The White Lioness

  At dawn he got up, brewed some coffee and looked for his home insurance documents. He sat at his kitchen table going through the papers, getting increasingly annoyed at the insurance company’s incomprehensible jargon. In the end he flung the papers to one side and went to shave. When he cut himself, he considered calling the station and telling them he was sick, then going back to bed with the cover over his head. But the thought of being in his apartment without even being able to listen to a CD was too much for him.

  Now it was half past seven in the morning and he was sitting in his office with the door closed. With a groan, he forced himself to become a policeman again, and replaced the phone.

  It rang immediately. It was Ebba, the receptionist.

  “Sorry to hear about the burglary,” she said. “Did they really take all your records?”

  “They left me a few 78s. I thought I might listen to them tonight. If I can get hold of a wind-up gramophone.”

  “It’s awful.”

  “That’s the way it goes. What do you want?”

  “There’s a man out here who insists on talking to you.”

  “What about?”

  “About some missing person or other.”

  Wallander looked at the stack of case notes on his desk.

  “Can’t Svedberg look after him?”

  “Svedberg’s out hunting.”

  “He’s what?”

  “I don’t quite know what to call it. He’s out looking for a young bull that broke out of a field at Marsvinsholm. It’s running around on the E14- freeway, playing havoc with the traffic.”

  “Surely the traffic cops can deal with that? Why should one of our men have to get involved?”

  “It was Björk who sent Svedberg.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Shall I send him in to you, then? The man who wants to report a missing person?”

  Wallander nodded into the phone.

  “All right,” he said.

  The knock on his door a few minutes later was so discreet, Wallander was not sure at first whether he’d heard anything at all. When he shouted “Come in,” however, the door opened right away.

  Wallander had always been convinced the first impression a person makes is crucial.

  The man who entered Wallander’s office was not at all conspicuous. Wallander guessed he was about thirty-five with a dark brown suit, close-cropped blond hair, and glasses.

  Wallander immediately noticed something else as well.

  The man was obviously worried. Wallander was clearly not the only one with a sleepless night behind him.

  He got to his feet and offered his hand.

  “Kurt Wallander. Detective Inspector Wallander.”

  “My name is Robert Åkerblom,” said the man. “My wife has disappeared.”

  Wallander was surprised by the man’s forthright statement.

  “Let’s start from the beginning,” he said. “Please sit down. I’m afraid the chair’s a bit old. The left armrest keeps dropping off. Don’t worry about it.”

  The man sat down on the chair.

  He suddenly started sobbing, heart-broken, desperate.

  Wallander remained standing at his desk, at a loss. Then he decided to wait.

  The man in the visitor’s chair calmed down after a couple of minutes. He dried his eyes and blew his nose.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Something must have happened to Louise, though. She would never go away of her own accord.”

  “Cup of coffee?” asked Wallander. “Maybe we can get a pastry or something as well.”

  “No thank you,” said Robert Åkerblom.

  Wallander nodded and took a notebook out of one of the desk drawers. He used regular note pads he bought himself at the local bookstore, with his own money. He’d never managed to get around to coping with the flood of printed report forms the Central Police Authority used to overwhelm the force with. He’d occasionally thought of writing a letter to Swedish Policeman proposing that whoever drew up the forms should be presented with printed replies.

  “You’d better start by giving me your personal details,” said Wallander.

  “My name’s Robert Åkerblom,” the man said. “I run Åkerblom’s Real Estate with my wife.”

  Wallander nodded as he wrote. He knew the offices were close to the Saga cinema.

  “We have two children,” Robert Åkerblom went on, “ages four and seven. Two girls. We live in a row house, 19 Åkarvägen. I was born in this town. My wife comes from Ronneby.”

  He broke off, took a photo out of his inside pocket, and put it on the desk in front of Wallander. It was a woman; she looked like any other woman. She was smiling at the photographer, and Wallander could see it was taken in a studio. He contemplated her face and decided it was somehow or other just right for Robert Åkerblom’s wife.

  “The photo was taken only three months ago,” said Robert Åkerblom. “That’s exactly what she looks like.”

  “And she’s disappeared, has she?” asked Wallander.

  “Last Friday she was at the Savings Bank in Skurup, clinching a property deal. Then she was going to look at a house somebody was putting on the market. I spent the afternoon with our accountant, at his office. I stopped in at the agency on my way home. She’d left a message on the answering machine saying she’d be home by five. She said it was a quarter after three when she called. That’s the last we know.”

  Wallander frowned. It was Monday today. She’d already been away for three days. Three whole days, with two small children waiting for her at home.

  Wallander felt instinctively that this was no ordinary disappearance. He knew that most people who went missing came back sooner or later, and that a natural explanation would gradually emerge. It was very common for people to go away for a few days or even a week, for instance, and forget to tell anybody. On the other hand, he also knew that relatively few women abandoned their children. That worried him.

  He made a few notes on his pad.

  “Do you still have the message she left on the answering machine?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Robert Åkerblom. “I didn’t think of bringing the cassette with me, though.”

