The White Lioness (11 page)

"Now I understand how you usually feel," said Martinsson, flopping down into a chair. "The only thing they didn't ask about was the colour of her underwear."

Wallander reacted angrily. "That was unnecessary," he said.

Martinsson opened his arms wide in apology.

"I'll try and give you a summary," Wallander said. "We know how it all started, so I'll skip that bit. Anyway, we've found Louise Akerblom. She's been shot through the forehead. My guess is that she was shot at close range. But we'll know for sure later. We don't know if she was subjected to sexual assault. Nor do we know if she was ill-treated or held prisoner, or indeed where she was killed. Nor when. But we can be sure she was dead when she was put down that well. We've also found her car. It's essential we get a preliminary report from the hospital as soon as possible. Not least as to whether there was a sexual assault. Then we can start checking up on known offenders."

Wallander took a slurp of coffee before continuing.

"As for motive and murderer, we only have one track to follow so far," he said. "The engineer Stig Gustafson, who's been persecuting her and pestering her with hopeless declarations of love. We haven't found him yet. You know more about that, Svedberg. You can also give us a summary of the tip-offs we've had. Further complications in this investigation are the severed black finger and the house that blew up. Things have been made no clearer by the fact that Nyberg found the remains of a sophisticated radio transmitter in the ashes, and the butt of a handgun used mainly in South Africa, if I understood him properly. In one sense the finger and the pistol are linked by that fact. Not that it helps much. We still don't know if the murder and the explosion are connected."

Wallander was finished, and looked at Svedberg, who was leafing through the stack of papers he had in front of him. "I'll start with the tip-offs," he said. "I'm thinking of writing a book one of these days called
People Who Want to Help the Police
. It'll make me a rich man. As usual we've had curses, blessings, confessions, dreams, hallucinations, and a handful of sensible tips. As far as I can see, though, there's only one of immediate interest. The warden of the Rydsgard estate is quite certain he saw Louise Akerblom driving past last Friday afternoon. The time is about right. That means we know which route she took. Apart from that there's very little of interest. We do know, of course, it's often a day or two before the best tip-offs come in. They come from sensible people who hesitate before getting in touch. As for Gustafson, we haven't managed to discover where he's moved to. But he's supposed to have an unmarried female relative in Malmo. Unfortunately we don't know her first name. The Malmo telephone directory is full of Gustafsons, as you would expect. We'll just have to get down to it and divide the list between us. That's all I have to say."

Wallander sat in silence for a moment. Bjork looked expectantly at him. "Let's concentrate our efforts," Wallander said, at length. "We have to find Gustafson, that's the first priority. If the only lead we have is that relative in Malmo, then that's the one we'll have to follow up. Everybody in this station who's capable of picking up a phone will have to help. I'll join in and assist with the telephoning, as soon as I've dealt with the hospital." Then he turned to Bjork. "We'd better keep going all evening," he said. "It's essential."

Bjork nodded in agreement. "Do that," he said. "I'll be around if there's anything important."

Svedberg began organising the hunt for Gustafson's relative in Malmo, and Wallander went back to his office. Before calling the hospital, he rang his father. It was a long time before he answered. He must have been in his studio, painting. Wallander could hear right away that he was in a bad mood.

"Hello! It's me," he said.

"Who's me?" his father said.

"You know perfectly well who it is," Wallander said.

"I've forgotten what your voice sounds like," his father said.

Wallander gritted his teeth and resisted the temptation to slam down the receiver. "I'm busy," he said. "I've just found a murdered woman in a well. I won't be able to get out to your place today. I hope you'll understand."

"I can see you can't do that," he said. "It sounds unpleasant."

To his astonishment, his father sounded friendly.

"It is," Wallander said. "I just want to wish you a pleasant evening. And I'll try and come out tomorrow."

"Only if you get time," his father said. "I can't go on talking any longer right now."

"Why not?"

"I'm expecting a visitor."

Wallander could hear he'd been cut off. He was left sitting there with the receiver in his hand.

A visitor, he thought. So Gertrud Anderson goes around to see him even when she's not working? I must make time to go and see him soon, he thought. It would be a complete disaster if he married her.

He got up and went to see Svedberg. He collected a list of names and telephone numbers, returned to his office, and dialled the first on the list. At the same time he remembered that he had to contact the prosecutor during the afternoon.

At 4 p.m. they still hadn't traced Gustafson's relative. At 4.30 p.m. Wallander called Akeson at home. He reported on what had happened so far, and told him that they would now make it their priority to find Stig Gustafson. The prosecutor had no objections. He asked Wallander to let him know if anything developed during the evening.

