand.”
Björk shook his head.
“And then he disappeared along the beach?”
“He was following Konovalenko,” said Martinson.
“Along the beach?”
“That’s where he disappeared.”
Björk said nothing, trying to let what he had heard sink in.
“We’d better send in dog patrols,” he said after a few moments. “Set up roadblocks, and call in helicopters as soon as it gets light and the fog lifts.”
As they got out of the car, a single shot rang out in the fog. It came from the beach, somewhere to the east of where they were standing. Everything got very quiet. Police, ambulance men and dogs all waited to see what would happen next.
Finally a sheep bleated. The desolate sound made Martinson shudder.
“We’ve got to help Kurt,” he said eventually. “He’s on his own out there in the fog. He’s up against a guy who won’t hesitate to shoot. We’ve got to help Kurt. Now, Otto.”
Svedberg had never heard Martinson call Björk by his first name before. Even Björk was startled, as if he did not realize at first who Martinson meant.
“Dog handlers with bulletproof vests,” he said.
Within a short space of time the hunt was on. The dogs picked up the scent immediately, and started straining at their leashes. Martinson and Svedberg followed close on the heels of the dog handlers.
About two hundred meters from the murder scene the dogs discovered a patch of blood in the sand. They searched around in circles without finding anything else. Suddenly one of the dogs set off in a northerly direction. They were on the perimeter of the training ground, following the fence. The trail the dogs found led over the road and then toward Sandhammaren.
After a couple of kilometers the trail fizzled out. Disappeared into thin air.
The dogs whimpered and started backtracking the way they had just come.
“What’s going on?” Martinson asked one of the dog handlers.
He shook his head.
“The trail’s gone cold,” he said.
Martinson looked uncomprehending.
“Wallander can’t just have gone up in smoke?”
“It looks like it,” said the dog handler.
They kept on searching as dawn came. Roadblocks were erected. The whole southern Swedish police force was involved one way or another in the hunt for Konovalenko and Wallander. When the fog lifted, helicopters joined the search.
But they found nothing. The two men had disappeared.
By nine o’clock in the morning Svedberg and Martinson were sitting with Björk in the conference room. Everybody was tired and soaked through from the fog. Martinson was also displaying the first symptoms of a cold coming on.
“What am I going to tell the Commissioner of Police?” asked Björk.
“Sometimes it’s best to tell it like it is,” said Martinson softly.
Björk shook his head.
“Can’t you just see the headlines?” he asked. “‘Crazy cop is Swedish police secret weapon in hunt for police killer.’ ”
“A headline has to be short,” Svedberg objected.
Björk stood up.
“Go home and get something to eat,” he said. “Get changed. Then we have to get going again.”
Martinson raised his hand, as if in a classroom.
“I think I’ll drive out to his father’s place at Löderup,” he said. “His daughter’s there. She might be able to tell us something useful.”
“Do that,” said Björk. “But get moving.”
Then he went into his office and called the commissioner.
When he eventually managed to end the conversation, his face was red with anger.
He had received the negative criticism he was expecting.
Martinson was sitting in the kitchen of the house in Osterlen. Wallander’s daughter was making coffee as they talked. When he arrived, he went straight out to the studio to say hello to Wallander’s father. He said nothing to him about what had happened during the night, however. He wanted to talk to the daughter first.
He could see she was shocked. T
here were tears in her eyes.
“I should really have been sleeping at the apartment on Mariagatan last night, too,” she said.
She served him coffee. He noticed her hands were shaking.
“I don’t understand it all,” she said. “That he’s dead. Victor Mabasha. I just don’t understand it.”
Martinson mumbled something vague in reply.
He suspected she could tell him quite a lot about what had been going on between her father and the dead African. He realized it was not her Kenyan boyfriend in Wallander’s car a few days earlier. But why had he lied?
“You’ve got to find Dad before something happens,” she said, interrupting his train of thought.
“We’ll do what we can,” said Martinson.
“That’s not good enough,” she said. “Do more.”
Martinson nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “We’ll do more than we can.”
Martinson left the house half an hour later. She had promised to tell her grandfather what had happened. He in turn had promised to keep her informed as things developed. Then he drove back to Ystad.
After lunch Björk sat down with Svedberg and Martinson in the conference room at the police station in Ystad. Björk did something most unusual. He locked the door.
“We need to be undisturbed,” he said. “It’s essential that we put a stop to this catastrophic mess before we lose control.”
Martinson and Svedberg stared down at the table. Neither of them knew what he was going to say next.
“Has either of you noticed any signs that Kurt was losing his mind?” asked Björk. “You must have seen something. I’ve always thought he could be strange at times. But you’re the ones who work with him every day.”
“I don’t think he’s out of his mind,” said Martinson after a long pause. “Maybe he’s overworked?”
“If that were anything to go by every cop in the country would go crazy now and then,” said Björk dismissively. “And they don’t normally do that. Of course he’s out of his mind. Or mentally unbalanced, if that sounds better. Does it run in the family? Didn’t somebody find his dad wandering around in a field a year or two back?”
The White Lioness Page 33
