The White Lioness

  Chapter Four

  The clock beside Kurt Wallander’s bed rang at a quarter to five. He groaned, and put the pillow over his face.

  He groaned, and put the pillow over his face.

  I get far too little sleep, he thought dejectedly. Why can’t I be one of those cops who put everything to do with work aside as soon as they get home?

  He stayed in bed, and turned his mind back to his short visit at Robert Åkerblom’s house the night before. It had been pure torture to look into his distraught eyes and tell him they hadn’t managed to find his wife. Kurt Wallander had gotten out of the house just as quickly as he could, and he felt ill as he drove back home. Then he’d lain awake until a quarter to three, despite feeling tired out, more or less exhausted.

  We’ve got to find her, he thought. Now. Soon. Dead or alive. We’ve just got to find her.

  He had arranged with Robert Åkerblom to get back in touch the next morning, as soon as the search had begun again. Wallander realized he would have to go through Louise Åkerblom’s personal belongings, in order to find out what she was really like. Somewhere in the back of Wallander’s mind was the nagging thought that there was something highly peculiar about her disappearance. There were peculiar circumstances every time a person went missing; but there was something in this case that was different from anything he had experienced before. He wanted to know what it was.

  Wallander forced himself to get out of bed, switched on the coffee machine, and went to turn on the radio. He cursed when he remembered the burglary, and it occurred to him that nobody would have time to worry about that investigation, given the new circumstances.

  He took a shower, got dressed, and had his coffee. The weather did not exactly improve his temper. It was pouring, and the wind was up. It was the worst weather imaginable for a line search. All day long the fields and coppices around Krageholm would be full of exhausted, irritable cops, dogs with their tails between their legs, and angry conscripts from the local regiment. Still, that was Björk’s problem. His job was to go through Louise Åkerblom’s belongings.

  He got into his car and drove out to the shattered oak. Björk was pacing impatiently up and down the verge.

  “What awful weather,” he said “Why does it always have to rain when we’re out looking for somebody?”

  “Hmm,” said Wallander. “It’s odd.”

  “I’ve talked to the Lieutenant-Colonel: his name’s Hernberg,” said Björk. “He’s sending two busloads of conscripts, at seven o’clock. I think we might as well start right away. Martinson’s done all the spadework.”

  Wallander nodded appreciatively. Martinson was good when it came to line searches.

  “I thought we’d call a press conference for ten o’clock,” said Björk. “It would help if you could be there. We’ll have to have a photo of her by then.”

  Wallander gave him the one he had in his inside pocket. Björk contemplated Louise Åkerblom’s picture.

  “Nice girl,” he said. “I hope we find her alive. Is it a good likeness?”

  “Her husband thinks it is.”

  Björk put the photo into a plastic wallet he carried in one of his raincoat pockets.

  “I’m going to their house,” said Wallander. “I think I can be of more use there.”

  Björk nodded. As Wallander made to walk over to his car, Björk grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “What do you think?” he asked. “Is she dead? Is there some crime behind all this?”

  “It can hardly be anything else,” said Wallander. “Unless she’s been hurt and is lying in agony somewhere or other. But I don’t think so.”

  “It doesn’t look good,” said Björk. “Not good at all.”

  Wallander drove back to Ystad. The gray sea was looking very choppy.

  When he entered the house in Åkarvägen, two little girls stood staring at him, wide-eyed.

  “I’ve told them you’re a cop,” said Robert Åkerblom. “They know Mom’s lost, and you’re looking for her.”

  Wallander nodded and tried to smile, despite the lump that came into his throat.

  “My name’s Kurt,” he said. “What’s yours?”

  “Maria and Magdalena,” answered the girls, one after another.

  “Those are lovely names,” said Wallander. “I’ve got a daughter named Linda.”

  “They’re going to be at my sister’s today,” said Robert Åkerblom. “She’ll be here shortly to pick them up. Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “Yes, please,” said Wallander.

