The White Lioness (46 page)

Then she fired. He was hit in the chest and lived only for a minute after collapsing to the ground. They stood above him looking down, and he could see them although his vision was fading. He tried to say something, tried to hold on to his life as it ebbed away. But there was nothing to hold. There was nothing.

Miranda felt no relief, but neither did she feel fear. She looked at her daughter, who had turned her back on the corpse. Miranda took the pistol from her hand. Then she went to call the man who had been to see them, the one called Scheepers. She had looked for his number earlier, and written it down beside the telephone. Now she realised why she had done that.

A woman answered, giving her name as Judith. She called out to her husband, who came straightaway to the telephone. He said he would come at once to Bezuidenhout and asked her to do nothing until he got there.

He told Judith that dinner would have to be late, but he did not say why, and she suppressed her wish to ask. His special assignment would soon be over, he had explained. Then everything would return to normal, and they could go back to the Kruger and see if the white lioness was still there, and if they were still scared of her. He called Borstlap, trying various numbers before tracking him down. He gave him the address, but asked him not to go in before he got there himself.

When he arrived in Bezuidenhout, Borstlap was standing waiting by his car. Miranda opened the door to them and he saw with shock the bruises on her face. Before they went into the living room, Scheepers put his hand on Borstlap's shoulder. "The man lying dead in there is Kleyn," he said. Borstlap turned and stared at him in frank astonishment.

It was striking how pale he looked, and how thin his face seemed to be. It was almost skeletal. Scheepers tried to make up his mind whether what he was witnessing was the end of an evil story or of a tragic one.

"He hit me," Miranda said. "I shot him."

As she said that, Scheepers happened to be looking at the daughter. He could tell she was shaken to hear what her mother had said. She was the one who had killed him, had shot her father. He could see from her bloodstained face that Miranda had been beaten. Did Kleyn have time to realise what was happening? That he was going to die, and it was his daughter who was holding the gun.

He said nothing, but indicated to Borstlap that he should accompany him to the kitchen. He shut the door behind them.

"I don't care how you do it," he said, "but I want you to get that body out of here and make it look like a suicide. Kleyn has been arrested and interrogated. That hurt his pride. He salvaged his honour by committing suicide. That will do for a motive. Covering up incidents involving the intelligence service doesn't seem to be all that difficult. I'd like you to take care of this right now."

"I'll be putting my job on the line," Borstlap said.

"I give you my word that you're not risking anything at all."

Borstlap stared at him for what seemed like an eternity.

"Who are these women?" he said.

"People you've never met," Scheepers said.

"Of course, it's all about the security of South Africa," Borstlap said, and Scheepers appreciated his weary irony.

"Yes," he said. "Exactly so."

"That's another lie. Our country is a production line for lies, 24 hours a day. What'll happen when the whole thing collapses?"

"Why are we trying to prevent an assassination?" Scheepers said.

Borstlap nodded slowly. "OK, I'll do it," he said.

"On your own."

"Nobody will see me. I'll leave the body somewhere in the countryside. And I'll make sure I'm in charge of the investigation."

"I'll tell them," Scheepers said. "They'll open the gates for you when you come back."

Borstlap left the house.

Miranda had put a blanket over Kleyn's body. Scheepers suddenly felt tired of all the lies, lies that were partly in him too.

"I know it was your daughter who shot him," he said. "But that doesn't matter. Not as far as I'm concerned, at least. If it matters to you, I'm afraid that's something you'll have to deal with yourselves. But the body will disappear later tonight. The officer who came here with me will come back and take it away. He's going to arrange it as suicide. Nobody will find out what really happened."

Scheepers thought he saw a gleam of surprised gratitude in Miranda's eyes.

"In a sense, maybe it was suicide," he said. "A man who lives like him maybe shouldn't expect anything else."

"I can't even cry over him," Miranda said. "There's nothing there."

"I hated him," Matilda said. Scheepers could see she was crying.

Killing a human being, he thought. However much you hate somebody, no matter how desperate you were, there will be a wound in your soul that will never heal. He was her father, the father she didn't choose and couldn't escape.