At 5.15 p.m., Wallander fetched his third list of names from Svedberg. Still no luck. Wallander groaned at the thought of it being Walpurgis Eve. A lot of people had gone away for the holiday.

Nobody answered at the first two numbers he called. The third was to an elderly lady who was quite sure there was no-one called Stig in her family.

Wallander opened the window, and could feel a headache coming on. He went back to the phone and dialled the fourth number. He let it go on ringing for quite a while, and was just about to replace the receiver when somebody answered. He could hear it was a young woman on the other end. He explained who he was and what he wanted to know.

"Sure," the young woman said, whose name was Monica. "I have a half-brother called Stig. He's a marine engineer. Has something happened to him?"

Wallander could feel all his exhaustion and dissatisfaction falling away at a stroke. "No," he said. "But we'd like to get in touch with him as soon as possible. Do you know where he lives?"

"Of course I know where he lives," she said. "In Lomma. But he's not at home."

"Where is he, then?"

"He's been on holiday in Las Palmas. He'll be home tomorrow. He's due in Copenhagen on a 10 a.m. flight. I think he's on a Spies package tour."

"Excellent," Wallander said. "I'd be grateful if you could give me his address and phone number."

She told him. He apologised for disturbing her evening, and hung up. Then he rushed into Svedberg's office, collecting Martinsson on the way. No-one knew where Bjork was.

"We'll go to Malmo ourselves," Wallander said. "Our colleagues in town can assist. Run a check at the passport control on everybody disembarking from the various ferries. Bjork will have to fix that."

"Did she say how long he'd been away?" Martinsson said. "If he had a week's vacation, that would mean he'd left last Saturday."

They looked at one another. The significance of Martinsson's point was obvious.

"I think you should go home now," Wallander said. "At least some of us ought to have had a good night's sleep before tomorrow. Let's meet here at 8 a.m. Then we'll drive to Malmo."

Martinsson and Svedberg went home. Wallander reached Bjork, who promised to call his counterpart in Malmo and arrange things according to Wallander's wishes.

At 6.15 p.m. Wallander called the hospital. The doctor was only able to give vague answers. "There are no injuries on the body other than those that would have resulted from her being dropped into the well," she said. "Superficially, it doesn't look as though there was any sexual assault. I'll have to come back to that, though. I can't see any marks on her wrists or ankles."

"That's fine," Wallander said. "Thanks. I'll be in touch again tomorrow."

Then he left the police station. He drove out to Kaseberga and sat for a while on the hill top, staring out to sea. He was at home soon after 9 p.m.

CHAPTER SEVEN

At dawn, just before he woke up, Wallander had a dream that one of his hands was black. He had not put on a black glove. It was his skin that had grown darker until his hand was like an African's.

In his dream Wallander wavered between reactions of horror and satisfaction. Rydberg, his former colleague who had been dead for nearly two years, looked disapprovingly at the hand. He asked Wallander why only one of them was black.

"Something will have to happen tomorrow as well," Wallander said in his dream.

When he woke up and recalled the dream, he lay in bed wondering about the reply he gave Rydberg. What did he mean by that?

Then he got up and looked out of the window. May 1st in Skane this year was cloud-free and sunny, but very windy. It was 6 a.m.

Although he had only slept for two hours, he did not feel tired. That morning they would get an answer to the question of whether Stig Gustafson had an alibi for Friday afternoon the previous week, when Louise Akerblom had most probably been murdered.

If we can solve the crime today, it will have been surprisingly simple, he thought. The first few days we had nothing to go on. Then everything started to happen very quickly. A criminal investigation seldom follows regular day-to-day rhythms. It has its own life, its own energy. The clocks of a criminal investigation distort time, sometimes standing still, sometimes racing forward. No-one can know in advance.

They met at 8 a.m. in the conference room, and Wallander set the ball rolling. "There's no need for us to interfere in what the Danish police are doing," he said. "If what his half-sister says is to believed, Stig Gustafson will land on a Scanair flight to Copenhagen at 10 a.m. You can check that, Svedberg. Then he has three possible ways of getting to Malmo. The ferry to Limhamn, the hydrofoil, or the SAS hovercraft. We'll be keeping an eye on all three."

"An old marine engineer will probably take the big ferry," Martinsson said.

"He might have had enough of boats," Wallander said. "We'll have two men at each spot. He's to be taken firmly and informed of the reasons. A certain amount of caution would no doubt be appropriate. Then we'll bring him here. I thought I would start talking to him."

"Two men seems on the low side," Bjork said. "Shouldn't we have a patrol car in the background, at least?"