  He hung up his overcoat, removed his shoes, and went into the kitchen. The two girls were standing in the doorway, watching him.

  Where shall I start? wondered Wallander. Will he understand that I have to open every drawer, and go through every one of her papers?

  The two girls were picked up, and Wallander finished his tea.

  “We have a press conference at ten o’clock,” he said. “That means we shall have to make your wife’s name public, and ask for anybody who might have seen her to come forward. As you will realize, that implies something else. We can no longer exclude the possibility that a crime might have been committed.”

  Wallander had foreseen the risk that Robert Åkerblom might go to pieces and start weeping. But the pale, hollow-eyed man, immaculately dressed in suit and tie, seemed to be in control of himself this morning.

  “We have to go on believing there’s a natural explanation in spite of everything,” said Wallander. “But we can no longer exclude anything at all.”

  “I understand,” said Robert Åkerblom. “I’ve been clear about that all the time.”

  Wallander pushed his teacup to one side, said thank you, and got to his feet.

  “Have you thought of anything else we ought to know about?” he asked.

  “No,” said Robert Åkerblom. “It’s a complete mystery.”

  “Let’s go through the house together,” said Wallander. “Then I hope you will understand I have to look through all her clothes, drawers, everything that could give us a clue.”

  “She keeps everything in orderly fashion,” said Robert Åkerblom.

  They started upstairs, and worked their way down to the basement and the garage. Wallander noticed that Louise Åkerblom was extremely fond of pastel shades. Nowhere was there a dark drape or table cloth to be seen. The house exuded joie de vivre. The furniture was a mixture of old and new. Even when he was drinking his tea, he noticed how well the kitchen was equipped with machines and devices. Obviously, their everyday life was not restricted by excessive puritanism.

  “I’ll have to drive down to the office for a while,” said Robert Åkerblom when they had finished their tour of the house. “I take it I can leave you here on your own.”

  “No problem,” said Wallander. “I’ll save my questions till you get back. Or I’ll give you a call. In any case, I have to leave for the station shortly before ten, for the press conference.”

  “I’ll be back before then,” said Robert Åkerblom.

  When Wallander was on his own, he started his methodical search of the house. He opened all the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen, examined the refrigerator and the freezer.

  One thing intrigued him. In a cupboard under the sink was a well-stocked supply of liquor. That didn’t fit in with the impression he had of the Åkerblom family.

  He continued with the living room, without finding anything of note. Then he went upstairs. He ignored the girls’ room. He searched the bathroom first, reading the labels on bottles from the pharmacist and noting some of Louise Åkerblom’s medications in his pocket book. He stood on the bathroom scales, and made a face when he saw how much he weighed. Then he moved on to the bedroom. He always felt uncomfortable going through a woman’s clothes, like somebody was watching him without his knowing it. He went through all the pouches and cardboard boxes in the wardrobes. Then he came to the chest of drawers where she kept her underwear. He found nothing that surprised him, nothing that told him
anything he didn’t know already. When he was through, he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around the room.

  Nothing, he thought. Absolutely nothing.

  He sighed, and moved on to the next room, which was furnished as a study. He sat at the desk, opening drawer after drawer. He immersed himself in photo albums and bundles of letters. He didn’t come across a single photograph in which Louise Åkerblom was not smiling or laughing.

  He replaced everything carefully, closed the drawer, and tried the next one. Tax returns and insurance documents, school reports and conveyancing deeds, nothing that struck him as odd.

  It was only when he opened the bottom drawer in the last of the chests that he was surprised. At first he thought it contained nothing but plain white writing paper. When he felt the bottom of the drawer, however, his fingers came into contact with a metal object. He took it out and sat there, frowning.

  It was a pair of handcuffs. Not toy handcuffs; real ones. Made in England.

  He put them on the desk in front of him.