He did not stay. He could see that they needed each other more than anything else. But when Miranda asked him to return, he promised to do so.

"We will move out," she said.

"Where to?"

She threw her arms wide. "That's something I can't decide alone. Maybe it's best if Matilda decides?"

Scheepers drove home for dinner. He was thoughtful and distant.

"It'll be over soon," he said.

Borstlap called just before midnight.

"I thought I'd better tell you Kleyn has committed suicide," he said. "They'll find him - probably not before tomorrow morning - in a car park between here and Pretoria."

Who is the strong man now? Scheepers wondered. Who will direct the Committee now?

Inspector Borstlap lived in the suburb of Kensington, one of the oldest in Johannesburg. His wife was a nurse on permanent night duty at the big army camp in town. As their three children had left the nest, Borstlap spent most weekday evenings alone in the house. He was generally so tired when he came home from work, he did not have the strength to do anything but watch television. He sometimes went down to a little hobby room he had made for himself in the basement. He cut out silhouettes. It was an art he had learned from his father, although he had never managed to be as skilful as he was. But it was a restful occupation, carefully but boldly cutting out faces in black paper. That particular evening, when he had driven Kleyn in his own car to the car park he knew about because there had been a murder there not long ago, he found it impossible to relax when he got home. He was going to cut out silhouettes of his children, but he was also thinking about the work he had been doing these last few days with Scheepers. He had enjoyed working with the young lawyer. He was intelligent and energetic, and he had imagination to boot. He listened to what others had to say, and he did not hesitate to admit it when he was wrong. But Borstlap wondered what his assignment really was. It was something serious, a conspiracy, a threatened assassination of Mandela that had to be prevented. But apart from that, his knowledge was pretty scanty. He suspected there was a gigantic conspiracy, but the only one he knew was involved was Kleyn. He thought he was taking part in an investigation with a blindfold on. He said as much to Scheepers, who told him he understood, but that there was nothing he could do to help. His hands were tied by the need for secrecy his work demanded.

When the telex message from Sweden had landed on his desk that Monday morning, Scheepers had gone into high gear. After a couple of hours they tracked down Mabasha in the register and he felt the tension increase when it was established that he had been suspected of being a contract killer. He had never been convicted. Reading between the lines of the case histories, it was plain that he was highly intelligent and always went about his business with skilful camouflage and security arrangements. His most recent known address was the township of Ntibane just outside Umtata. Borstlap had contacted his colleagues in Umtata without delay, and they confirmed that they kept an eye on Mabasha all the time. The same afternoon Scheepers and Borstlap drove there. With local detectives they raided Mabasha's shack at dawn. It was empty. Scheepers had trouble concealing his disappointment. They agreed that the official reason for the manhunt, should be that Mabasha was wanted for violent attacks on white women in the province of Transkei. Strong warnings were issued that no word of this was to reach any of the media. There were teams working around the clock now, but still they failed to find any trace of the man. And now Kleyn was dead.

Borstlap yawned, put down his scissors and stretched. They would have to start all over again, he thought. But there was still time, whether the crucial date was June 12 or July 3. Borstlap was not as convinced as Scheepers that the evidence pointing to Cape Town was a red herring. It seemed to him he ought to act as devil's advocate with regard to Scheepers's conclusions, and keep a close eye himself on the trail leading to Cape Town.

On Thursday, May 28, Borstlap met Scheepers at 8 a.m.

"Kleyn's body was found at 6 this morning," Borstlap said. "A motorist stopped to take a leak. He informed the police right away. I spoke to a patrol car that was first on the scene. They said it was obviously a suicide."

Scheepers could see that he had made a good choice when he had asked for Inspector Borstlap as his assistant.

"There are two weeks to go before June 12," he said. "Just over a month to July 3. In other words, we still have time to track down Victor Mabasha. I'm not a policeman, but I would think that gives us long enough."

"It depends," Borstlap said. "Mabasha is an experienced criminal. He can remain hidden for long periods. He could disappear into some township or other, and we might never find him."

"We have no choice," Scheepers said. "Don't forget that the authority I've been given means that I can call up almost unlimited resources."