Wallander agreed that this was a wise precaution.

"I've talked to our colleagues in Malmo," Bjork said. "We'll get all the help we need. Decide for yourselves what signal the immigration people should give you when he shows up."

Wallander looked at his watch. "If that's all, we'd better get going," Wallander said. "It's best if we get to Malmo in good time."

"The flight could be delayed," Svedberg said. "Wait until I've checked."

Fifteen minutes later, he informed them that the plane from Las Palmas was expected at Kastrup at 9.20 a.m. "It's taken off," Svedberg said. "And they have a tailwind."

They drove to Malmo immediately, talked to their colleagues there, and divided up the assignments. Wallander allocated himself to the hovercraft terminal, with a young officer named Engman, who was still wet behind the ears. He had taken the place of Naslund, with whom Wallander had worked for many years. Naslund was from the island of Gotland, and couldn't wait for an assignment at home. When a vacancy occurred in the Visby force, he did not hesitate to go for it. Wallander missed him, especially his unfailing good humour.

Martinsson, with one other officer, was taking care of Limhamn, and Svedberg was to keep an eye on the hydrofoils. They were in touch by phone. Everything was set by 9.30 a.m. Wallander managed to arrange for coffee to be delivered to himself and the trainee by colleagues at the terminal.

"This is the first murderer I've ever hunted," Engman said.

"We don't know if he's our man," Wallander said. "In this country a man is innocent until he's proven guilty. Never forget that."

He was uncomfortable about the critical tone of his voice. He thought he'd better make up for it by saying something kind. But he couldn't think of anything.

Svedberg and his colleague made an undramatic arrest at the hydrofoil terminal. Gustafson was a small man, thin, balding, sunburnt after his holiday. Svedberg told him he was suspected of murder, put the cuffs on him and announced he was being taken to Ystad.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Gustafson said. "Why do I have to be handcuffed? Why are you taking me to Ystad? Who am I supposed to have murdered?"

Svedberg registered that he seemed genuinely surprised. The thought struck him that marine engineer Gustafson might be innocent.

By the time Wallander was sitting opposite Gustafson in an interview room at the Ystad police station, he had already informed Akeson of the arrest. He started by asking if Gustafson would like a cup of coffee.

"No," he said. "I want to go home. And I want to know why I'm here."

"I want to talk to you," Wallander said, "and the answers I get will decide whether or not you can go home."

He wrote down Gustafson's details, noted that his middle name was Emil, and that he was born in Landskrona. The man was obviously nervous, and Wallander could see he was sweating at the roots of his hair. But that did not necessarily mean anything. Police phobia is just as real as snake phobia.

Then the real interrogation started.

"You are here to answer questions about a brutal murder," Wallander said. "The murder of Louise Akerblom."

Wallander saw the man stiffen. Had he not counted on the body being found so soon? Wallander wondered. Or is he genuinely surprised?

"Mrs Akerblom disappeared last Friday," he said. "Her body was found a few days ago. She was probably murdered during the latter part of Friday. What have you to say to that?"

"Is it the Louise Akerblom I know?" Gustafson said.

Wallander could see he was scared now. "Yes," he said. "The one you got to know through the Methodists."

"She has been killed?"

"Yes."

"That's unspeakable!"

Wallander immediately began to feel a gnawing sensation in his stomach, and knew something was wrong, absolutely damned wrong. Gustafson's shock and astonishment seemed completely genuine. Mind you, Wallander knew from his own experience that there were people guilty of the most horrific crimes you could think of who nevertheless had the ability to appear innocent.

All the same, he could feel that gnawing sensation. Had they been following a trail that was cold from the start?

"I want to know what you were doing last Friday," Wallander said. "Start by telling me about the afternoon."

The answer he got surprised him.

"I was with the police," said Gustafson.

"The police?"

"Yes. In Malmo. I was flying to Las Palmas the next day. And I'd just discovered that my passport had run out. I was at the station in Malmo, getting a new passport. The office was already closed by the time I got there, but they were nice and helped me anyway. I got my passport at 4.00 p.m."

From that moment Stig Gustafson was out of the picture. Even so, Wallander didn't want to let go. He had a pressing need to solve this case as soon as humanly possible. Anyway, it would have been dereliction of duty to allow the interrogation to be governed by his feelings.

"I parked at Central Station," Gustafson said. "Then I went to the bar for a beer."

"Is there anybody who will testify that you were in that bar at that time?"

Gustafson thought for a moment. "I don't know," he said eventually. "I was on my own. Maybe one of the barmen will remember me? I'm not exactly a regular customer."