  They don’t have to be significant, he thought. But they were well hidden. And I suspect Robert Åkerblom would have taken them away, if he knew they were there.

  He closed the drawer and put the handcuffs in his pocket.

  Then he went down to the basement rooms and the garage. On a shelf over a little workbench he found a few neatly made balsawood model airplanes. He pictured Robert Åkerblom in his mind’s eye. Maybe he’d once dreamed of becoming a pilot?

  The telephone started ringing in the background. He hurried to answer it right away.

  It was nine o’clock by this time.

  “Could I speak with Inspector Wallander?” It was Martinson’s voice.

  “Speaking,” said Wallander.

  “You’d better get out here,” said Martinson. “Right away.”

  Wallander could feel his heart beating faster.

  “Have you found her?” he asked.

  “No,” said Martinson. “Not her, and not the car either. But there’s a house on fire not far away. Or to be more accurate, the house exploded. I thought there might be a link.”

  “I’m on my way,” said Wallander.

  He scribbled a note for Robert Åkerblom and left it on the kitchen table.

  On the way to Krageholm he tried to work out the implications of what Martinson had said. A house had exploded? What house?

  He overtook three large trucks in succession. The rain was now so heavy the wipers could only keep the windshield partially clear.

  Just before he reached the shattered oak tree, the rain eased a little and he could see a column of black smoke rising above the trees. A police car was waiting for him by the oak. One of the cops inside indicated he should turn off. As they swung in from the main road, Wallander noted the road was one of those he’d taken in error the previous day, the one with the most tire ruts.

  There was something else about that road, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was right now.

  When he got to the scene of the fire, he recognized the house. It was to the left, and hardly visible from the road. The firefighters were already hard at work. Wallander got out of his car, and was immediately hit by the heat from the fire. Martinson was striding towards him.

  “People?” asked Wallander.

  “None,” said Martinson. “Not as far as we know. In any case, it’s impossible to go inside. The heat is terrific. The house has been empty for over a year since the owner died. One of the local farmers told me the background. Whoever was dealing with the estate couldn’t make up his mind whether to rent it or sell it.”

  “Let’s hear it,” said Wallander, eying the enormous clouds of smoke.

  “I was out on the main road,” said Martinson. “One of the army search lines had gotten into a bit of a mess. Then there was this sudden bang. It sounded like a bomb going off. At first I thought an airplane had crashed. Then I saw the smoke. It took me five minutes at most to get here. Everything was in flames. Not just the house, but the barn as well.”

  Wallander tried to think.

  “A bomb,” he said. “Could it have been a gas leak?”

  Martinson shook his head.

  “Not even twenty canisters of propane could have made an explosion like that,” he said. “Fruit trees in the back have snapped off. Or been blown up by the roots. It must have been set up.”

  “The whole area is crawling with cops and soldiers,” said Wallander. “An odd time to choose for arson.”

  “Exactly what I thought,” said Martinson. “That’s why I thought right away there could be a connection.”

  “Any ideas?” asked Wallander.

  “No,” said Martinson. “None at all.”

  “Find out who owns the house,” said Wallander. “Who’s responsible for the estate. I agree with you, this seems to be more than just a coincidence. Where’s Björk?”

  “He already left for the station, to get ready for the press conference,” said Martinson. “You know how nervous he always gets when he has to face journalists who never write what he says. But he knows what’s happened. Svedberg’s been speaking to him. He knows you’re here as well.”

  “I’ll have a closer look at this when they’ve put the fire out,” said Wallander. “But it would be a good idea for you to detail some guys to run a fine-tooth comb over this area.”

  “Looking for Louise Åkerblom?” asked Martinson.

  “For the car in the first place,” replied Wallander.

  Martinson went off to talk to the farmer. Wallander stayed put, staring at the raging fire.

  If there is a connection, what is it? he wondered. A woman goes missing and a house explodes. Right under the noses of guys doing an intensive search.

