The White Lioness (8 page)

They agreed to meet at 11.00, at the Methodist chapel.

Wallander put the phone down, and went in to Bjork's office. Svedberg was already sitting there, yawning, and Martinsson was on Bjork's phone. Bjork was drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk. Martinsson replaced the receiver, making a face.

"The tip-offs have started coming in," he said. "Nothing worthwhile yet. Somebody called to say he was absolutely certain he had seen Louise Akerblom at Las Palmas airport last Thursday. The day before she vanished, that is."

"Let's get started," Bjork said, interrupting him.

The chief constable had obviously slept badly. He was tired and bad tempered.

"Let's continue where we left off yesterday," Wallander said. "The car will have to be thoroughly gone over, and the telephone tip-offs dealt with as they come in. I intend to drive out to the scene of the fire again, to see what the technicians have found. The finger is on its way to forensics. The question is: should we let the media know about that or not?"

"Let's do it," Bjork said, without hesitation. "Martinsson can help me write a press release. I expect there'll be an uproar once the reporters get hold of that."

"It would be better if Svedberg took care of it," Martinsson said. "I've got my hands full contacting 25,000 Swedish doctors. Plus an endless list of health centres and emergency clinics. That will take time."

"Fair enough," Bjork said. "I'll get onto that lawyer in Varnamo. We'll meet again this afternoon, unless something crops up."

Wallander went out to his car. It was going to be a nice day in Skane. He paused and filled his lungs with fresh air.

When he got to the burned-out house, there were two surprises in store for him.

The forensic team had done some fruitful work early that morning. He was met by Sven Nyberg, who had only joined the Ystad force a few months earlier. He had been working in Malmo, but did not hesitate to move to Ystad when the opportunity arose. Wallander had not had very much to do with him as yet, but the reputation that preceded him suggested he was a skilful investigator at the scene of a crime. Wallander had discovered for himself that he was also brusque and hard to make contact with.

"You ought to look at a couple of things," Nyberg said.

They walked over to a rain shelter that had been rigged up over four posts. Some twisted bits of metal were lying on a sheet of plastic.

"A bomb?" Wallander said.

"No," Nyberg said. "We've found no trace of a bomb so far. But this is at least as interesting. You're looking at some parts of a biggish radio installation."

Wallander stared at him aghast.

"A combined transmitter and receiver," Nyberg said. "I can't tell you what type or what make it is, but it's definitely an installation for radio buffs. You may well think it's a bit odd to find something like this in a deserted house. Especially one that's been blown up."

"You're right," Wallander said. "I want to know more about this."

Nyberg picked up another piece of metal from the plastic sheet.

"This is interesting too," he said. "Can you see what it is?"

Wallander thought it looked like a pistol butt. "Part of a gun," he said.

"A pistol," Nyberg said. "There was presumably a live magazine in place when the house blew up. The pistol was smashed to bits when the magazine exploded, due either to the fire or the pressure waves. I also have a suspicion this is a pretty unusual model. The butt is extended, as you can see. It's certainly not a Luger or a Beretta."

"What is it, then?"

"Too early to say," Nyberg said. "But I'll let you know as soon as we find out."

Nyberg filled his pipe and lit up. "What do you think about this little lot?" he said.

Wallander shook his head. "I don't think I've ever been so confused," he answered honestly. "I can't find any links. All I know is I'm looking for a missing woman, and all the time I keep coming across the damnedest things. A severed finger, parts of a radio transmitter, unusual weapons. Maybe it's precisely these unusual features I should take for a starting point. Something I haven't come across before in all my police experience."

"Patience," Nyberg said. "We'll establish the links sooner or later, no doubt about it."

Nyberg went back to his meticulous piecing together of the jigsaw. Wallander wandered around for a while, trying yet again to summarise everything to his own satisfaction. In the end he gave up. He called the station from his car.

"Have we had many leads?" he asked Ebba.

"The calls are coming in non-stop," she said. "Svedberg told me a couple of minutes ago that some of the people offering information seemed reliable and interesting. That's all I know."

Wallander gave her the number of the Methodist chapel, and made up his mind to do another thorough search of Louise Akerblom's desk at the office, when he'd finished talking to the minister. He felt bad about not having followed up his first cursory search.

He drove back to Ystad. As he had plenty of time before he was due to meet Tureson, he parked at the square and went into the stereo shop. Without spending much time comparing one model against another, he bought a walk-man. Then he drove home to Mariagatan. He'd bought a CD of Puccini's
Turandot
. He put on the earphones, lay back on the sofa, and tried to think of Baiba Liepa. But instead, Louise Akerblom's face kept filling his mind.

He woke with a start and looked at his watch. He cursed when he realised he ought to have been at the chapel ten minutes ago.

Pastor Tureson was waiting for him in a back room, a sort of store-room and office combined. Tapestries with Bible quotations were hanging on the walls. A coffee machine stood on a window ledge.

"Sorry I'm late," Wallander said.

"I'm well aware you police have a lot to do," Tureson said.

Wallander sat down on a chair and took out his notebook. Tureson offered him a cup of coffee, but he declined.

"I'm trying to build up an image of what Mrs Akerblom is really like," he said. "Everything I've found out so far seems to indicate just one thing: Louise Akerblom was a woman at peace with herself, who would never voluntarily leave her husband or her children."

"That's the Louise Akerblom we all know," Tureson said.

"At the same time, that makes me suspicious," Wallander said.

"Suspicious?" Tureson looked puzzled.

