The White Lioness (32 page)

"Look under the chair," Wallander said.

When Martinsson bent down, Wallander stuffed the passport into his pocket.

"Nothing there," Martinsson said. "I'm forever losing my caps."

"Ask the cleaner," Wallander said.

Martinsson was about to leave when something struck him. "Do you remember Peter Hanson?"

"How could I ever forget him?" Wallander said.

"Svedberg called him a few days ago and asked about a few details in the interrogation report. He told Peter Hanson about the break-in at your apartment. Thieves generally know what each other is up to. Svedberg thought it might be worth a try. Hanson called in today and said maybe he knew who did it."

"Well, I'll be damned!" Wallander said. "If he can get my records and tapes back, I'll forget about the stereo."

"Have a word with Svedberg tomorrow," Martinsson said. "And don't stay here all night."

"I was just about to leave," Wallander said, getting to his feet.

Martinsson paused in the doorway. "Do you think we'll get him?" he said.

"Of course we'll get him," Wallander said. "Konovalenko isn't going to get away."

"I do wonder if he's still in the country."

"We have to assume so."

"What about the African?"

"Konovalenko will point us in the right direction."

Martinsson nodded doubtfully. "One more thing," he said. "It's Mrs Akerblom's funeral tomorrow."

Wallander looked at him, but he said nothing.

The funeral was to be at 2 p.m. Right up to the last minute Wallander was unsure whether or not he should go. He had no personal connection with the Akerbloms. The woman they were burying had been dead before he first came into contact with the family. And maybe it would be misunderstood if someone from the police was there. Especially since the killer had not been found. For Wallander, was it curiosity? Or a guilty conscience? All the same, at 1 p.m. he had changed into a dark suit and spent some time looking for his white tie. Mabasha watched him tying the knot in front of the hall mirror.

"I'm going to a funeral," Wallander said. "The woman Konovalenko killed."

Mabasha stared at him in astonishment.

"Only now?" he said, surprised. "We bury our dead as soon as we can. That way they don't walk."

"We don't believe in ghosts," Wallander said.

"Spirits aren't ghosts," Mabasha said. "I wonder sometimes how it is possible for white people to understand so little."

"Maybe you're right," Wallander said. "Or maybe you're wrong. It could be the other way around."

Then he went out. Mabasha's question had annoyed him. Does that black son of a bitch think he can come here and tell me what to think? he thought irreverently. Where does he think he would be without the help I've given him?

He parked his car some distance from the chapel at the crematorium and waited while the bells were ringing and the black-clad congregation entered. Only when a verger began to close the doors did he go in and sit in the back. A man two rows in front of him turned and greeted him. He was a journalist from the
Ystad Altehande
.

Then he listened to the organ music and felt a lump in his throat. Funerals were a great strain as far as he was concerned. He dreaded the prospect of his father's funeral. His mother's - eleven years ago - could still stir painful memories. He was to have made a short address, but he had broken down and rushed from the church.

He tried to master his feelings by observing the rest of the congregation. Akerblom was in the front row with his daughters, both wearing white dresses. Pastor Tureson, who would take the service, was sitting with them.

Suddenly the handcuffs he found in a desk drawer at the Akerbloms' house came into his mind. Policemen, he thought, have a sort of curiosity that goes beyond the immediate investigative work. Maybe it's an occupational hazard brought on by having to spend so many years delving into the most private parts of people's lives. I know that those handcuffs have nothing to do with the murder investigation. All the same I'm ready to spend time trying to find out what they meant to Louise Akerblom, and maybe also her husband.

He shuddered at his train of thought, and concentrated on the service. At one point during Pastor Tureson's sermon he caught a glimpse of Robert Akerblom. Even from a distance he could sense the depth of his sorrow and forlornness. The lump came back into his throat, and tears ran down his cheeks. To recover control of his emotions he started thinking about Konovalenko. Like most police officers in Sweden, no doubt, Wallander was secretly in favour of capital punishment. Apart from the scandal that it had been enforced against wartime traitors, some killings, he felt, some assaults, certain drug offences were so appallingly immoral, so crass in their disregard of human dignity, that he could not escape the belief that those convicted of these crimes had forfeited all right to life themselves. Yes, his case was riddled with contradictions, and, yes, legislation to bring due punishment into effect would never be introduced. It was just his raw experience that shaped his thinking. What he was forced to deal with as a police officer.

After the burial, he shook hands solemnly with Robert Akerblom and the other principal mourners. He avoided looking at the two daughters, afraid of bursting into tears.

Pastor Tureson took him to one side. "Your presence was very much appreciated," he said. "Nobody had expected the police to send a representative to the funeral."

"I'm only representing myself," Wallander said.

"So much the better that you came," Pastor Tureson said. "Are you still looking for the man behind the tragedy?"

Wallander nodded.

"But you will catch him?"

"Yes," Wallander said. "Sooner or later. How's Akerblom taking it? And the daughters?"

"The support they're getting from the church is all-important to them just now," Pastor Tureson said. "And then, he has his God."

"You mean he still believes?" Wallander wondered aloud.

Pastor Tureson frowned. "Why should he abandon his God for something human beings have done to him and his family?"

"No indeed," Wallander said. "Why should he do that?"

"There'll be a meeting at the church in an hour," Pastor Tureson said. "You're welcome to come."

"Thanks," Wallander said. "But I've got to get back to work."

They shook hands and Wallander walked to his car. It dawned on him that spring really had arrived. Wait till Mabasha has left, he thought. Just wait until we've caught Konovalenko. Then I will devote myself to spring.

