He put out the lights behind him, locked up and replaced the key in the gutter. There was a breeze blowing. The evening was warm and suggested early summer. His mind had been made up for him. He drove away from the house and headed for Oland.
He stopped in Brosarp and called home. His father answered.
“She’s asleep,” he said. “We’ve been playing cards.”
“I won’t be coming home tonight,” said Wallander. “But don’t worry. I just have to catch up with a stack of routine work. She knows I like working nights. I’ll be in touch tomorrow morning.”
“You come when you’re ready,” said his father.
Wallander replaced the receiver. Their relationship might be improving after all. There was a different tone between them. Let’s hope it lasts, he thought. Maybe something good will come of this nightmare after all.
He reached the Oland bridge at four in the morning. He had stopped twice on the way, once to fill up with gas, and once to take a nap. Now that he had arrived, he no longer felt tired. He contemplated the mighty bridge looming up before him, and the water glittering in the morning sunlight. In the parking lot where he stopped was a phone booth with a ragged directory. Hemmansvagen was evidently on the other side of the bridge. He took his pistol out of the glove pocket and checked to make sure it was loaded. He suddenly remembered the time many years ago when he had visited Oland with his sister Kristina and their parents. There was no bridge then. He had a vague memory of the little ferry that took them over the sound. They spent a week camping that summer. He remembered that week as a happy experience rather than a series of separate incidents. A vague feeling of something lost forever possessed him just for a moment. Then he redirected his thoughts to Konovalenko. He tried to convince himself that he was probably mistaken. The pencil marks in the atlas and the address in the directory need not have been made by Konovalenko. He would soon be on his way back to Skane.
He stopped when he came to the Oland side of the bridge. There was a large road map of the island there, and he got out to study it. Hemmansvagen was a side road just before the zoo entrance. He got back into the car and turned right. There was still not much traffic around. After a few minutes he found the right road. He left the car in a small parking lot. Hemmansvagen was made up of a mixture of old and new houses, all of them with large yards. He started walking. The first house had a number three on the fence. A dog eyed him suspiciously. He kept going, and figured out which house must be number fourteen. He noted that it was one of the older houses, with bay windows and elaborate ornamentation. Then he walked back the same way as he had come. He wanted to try approaching the house from the rear. He could not afford to take any risks. Konovalenko and his unknown companion could be there after all.
There was a sports field behind the houses. He clambered over the fence, ripping his trousers high up on one leg. He approached the house from behind a wooden spectator stand. It was painted yellow, with two stories and a tower in one corner. There was a boarded-up hot-dog stand next to the fence. Crouching down, he left the shelter of the spectator stand and ran over to the hut. Once there, he took his pistol out of his pocket. He stood motionless for five minutes, watching the house. Everything was very calm. There was a toolshed in one corner of the yard. He decided that was where he would hide. He looked again at the house. Then he went down carefully onto his knees and crawled over to the fence behind the shed. It was rickety and difficult to climb over. He almost fell over backward, but managed to regain his balance and jump down into the narrow gap behind the shed. He noticed he was breathing heavily. That’s due to all the evil, he thought. He carefully stuck his head out and contemplated the house from his new position. All was still quiet. The yard was overgrown and in bad shape. Next to him was a wheelbarrow full of last year’s leaves. He began to wonder if the house was deserted. After a while he was more or less convinced it was. He left the protection of the shed and ran to the house wall. Then he followed the wall to the right in order to get around to the other side of the house, where the front door was presumably located. He gave a start when he stumbled against a hedgehog. It hissed and raised its spikes. Wallander had put his pistol back in his pocket. Now, without being quite sure why, he took it out again. The sound of a foghorn drifted in from the sound. He crept around the corner of the house and found himself at the far gable end. What am I doing here, he wondered. If there is anybody in the house, it’s bound to be some old couple who are just waking up after a good night’s sleep. What on earth will they say if they find a runaway detective inspector sneaking around in their yard? He kept going to the next corner. Then he peered around it.
Konovalenko was standing on the gravel path by the flagpole, urinating. He was barefoot, dressed in trousers and an open shirt. Wallander did not move. Even so, something alarmed Konovalenko, possibly his instinct for danger that never waned. He turned around. Wallander had his pistol drawn. For a split second they both assessed the situation. Wallander realized Konovalenko had made the mistake of leaving the house without his gun. Konovalenko could see Wallander would either kill him or intercept him before he could reach the front door. Konovalenko found himself in a situation that gave him no choice. He flung himself to one side with such force that just for a moment, Wallander lost sight of him. Then he ran as fast as he could, dodging from side to side, and jumped over the fence. He was already in the road before Wallander had grasped what was happening and began chasing him. It had all happened in a flash. That is why he did not see Sikosi Tsiki standing in a window, watching what was going on.
Sikosi Tsiki knew something alarming had happened. He did not know what. But he realized the instructions Konovalenko gave him the day before must now be followed. “If anything happens,” Konovalenko told him, handing over an envelope, “follow the instructions inside here. That way you’ll make it back to South Africa. Get in touch with the man you already met, the one who gave you your money and your last set of instructions.”
He waited by the window for a short while.
Then he sat down at a table and opened the envelope.
An hour later he left the house and was on his way.
Konovalenko had about a fifty-meter head start. Wallander wondered how he could run so incredibly fast. They were running in the direction of where Wallander had parked his car. Konovalenko had a car parked in the same lot! Wallander cursed and ran even faster. But the distance between them got no shorter. He was right. Konovalenko headed for a Mercedes, ripped open the door, which was unlocked, and started the engine. It all went so fast Wallander realized the ignition key must have been in the lock. Konovalenko was prepared, even if he had made the mistake of leaving the house without a gun. Just then Wallander saw a flash. Instinctively he threw himself to one side. The bullet whined past and hit the asphalt. Wallander huddled behind a bicycle stand and hoped he was invisible. Then he heard the car make a racing start.
He rushed towards his own car, fumbling with the keys and thinking he had doubtless lost Konovalenko already. But he was sure he would get off Oland as quickly as possible. If he stayed on the island he was bound to be cornered sooner or later. Wallander slammed down the gas pedal. He caught sight of Konovalenko at the rotary just before the bridge. Wallander overtook a slow-moving truck at vast speed and nearly lost control of the car as he clipped the flower bed in the center of the rotary. Then he raced onto the bridge. The Mercedes was in front of him. He must think of something. If it came down to a car chase, he wouldn’t stand a chance against Konovalenko.