"That's not the way to find him," Borstlap said. "You could get the army to besiege Soweto and then send in paratroops, but you'd still never find him. On the other hand, you'd have a revolt to deal with."

"What would you do?"

"Me? I would put it about that there was a reward of 50,000 rand. A similarly discreet message to the underworld that we'd be prepared to pay for information enabling us to nail Mabasha. That'll give us a sporting chance of tracking him down."

Scheepers eyed him doubtfully. "Is that how the police go about their business?"

"Not often. But it happens, sometimes."

"Well, you're the one who knows about these things," Scheepers said. "I'll take care of the money."

"The word will be out tonight."

Scheepers turned his attention to Durban. They should take a look at the stadium where Mandela would address a large crowd. They must find out what security measures the police were taking. They needed a strategy for how to proceed if they did not manage to find Mabasha.

Borstlap was worried that Scheepers was not taking the other alternative as seriously as Durban. He said nothing, but made up his mind to get in touch with a colleague in Cape Town and ask him to do some legwork. That same day Borstlap contacted some of the informers he regularly received more or less useful rumours from. 50,000 rand was a lot of cash. The hunt for Mabasha had now begun in earnest.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Chief Inspector Wallander was sent on sick leave with immediate effect on Wednesday, June 10. According to the doctor, who regarded Wallander as taciturn and very uptight, he was vague, and not sure exactly what was pestering him. He talked about nightmares, insomnia, stomach pains, nocturnal panic attacks when he thought his heart was about to stop beating - in other words, all the symptoms of stress that could easily lead to a breakdown. At this point, Wallander was seeing the doctor every other day. His symptoms varied, and on each visit he had a different opinion as to which ones were worst. He had also had bouts of violent sobbing. The doctor, who finally ordered him to take sick leave on the grounds of acute depression, and prescribed anti-depressants for him, did not doubt the seriousness of the situation. Within a short space of time he had killed one human being and actively contributed to another being burned alive. Nor could he wash his hands of responsibility for the woman who died while helping his daughter to escape. But most of all he felt guilty about the death of Victor Mabasha. It was natural that the reaction should set in with the death of Konovalenko. There was no longer anyone to chase, and no-one hunting him. Paradoxically, the onset of depression indicated that the pressure on Wallander had eased. Now that he would have the time to set his own house in order, his melancholy broke through all the barriers he had so far managed to erect. After a few months, some of his colleagues began to doubt whether he would ever return. Occasionally, when news reached the police station of his peculiar journeys to places near and far, to Denmark, to the Caribbean islands, there were those who thought he ought to be granted early retirement. The very thought caused much gloom. But, in fact, it did not happen. He did come back, even though it took a long time.

The day after he had been ordered to take sick leave was a hot, windless day in southern Skane, and Wallander was sitting in his office. He still had some paperwork to attend to before he could clear his desk and go in search of a cure for his depression. He felt a nagging sense of uncertainty, and wondered when he would be fit to return to work.

He had arrived at the police station at 6 a.m., after a sleepless night at home. Through the silent hours of the morning he had at last completed his detailed report on the murder of Louise Akerblom and everything that followed in its wake. He read through what he had written, and it was like descending into an underworld again, repeating a journey he wished he had never made. Moreover, he was about to submit a report that was in some respects untruthful. It was a mystery to him why some parts of his strange disappearance and his secret collaboration with Mabasha had not been exposed. His extremely feeble, and in some particulars contradictory, explanations of some of his remarkable behaviour had not, as he had expected, aroused widespread scepticism. He could only think it was because he was surrounded by sympathy mixed with a rather vague
esprit de corps
, because he had killed a man in the line of duty.

He put the fat report on his desk and opened the window wide. Somewhere he could hear a child laughing.

What about my own report? he thought. I found myself in a situation where I had no control over what happened. I made every mistake a police officer can make, and the worst of all was that I put my own daughter's life at risk. She has assured me she doesn't blame me for those horrific days when she was chained up in a cellar, but do I really have any right to believe her? Have I not caused her suffering which might come to the surface at some time in the future, in the form of angst, nightmares, a ruined life? That's where my report has to begin, the one I'll never write. The one which ends today with my being so shattered that a doctor has put me on indefinite sick leave.