On Thursday morning Wallander drove his daughter to his father's house in Loderup. Once there, she decided out of the blue that she would stay there. She took one look at the overgrown courtyard and announced her intention to tidy it up before returning to Ystad. It would take her at least two days.

"If you change your mind, just give me a call," Wallander said.

"You should thank me for cleaning up your apartment," she said. "It looked awful."

"I know," he said. "And I am grateful."

"How much longer do I have to stay?" she asked. "I've got lots to do in Stockholm, you know."

"Not much longer," Wallander said, conscious of not sounding very convincing. Linda, to his surprise, did not argue.

When he got back, he had a long talk with Akeson, the prosecutor, and then he gathered together all the investigation material with the help of Martinsson and Svedberg. He said goodbye to Ebba and left the station at about 4 p.m. He bought some food before driving home. Outside the apartment door was an unusually big heap of leaflets from some shop or other. He shoved them straight into the dustbin. Then he made dinner and went through all the details of the journey with Mabasha one more time. The lines he had memorised sounded better each time he spoke them. Mabasha would have an overcoat over his left arm to hide the bandage on his hand. He practised taking the passport from his inside pocket while keeping the coat over his left arm. Wallander was satisfied. Nobody would be able to see the injury.

"You'll fly to London with a British airline," he said. "SAS would be too risky. Swedish air hostesses probably read the newspapers and see the TV news. They'd notice your hand and raise the alarm."

Later in the evening, when there was nothing left to rehearse, silence fell and for a long time neither man seemed inclined to break it. In the end Mabasha got up and stood in front of Wallander.

"Why have you been helping me?" he said.

"I don't know," Wallander said. "I often think I ought to slip the handcuffs on you. I can see I'm taking a big risk in letting you go. Maybe it was you who killed Mrs Akerblom after all. You say yourself how good a liar everybody becomes in your country. Maybe I'm letting a murderer go?"

"But you're doing it even so?"

"I'm doing it even so."

Mabasha took off his necklace and handed it to Wallander. The pendant was an animal's tooth.

"The leopard is the solitary hunter," Mabasha said. "Unlike the lion, the leopard goes its own way. During the day when the heat is at its height, it rests in the trees alongside the eagles. At night it hunts alone. The leopard is a skilful hunter. But the leopard is also the biggest challenge for other hunters. This is a tooth from a leopard. I want you to have it."

"I'm not sure I understood what you mean," Wallander said, "but I'll be glad to have the tooth."

"Not everything is understandable," Mabasha said. "A story is a journey without an end."

"That's probably the difference between you and me," Wallander said. "I'm used to stories having an end."

"That may be so, but it can be a good thing to know you'll never meet a certain person again. That means that something will live on."

"Perhaps, but I wonder if that's the way things really are."

An hour later Mabasha was asleep under a blanket on the sofa. Wallander sat gazing at the tooth he had been given. Suddenly he felt uneasy. He went out into the unlit kitchen and looked down at the street. No sign of life. Then he went into the hall and checked that the door was locked. He sat on a stool by the telephone, and thought that maybe he was just tired. Twelve more hours and Mabasha would be gone.

He examined the tooth once more. Nobody would believe me, he thought. If for no other reason, I'd better keep quiet about the days and nights I spent with a black man who had a finger cut off in a farmhouse in Skane. That's a secret I'd better take to the grave.

When Jan Kleyn and Frans Malan met at Hammanskraal in the morning of Friday, May 15, they came swiftly to the conclusion there were no flaws in the plan. The assassination would now take place in Cape Town on June 12. Nelson Mandela would be addressing the crowded stadium. The summit of Signal Hill was the ideal position for a long-range shot. Then Sikosi Tsiki could make his escape unseen.

There were two things that Kleyn had not mentioned to Malan, nor to the other committee members. They were matters he had no intention of mentioning to anybody at all.

The first was that he was not prepared to take the risk of allowing Tsiki to live after he had carried out his assignment. That Tsiki could keep his mouth shut, he did not doubt, but just as the pharaohs killed those who had built the secret chambers in the pyramids, to ensure that any knowledge of their existence would be lost, he would sacrifice Tsiki. He would kill him himself, and make sure the body would never be found.

The second was that once Mandela's death was accomplished, he would decide whether or not he was ready to receive Konovalenko into South Africa. He trusted him to take care of the necessary training of Tsiki, but he did not exclude the possibility that even Konovalenko might have to go up in smoke, together with whoever his henchmen were. That whole unit needed a thorough spring cleaning. And he would not be delegating the job to anyone else.

In the week since they last met, Malan had been to Cape Town to study from all sides the stadium where Mandela would speak. He also spent a whole afternoon at the place on the hill from which Tsiki would fire his rifle. He made a videotape, which they watched three times on the television set in the room. The only thing still missing was a report on Cape Town's usual wind conditions. Claiming to be a visiting yachtsman, Malan had talked to the national weather centre, which was going to post him the information he had asked for. The name and address he gave would never be traced.

Kleyn had done no legwork. His contribution was a theoretical dissection of the plan, analysing unexpected developments. He kept at it until he was convinced that no unmanageable problem would crop up.

After two hours their work was done. "One last thing," Kleyn said. "We need to know well before June 12 how the Cape Town police will be deployed."

"I can take care of that," Malan said. "We can require all the police districts in the country to copy us their security plans - to give us time to consider the political measures that need to be taken given the scale of the anticipated crowds."

They waited on the veranda for the rest of the committee to arrive. They contemplated the view in silence. On the far horizon was a heavy blanket of smoke over a black shanty town.