  “That’s OK, we’ll sort that out later,” said Wallander. “Was it clear where she was calling from?”

  “She used the car phone.”

  Wallander put down his pen and contemplated the man on the visitor’s chair. His anxiety gave the impression of being absolutely genuine.

  “You can’t think of why she might have had to go away?” Wallander asked.

  “No.”

  “She can’t be visiting friends?”

  “No.”

  “Relatives?”

  “No.”

  “There’s no other possibility you can think of?”

  “No.”

  “I hope you won’t mind if I ask you some personal questions.”

  “We’ve never quarreled. If that’s what you were wanting to know.”

  Wallander nodded.

  “That was what I was going to ask,” he said.

  He started all over again.

  “You say she disappeared last Friday afternoon. But you waited for three days before coming to us?”

  “I was afraid,” said Robert Åkerblom.

  Wallander stared at him in surprise.

  “Going to the police would be like accepting that something awful had happened,” Robert Åkerblom went on. “That’s why I didn’t dare.”

  Wallander nodded slowly. He knew exactly what Robert Åkerblom meant.

  “You’ve been out looking for her, of course,” he went on.

  Robert Åkerblom nodded.

  “What other steps have you taken?” he asked, starting to make notes again.

  “I’ve prayed to God,” replied Robert Åkerblom, quite simply.

  Wallander stopped writing.

  “Prayed to God?”

  “My family are Methodists. Yesterday, we joined the whole congregation and Pastor
Tureson in praying that nothing unthinkable can have happened to Louise.”

  Wallander could feel something gnawing away in his stomach. He tried to conceal his disquiet from the man in the chair before him.

  A mother with two children, member of a free church, he thought to himself. She wouldn’t just disappear of her own accord. Not unless she’d gone out of her mind. Or been possessed by religion. A mother of two children would hardly stroll out into the forest and take her own life. Such things do happen, but very rarely.

  Wallander knew what was afoot.

  Either there had been an accident, or Louise Åkerblom was the victim of a crime.

  “Of course, you realize there might have been an accident,” he said.

  “I’ve called every hospital in Skåne,” said Robert Åkerblom. “She hasn’t been admitted anywhere. Besides, a hospital would have been in touch with me if anything had happened. Louise always had her ID card on her.”

  “What make of car did she drive?” asked Wallander.

  “A Toyota Corolla. 1990 model. Dark blue. Registration number MHL 449.”

  Wallander wrote it all down.

  Then he went back to the beginning again, methodically going through the details Robert Åkerblom knew about what his wife was doing that afternoon. They looked at maps, and Wallander could feel unease growing within him.

  For God’s sake, let’s not have the murder of a woman on our plates, he thought. Anything but that.

  Wallander put down his pen at a quarter to eleven.

  “There’s no reason to suppose that your wife won’t be found safe and sound,” he said, hoping his skepticism was not/apparent. “But needless to say, we’ll treat your report with the utmost seriousness.”

  Robert Åkerblom was slumped down on the chair. Wallander was afraid he might start bawling again. He suddenly felt incredibly sorry for him. He would have loved to console him. But how could he do that without showing how worried he really felt?

  He got up from his chair.

  “I’d like to listen to her telephone message,” he said. “Then I’ll drive over to Skurup and call in at the bank. Have you got somebody to help out with the children?”

  “I don’t need any help,” said Robert Åkerblom. “I can manage on my own. What do you think has happened to Louise, Inspector?”

  “I don’t think anything at all as yet,” replied Wallander. “Except that she’ll soon be back home again.”

  I’m lying, he thought.

  I don’t think that. I’m just hoping.

  Wallander followed Robert Åkerblom back into town. As soon as he had listened to the message on the answering machine and gone through her desk drawers, he’d go back to the office and talk to Björk. Even if there were very clear procedures for how to go about looking for a missing person, Wallander wanted all available resources placed at his disposal right away. The disappearance of Louise Åkerblom indicated from the start that a crime had been committed.

  Åkerblom’s Real Estate was located in a former grocery store. Wallander recalled it from his first year in Ystad, when he’d arrived as a young cop from Malmö. There were a couple of desks, and some stands with photographs and descriptions of properties. There was a table with visitors’ chairs where clients could delve into the details of the various properties they were interested in. On the wall were a couple of ordinance survey maps, covered in pins of various colors. There was a little kitchen behind the office itself.

  They entered the back way, but even so, Wallander noticed the handwritten card taped to the front door: “Closed Today.”

  “Which is your desk?” asked Wallander.

  Robert Åkerblom pointed. Wallander sat down at the other desk. It was empty, apart from a diary, a photo of their two daughters, a few files and a pen stand. Wallander had the impression it had recently been tidied up.

  “Who does the cleaning?” he asked.

  “We have a cleaner who comes in three times a week,” Robert Åkerblom replied. “Mind you, we generally do the dusting and empty the wastebaskets every day ourselves.”

  Wallander nodded. Then he took a look around the office. The only thing that struck him as being odd was a little crucifix on the wall by the kitchen door.

  Then he nodded at the answering machine.

  “It’ll come right away,” said Robert Åkerblom. “It was the only message we had after three o’clock on Friday.”