  He looked at his watch. Ten to ten. He beckoned to one of the firemen.

  “When will I be able to start rooting around in there?” he asked.

  “It’s burning pretty fast,” said the firefighter. “By this afternoon you should be able to get close to the house in any case.”

  “Good,” said Wallander. “It seems to have been a hell of a bang,” he went on.

  “That wasn’t started with a match,” said the fireman. “I wouldn’t be surprised if a hundred kilos of dynamite went off.”

  Wallander drove back towards Ystad. He called Ebba in reception and asked her to tell Björk he was on his way.

  Then he suddenly remembered what it was he’d forgotten. The previous evening one of the patrol car crews reported they’d nearly been hit by a Mercedes speeding down one of the dirt roads. Wallander was pretty sure it was the very track where the house had exploded.

  Too many coincidences, he thought. Soon we’ll have to find something that makes it all start to add up.

  Björk was pacing up and down restlessly in the reception area at the police station when Wallander got there.

  “I’ll never get used to press conferences,” he said. “What’s all this about a fire that Svedberg called to inform me about? He expressed himself very oddly, I must say. He said the house and barn had exploded. What did he mean by that? What house was he talking about?”

  “Svedberg’s description was probably accurate,” said Wallander. “It can hardly have anything to do with the press conference on the disappearance of Louise Åkerblom, though, so I suggest we talk about it later. The guys out there might have more information by then, anyway.”

  Björk nodded.

  “Let’s keep this simple,” he said. “A brief and straightforward reference to her being missing, hand out the photos, appeal to the general public. You can deal with questions about how the investigation is going.”

  “The investigation isn’t really going at all,” said Wallander. “If only we’d traced her car. But we’ve got nothing.”

  “You’d better make something up,” said Björk. “Police who claim they have nothing to tell reporters are fair game. Never forget that.”

  The press conference took just over half an hour. In
addition to the local papers and local radio, the local reps for the Express and Today had shown up. Nobody from the Stockholm papers, though. They won’t arrive until we’ve found her, thought Wallander. Assuming she’s dead.

  Björk opened the press conference and announced that a woman was missing in circumstances the police considered to be serious. He described the woman and her car, and distributed photographs. Then he invited questions, nodded towards Wallander, and sat down. Wallander mounted the little dais and waited.

  “What do you think has happened?” asked the reporter from the local radio station. Wallander had never seen him before. The local radio station always seemed to be changing personnel.

  “We don’t think anything,” answered Wallander. “But the circumstances suggest we should be taking the disappearance of Louise Åkerblom seriously.”

  “Tell us about the circumstances, then,” suggested the local reporter.

  Wallander waded in.

  “We must be clear about the fact that most people in this country who go missing in one way or another turn up again sooner or later. Two times out of three there is a totally natural explanation. One of the most common is forgetfulness. Just occasionally there are signs to suggest there could be another explanation. Then we treat the disappearance very seriously.”

  Björk raised his hand.

  “Which is not to say, of course, that the police don’t take all cases of missing persons very seriously,” he explained.

  Oh my God, thought Wallander.

  The man from the Express, a young guy with a red beard, raised his hand and spoke up.

  “Can’t you be a bit more precise?” he said. “You’re not excluding the possibility that a crime may have been committed. Why aren’t you? I also think it’s not clear where she disappeared, and who was the last to see her.”

  Wallander nodded. The journalist was right. Björk had been vague on several important counts.

  “She left the Savings Bank in Skurup just after three last Friday afternoon,” he said. “An employee at the bank saw her start her car and drive off around a quarter past three. We can be quite sure about the time. Nobody saw her after that. Moreover we are quite sure she took one of two possible routes. Either the E14 towards Ystad, or she might have driven past Slimminge and Rögla towards the Krageholm district. As you heard, Louise Åkerblom is a real estate agent. She might have gone to see a house that was being put up for sale. Or she might have driven straight home. We’re not sure what she decided to do.”