He went back to his desk and flopped down onto his chair. He had not slept a wink all night, it was true, but his weariness came from somewhere else, from the depths of his depression. Could it be that his fatigue was in fact clinical depression? He thought about what would happen to him now. The doctor had suggested he should immediately start confronting his experiences through counselling. Wallander had taken that as an order that had to be obeyed. But what would he actually be able to say?

In front of him was an invitation to his father's wedding. He did not know how many times he had studied it since it arrived in the post a few days ago. His father was going to marry his home help the day before Midsummer Eve. In ten days' time. He had talked several times to his sister, Kristina, who had come on a short visit and thought she had managed to put an end to the whole idea. Now Wallander had no more doubts about whether or not it would happen. Nor could he deny that his father was in a much better mood than he could ever remember. He had painted the gigantic backdrop in the studio, where the ceremony was to take place. It was exactly the same scene that he had been painting all his life: the static, romantic woodland landscape. The only difference was that he had now reproduced it giant-sized. Wallander, too, had talked with Gertrud, the woman he was going to marry. Actually it was she who had wanted to talk to him, and he recognised that she had a genuine affection for his father. He had felt quite touched, and said he was happy about what was going to happen.

Linda had gone back to Stockholm a week earlier. She would return for the wedding, and then go straight to Italy. That had brought home to Wallander the frightening realisation of his own solitude. Wherever he turned, things seemed to be just as bleak. After Konovalenko's death he had taken the car back to Widen and drank nearly all his whisky. He got very drunk, and started talking about the feeling of hopelessness that was dragging him down. He thought it was something he shared with Widen, even if his old friend had his stable girls to go to bed with occasionally, thereby creating a superficial glimmer of what might be called companionship. Wallander hoped the renewed contact with Widen would turn out to be lasting. He had no illusions about their being able to revive the friendship they had shared in their youth. That was gone forever.

His train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the door. He jumped. He had noticed last week at the police station that he was scared of being with people. The door opened and Svedberg looked in, hoping he wasn't disturbing him.

"I hear you're going away for a while," he said.

Wallander immediately felt a lump in his throat.

"It seems to be necessary," he said, blowing his nose.

Svedberg, seeing he was emotional, changed the subject.

"Do you remember those handcuffs you found in a drawer at Akerblom's house?" he said. "You mentioned them once in passing. Do you remember?"

Wallander nodded. To him, the handcuffs had come to represent the mysterious side of everybody's character. Only the day before, he had been wondering what his own hidden handcuffs were.

"I was clearing out a cupboard at home yesterday," Svedberg said. "There were lots of old magazines I'd decided to get rid of. But you know how it is. I ended up sitting down and reading them. I happened to come across an article about variety performers over the last 30 years. There was a picture of an escape artist, and he'd used the fanciful professional name of Houdini's Son. His real name was Davidsson, and he eventually gave up wriggling out of chains and metal boxes and the like. Do you know why he stopped?"

Wallander shook his head.

"He saw the light. He became a born-again Christian. Guess which denomination he joined."

"The Methodists."

"Exactly. I read the whole article. At the end it said he was happily married and had several children. Among them a daughter called Louise. Nee Davidsson, later married to a man called Akerblom."

"The handcuffs," Wallander said. "Good grief!"

"A souvenir of her father," Svedberg said. "As simple as that. I don't know what you thought. I have to admit a few thoughts I wouldn't repeat in front of children entered my head."

"Mine, too," Wallander said.

Svedberg got up. He paused in the doorway and turned round.

"There was one other thing," he said. "Do you remember Peter Hanson?"

"The thief ? "

"Yes. You may remember that I asked him to keep his eyes open in case the things stolen from your flat turned up on the market. He called me yesterday. Most of your stuff has been disposed of, I guess. You'll never see it again. But oddly enough he managed to get hold of a CD he claims is yours."

"Did he say which one it was?"

"I wrote it down."