  First impressions, was what Wallander was thinking. Listen carefully now.

  Hi there! I’m just going to take a look at a house at Krageholm. Then I’ll be off to Ystad. It’s a quarter after three. I’ll be home by five.

  Cheerful, thought Wallander. She sounds happy and keen. Not threatened, not scared.

  “One more time,” said Wallander. “But first I want to hear what you yourself say on the tape. If you still have that?”

  Robert Åkerblom nodded, rewound the cassette, and pressed a button.

  Welcome to Åkerblom’s Real Estate. Right now we’re out on business. But we’ll be open again as usual on Monday morning, eight o’clock. If you would like to leave a message or send a fax, please do so after the beep. Thank you for calling, and we look forward to hearing from you again.

  Wallander could hear that Robert Åkerblom was not comfortable when confronted with the answering machine’s microphone. His voice sounded slightly strained.

  Then he turned his attention to Louise Åkerblom again, and asked her husband to wind the tape back time after time.

  Wallander tried to listen for some message that might have been concealed behind the words. He had no idea what it might be. But he tried even so.

  When he had heard the tape some ten times, he nodded to Robert Åkerblom, indicating that was enough.

  “I’ll have to take the cassette with me,” he said. “We can amplify the sound at the station.”

  Robert Åkerblom took out the little cassette and handed it to Wallander.

  “I’d like you to do something for me while I’m going through the drawers in her desk,” said Wallander. “Write down everything she did or was going to do last Friday. Who she was due to meet, and where. Write down what route you think she would have taken as well. Note the times. And I want an exact description of where that house is, the one she was going to look at near Krageholm.”

  “I can’t tell you that,” said Robert Åkerblom.

  Wallander looked at him in surprise.

  “It was Louise who took the call from the lady who wanted to sell the house,” explained Robert Åkerblom. “She drew a map for herself, and took it with her. She wouldn’t be putting all the details into a file until today. If we’d taken on the house either she or I would have gone back there to take a photograph.”

  Wallander thought for a moment.

  “In other words, at the moment Louise is the only one who knows where the house is,” he said.

  Robert Åkerblom nodded.

  “When would the lady who called get in touch again?” Wallander went on.

  “Some time today,” said Robert Åkerblom. “That’s why Louise wanted to try and see the house on Friday.”

  “It’s important that you’re here when she calls,” said Wallander. “Say that your wife has taken a look at the house, but unfortunately she’s sick today. Ask for a description of how to get there again, and take her telephone number. As soon as she’s been in touch, give me a call.”

  Robert Åkerblom nodded to show he’d understood. Then he sat down to write out the details Wallander wanted.

  Wallander opened the desk drawers one at a time. He found nothing that seemed significant. None of the drawers appeared to be recently emptied. He lifted the green blotting pad, and found a recipe for hamburgers, torn from a magazine. Then he contemplated the photo of the two daughters.

  He got up and went out into the kitchen. Hanging on one of the walls was a calendar and a sampler with a quotation from the Bible. A small jar of coffee was on one of the shelves, unopened. On anoth
er were several kinds of tea. He opened the refrigerator. A liter of milk and some margarine.

  He thought about her voice, and what she’d said on the telephone. He was sure the car had been stationary when she made the call. Her voice was steady. It would not have been if she had been concentrating on driving at the same time. Later, when they amplified the sound at the station, he was proven right. Besides, Louise Åkerblom was sure to be a careful, law-abiding citizen who would not risk her life nor anybody else’s by using the car phone while driving.

  If the times she mentioned are right, she’ll be in Skurup, thought Wallander. She’ll have concluded her business at the bank and be about to set off for Krageholm. But she wants to call her husband first. She’s pleased that everything went well at the bank. Moreover it’s Friday afternoon, and she’s finished work for the day. It’s nice weather. She has every reason to feel happy.

  Wallander went back and sat down at her desk once more, leafing through the desk diary. Robert Åkerblom handed him a sheet of paper with the details Wallander had asked for.

  “I have just one more question for the moment,” said Wallander. “It isn’t really a question. But it is important. What kind of a person is Louise?”

  He was very careful to use the present tense, as if nothing had happened. In his own mind, however, Louise Åkerblom was already someone who no longer existed.

  “Everybody likes her,” said Robert Åkerblom straightforwardly. “She’s even-tempered, laughs a lot, finds it easy to talk to people. Actually, she finds it hard to do business. Anything to do with money or complicated negotiations, she hands over to me. She’s easily moved. And upset. She’s troubled by other people’s suffering.”

  “Does she have any special idiosyncrasies?” asked Wallander.

  “Idiosyncrasies?”

  “We all have our peculiarities,” said Wallander.

  Robert Åkerblom thought for a moment.

  “I can’t think of anything,” he said eventually.

  Wallander nodded and got to his feet. It was already a quarter to twelve. He wanted to have a word with Björk before his boss went home for lunch.

  “I’ll be in touch later this afternoon,” he said. “Try not to worry too much. See if you can think of anything you’ve forgotten. Something I ought to know about.”