"I cannot believe that such perfect individuals exist," Wallander said. "Everybody has his or her secrets. The question is: what are Louise Akerblom's? I take it she hasn't vanished because she hasn't been able to cope with her own good fortune."

"You'd get the same answers from every single member of our church, Inspector," Tureson said.

Afterwards, Wallander could never manage to put his finger on just what had happened; but there was something in Tureson's response that made him sit up and take notice. It was as if the minister were defending Louise Akerblom's image, even though it was not being questioned. Or was there something else he was defending?

Wallander swiftly shifted his approach and put a question that had seemed less important before.

"Tell me about your congregation," he said. "Why does one choose to become a member of the Methodist church?"

"Our faith and our interpretation of the Bible stand out, quite simply, as right."

"Is that justified?" Wallander wondered.

"In my opinion and that of my congregation it is," Pastor Tureson said. "Needless to say, members of other denominations would disagree. That's only natural."

"Is there anybody in your congregation who doesn't like Mrs Akerblom?" Wallander said, and felt at once that Tureson hesitated a fraction too long before replying.

"I can't imagine there would be," he said.

There it is again, Wallander thought. Something evasive, something not quite straightforward about the answer. "Why don't I believe you?" he asked.

"But you should, Inspector," Tureson said. "I know my congregation."

Wallander could see he would have to put his questions rather differently if he was going to succeed in throwing the minister off balance. A full frontal attack it would have to be.

"I know that Louise Akerblom has enemies in your congregation," he said. "Never mind how I know. But I'd like to hear your views."

Tureson stared hard at him for some time before replying.

"Not enemies," he said. "But it is true that one of our members had an unfortunate relationship with her." He got up and went over to a window. "I've been wavering. I almost called you last night, in fact. But I didn't. I mean, everybody hopes Louise will come back to us. That everything will turn out to have a natural explanation. All the same, I've been getting more and more worried. I have to admit that." He returned to his chair. "I also have responsibilities to all the other members of my church," he said. "I don't want to have to put anybody in a bad light, to make an accusation that later proves to be wrong."

"This conversation is not an official interrogation," Wallander said. "Whatever you say will go no further. I'm not taking notes."

"I don't know how to put it," Pastor Tureson said.

"Tell it as it is," Wallander said. "That's generally the simplest way."

"Two years ago, our church welcomed a new member," Tureson began. "He was an engineer on one of the Poland ferries, and he started coming to our services. He was divorced, he was 35, friendly and considerate. He soon became well liked and much appreciated by other church members. About a year ago, though, Louise Akerblom asked to speak to me. She was very insistent that her husband Robert should not know anything about it. We sat here in this room, and she told me that the new member of our congregation had started pestering her with declarations of love. He was sending her letters, stalking her, calling her. She tried to put him off as nicely as she could, but he persisted and the situation was becoming intolerable. Louise asked me to have a word with him. I did so, and suddenly he seemed to change into an altogether different person. He fell into a terrible rage, claimed that Louise had let him down, and that he knew that I was the one having a bad influence on her. He claimed she was actually in love with him, and wanted to leave her husband. It was totally absurd. He stopped coming to our meetings, he gave up his job on the ferry, and we thought he'd disappeared for good. I simply told the rest of the congregation that he'd moved away from town, and was too shy to say goodbye. It was a great relief for Louise, of course. But then about three months ago, it all started again. One evening Louise noticed him standing on the street outside their house. It was a terrible shock for her, naturally. He started pestering her all over again. I have to admit, Inspector Wallander, that we did actually consider calling in the police. Now, of course, I'm sorry we didn't. It is all too possible that there is no connection whatsoever. But I begin to wonder more and more as the days pass."

At last, thought Wallander. Now I have something to get my teeth into. Even if I don't understand what this has got to do with black fingers, blown-up radio transmitters and very unusual handguns. But I have a starting point, a lead to follow.

"What's the man called?"

"Stig Gustafson."

"Do you know his address?"

"No. I've got his social security number, though. He fixed the church's heating system on one occasion, and we paid him." Tureson went over to a desk and leafed through a file. "570503-0470," he said.

Wallander closed his notebook. "You were right to tell me about this," he said. "I'd have found out about it sooner or later, anyway. This way, we save time."

"She's dead, isn't she?" Tureson suddenly said.

"I don't know," Wallander said. "To be absolutely honest with you, I just don't know the answer to that question."

Wallander shook hands with the minister and left the church. It was 12.15 p.m.

He almost ran to his car and drove straight to the station. He hurried up to his office in order to summon his colleagues to a meeting. Just as he was sitting down at his desk, the phone rang. It was Nyberg, who said he was still sifting through the ashes.

"Found something new?" Wallander said.

"No," Nyberg said. "But I've just realised what make the handgun is. The one we found the butt of."

"I'm writing it down," Wallander said, taking out his notebook.

"I was right when I said it was an unusual pistol and I doubt if there are more than a very few of them in this country."

"So much the better," Wallander said. "Makes it easier to trace."

"It's a 9mm Astra Constable," Nyberg said. "I saw one at a gun show in Frankfurt once, some time ago. I've got a pretty good memory for guns."

"Where is it made?"

"That's what so odd about it," Nyberg said. "As far as I know, it's only manufactured legally in one country."

"Which?"

"South Africa."

Wallander put his pen down. "South Africa?"

"Yes."

"Why's that?"

"I can't tell you why a particular gun is popular in one country but not in another. It just is."