"How long were you there?" Wallander said.

"An hour, maybe. No longer."

"Until about 5.30 p.m.? Is that right?"

"I suppose so. I'd planned to go to Systemet before they closed."

"Which one?"

"The one behind the NK department store. I don't know the name of the street."

"And you went there?"

"I just bought a few beers."

"Will anyone remember you there?"

"The man who served me had a red beard," Gustafson said. "But I might still have the receipt. There's the date on those receipts, isn't there?"

"Go on," Wallander said, nodding.

"Then I collected the car," Gustafson said. "I was going to buy a suitcase at the B&W superstore, out at Jagersro, but they were too expensive. I thought I could manage with my old one. It was a disappointment."

"What did you do next?"

"I had a hamburger at the McDonald's. But the servers are only kids. I don't suppose they'll remember anything at all."

"Young people often have good memories," Wallander said, thinking of a young bank teller who had been extremely helpful in an investigation a year or so back.

"I've just remembered something else," Gustafson said. "Something that happened while I was at the bar."

"Go on."

"I went down to the toilet. I stood there talking to a man for a couple of minutes. He was complaining that there weren't any paper towels to dry your hands on. He was a bit drunk. Not too much. He said his name was Forsgard and he ran a garden centre at Hoor."

Wallander made a note. "We'll follow that up," he said. "If we go back to McDonald's at Jagersro, that would have been about 6.30 p.m., right?"

"That's probably about right."

"What did you do next?"

"I went to Nisse's to play cards."

"Who's Nisse?"

"An old carpenter I used to have as a shipmate for many years. His name's Nisse Stromgren. Lives on Foreningsgatan. We play cards now and then. A game we learned in the Middle East. It's pretty complicated. But fun once you know it. You have to collect jacks."

"How long were you there?"

"It was probably near midnight by the time I went home. A bit too late, as I was going to have to get up so early. The bus was due to leave at 6 a.m. from the Central Station. The bus to Kastrup, that is."

Wallander nodded. Gustafson has an alibi, he thought. If what he says is true. And if Louise Akerblom really was killed last Friday. Right now there were not sufficient grounds to arrest Gustafson. The prosecutor would never agree to it.

And it's not him, Wallander thought. If I start pressing him on his persecution of Louise Akerblom, we'll get nowhere.

He stood up.

"Wait here," he said and left the room.

They gathered in the conference room and listened gloomily to Wallander's account.

"We'll check up on what he said," Wallander said. "But to be honest, I no longer think he's our man. This was a blind alley."

"I think you're jumping the gun," Bjork said. "We don't even know for sure she really did die on Friday afternoon. Gustafson could in fact have driven from Lomma to Krageholm after leaving his card-playing buddy."

"What could have kept Louise Akerblom out until that time?" Wallander said. "Don't forget she left a message on her answering machine to say she'd be home by 5 p.m. Something happened before 5 p.m."

Nobody spoke. Wallander looked around.

"I'll have to talk to the prosecutor," he said. "If nobody has anything to say, I'm going to let Gustafson go."

Nobody had any objection. Wallander walked across to the other end of the police station, where the prosecution authorities had their offices. He gave Per Akeson a resume of the interrogation. Every time Wallander visited his office, he was struck by the astonishing disorder all around him, papers stacked haphazardly on desks and chairs, the wastepaper basket was overflowing. But Akeson was a skilful prosecutor. Moreover, no-one had ever accused him of losing a single paper of significance.

"We can't hold him," he said when Wallander had finished. "I take it you can check his alibi pretty quickly?"

"Yes," Wallander said. "To tell you the truth, I don't think he did it."

"Do you have any other leads?"

"It's all very vague," Wallander said. "We wondered if he might have hired somebody else to kill her. We'll make a thorough check this afternoon before we go any further. But we have no other individual to go after. We'll have to keep going on a broad front for the time being. I'll keep in touch."

Akeson nodded, and stared at Wallander, frowning.

"How much sleep are you getting?" he said. "Or rather, how little? Have you seen yourself in a mirror? You look awful!"

"That's nothing compared to how I feel," Wallander said, getting to his feet.

He went back down the corridor, opened the door to the interview room, and went in.

"We'll arrange transport to take you to Lomma," he said. "But you can bet we'll be in touch again."

"Am I free?" Gustafson said.

"You've never been anything else," Wallander said. "Being questioned isn't the same as being accused."

"I didn't kill her," Gustafson said. "And I can't understand on what grounds you could think I did."

"Really?" Wallander said. "Though you've been chasing after her on and off ? "