Svedberg searched through his pockets and eventually came across a crumpled scrap of paper.

"
Rigoletto
," he read. "Verdi."

Wallander smiled. "I've missed that," he said. "Send my regards to Peter Hanson, and thank him."

"He's a thief," Svedberg said. "You don't thank creeps like that." He left the room with a laugh. Wallander started going through the remaining stacks of paper. It was nearly 11 a.m. by now, and he wanted to be finished by noon.

The telephone rang. At first he thought he would ignore it. Then he picked it up.

"There's a gentleman here who wants to talk with Chief Inspector Wallander," said a voice he did not recognise. He assumed it was the temp for Ebba, who was on leave.

"Put him through to somebody else," Wallander said. "I'm not receiving visitors."

"He's adamant he wants to talk with Chief Inspector Wallander," the receptionist said. "He says he has important information for you. He's Danish."

"Danish?" Wallander said in surprise. "What's it about?"

"He says it has to do with an African."

Wallander thought for a moment. "Send him along," he said.

The man who came into Wallander's office introduced himself as Paul Jorgensen, a fisherman, from Dragor. He was tall and big. When Wallander shook hands with him, it was like being gripped by an iron claw. He pointed to a chair. Jorgensen sat down and lit a cigar. Wallander was glad the window was open. He hunted in his drawers before finding an ashtray.

"I have something to tell you," Jorgensen said. "But I haven't yet made up my mind whether I'm going to or not."

Wallander raised his eyebrows. "You should have made your mind up before coming here," he said. In normal circumstances he would probably have been annoyed. Now he could hear that his voice was far from convincing.

"It depends whether you can overlook a minor breach of the law," Jorgensen said.

Wallander began to wonder whether the man was making a fool of him. If so, he had chosen a most unfortunate moment. He could see he had better get a grip on the conversation, which looked like it was going off course almost before it had begun.

"I was told you had something important to tell me about an African," he said. "If it really is important, I might be able to overlook any minor breach of the law. But I can't promise anything. You must make up your own mind. I have to ask you to do so right now, though."

Jorgensen screwed up his eyes and gazed at him from behind a cloud of smoke.

"I'll risk it," he said.

"I'm listening."

"I'm a fisherman on Dragor," Jorgensen said. "I make just about enough to pay for the boat, the house, and a beer in the evenings. But nobody turns down the chance for some extra income, if the opportunity arises. I take tourists out for little sea trips now and then, and that produces some pocket money. Sometimes I'm asked to take somebody over to Sweden. That doesn't happen often, maybe once or twice a year. It could be passengers who have missed a ferry, for instance. A few weeks ago I did a trip over to Limhamn one afternoon. One passenger on board."

He stopped, as if expecting a reaction. But Wallander had nothing to say. He nodded to Jorgensen, telling him to go on.

"It was a black man," Jorgensen said. "He only spoke English. Very polite. He stood in the wheelhouse with me all the way. Maybe I should mention there was something special about this trip. It had been booked in advance. There was this Englishman who spoke Danish, and he came down to the harbour one morning and asked if I could do a trip over the sound, with a passenger. I thought it sounded a bit suspicious, so I asked a pretty high fee in order to get rid of him. I asked for 5,000 kronor. The funny thing was, he took out the money right away and paid in advance."

Wallander was extremely interested by this. Just for a moment he forgot all about himself and concentrated on what Jorgensen had to say.

"I went to sea as a young man," Jorgensen said. "I learned quite a bit of English. I asked the guy what he was going to do in Sweden. He said he was going to visit some friends. I asked how long he'd be staying, and he said he'd probably be going back to Africa in a month, at the latest. I suspected there was something fishy going on. He was probably trying to get into Sweden illegally. Since it's not possible to prove anything now that happened so long ago, I'm taking the risk of telling you."

Wallander raised his hand. "Let's dig a little deeper," he said. "What day was this?"

Jorgensen leaned forward and studied Wallander's desk diary.

"Wednesday, May 13," he said. "About 6 p.m."

That could fit, Wallander thought. It could have been Mabasha's replacement.

"He said he would stay for about a month?"