End of conversation.
Victor Mabasha, he thought as he sat down at the dining table.
If you’re the one, we’ll put a stop to you before it’s too late.
Chapter Thirty-two
That day in Kalmar, Kurt Wallander began to realize how bad he actually felt. Later, when the murder of Louise Akerblom and the sheer nightmare that followed in its wake had become a series of unreal events, a desolate charade in a distant landscape, he would insist stubbornly that it was not until Konovalenko was lying on the Oland bridge with staring eyes and blazing hair that it really struck him how rotten he felt deep down inside. That was the moment of insight, and he would not budge from that view, even though the memories and all the painful experiences came and went like changing patterns in a kaleidoscope. It was in Kalmar that he lost his grip on himself! He told his daughter it was like a countdown had started, a countdown leading to nothing but a vacuum. The doctor in Ystad, who started treating him in mid-June and tried to sort out his increasing gloom, wrote in his journal that according to the patient the depression started over a cup of coffee at the police station in Kalmar while a man was being burned up in a car on a bridge.
There he sat in the police station in Kalmar, drinking coffee, feeling very tired and low. Everybody who saw him hunched over his cup that half hour had the impression he was preoccupied and completely aloof. Or was he just thoughtful? In any case, nobody went to keep him company or to ask him how he was doing. The strange cop from Ystad was surrounded by a mixture of respect and hesitation. He was simply left in peace while they all dealt with the chaos on the bridge and the endless flow of telephone calls from newspapers, radio, and television. After half an hour he suddenly jumped to his feet and demanded to be taken to the yellow house on Hemmansvagen. When they passed the place on the bridge where Konovalenko’s car had become a smoking, burned-out shell, he stared straight ahead. When he got to the house he immediately took over command, forgetting completely that the investigation was actually being led by a Kalmar detective called Blomstrand. But they deferred to him, and he worked up an enormous level of energy over the next few hours. He seemed to have put Konovalenko right out of his mind already. There were two things that interested him above all others. He wanted to know who owned the house. He also kept going on about Konovalenko not being alone. He ordered an immediate door-to-door survey of the other houses in the street, and he wanted cab drivers and bus conductors to be contacted. Konovalenko was not alone, he kept repeating, over and over again. Who was the man or woman he had with him, who had now disappeared without trace? None of his questions could be answered immediately. The local property register and the neighbors who were questioned gave completely contradictory answers about who actually owned the yellow house. About ten years previously, the owner, a widower called Hjalmarson who worked at the provincial records office, had died. His son lived in Brazil. According to some neighbors he was a representative for some Swedish firm and an arms dealer according to others. He returned home for the funeral. It had all amounted to a worrying time for Hemmansvagen, according to a retired department head at the local council offices in Kronoberg, who emerged as a spokesman for the neighbors. And so there was an invisible sigh of relief when the “For Sale” sign was taken down and a moving van drove up filled with all the belongings of a retired reserve officer. He used to be something as antiquated as a major in the Scanian hussars, an amazing relic from a former age. He was named Gustav Jernberg, and he announced his presence to the surrounding world by means of friendly bellowing. The worries returned, however, when it became apparent that Jernberg spent most of his time in Spain, on account of his rheumatism. When he was away, the house was occupied by his grandson, who was in his mid-thirties, arrogant, rude, and paid no attention to normal conventions. His name was Hans Jernberg, and all anybody knew was that he was some kind of businessman who occasionally paid fleeting visits, often accompanied by strange companions nobody recognized.
The police immediately started looking for Hans Jernberg. He was traced at about two in the afternoon to an office in Goteborg. Wallander spoke with him over the telephone. At first he claimed to have no idea what they were talking about. But Wallander was in no mood to wheedle and coax people into telling the truth that day, and threatened to hand him over to the Goteborg police besides hinting it would be impossible to keep the press out of it. Halfway through the call one of the Kalmar cops stuck a note under Wallander’s nose. They had run a search on Hans Jernberg through various files and found he had strong connections with neo-nazi movements in Sweden. Wallander stared at the note before the obvious question to ask the guy at the other end of the line struck him.
“Can you tell me your views on South Africa?” he asked.
“I can’t see what that has to do with it,” said Hans Jernberg.
“Answer the question,” Wallander demanded impatiently. “Or else I’ll have to call my colleagues in Goteborg.”
The reply came after a short silence.
“I consider South Africa to be one of the best organized countries in the world,” said Hans Jernberg. “I regard it as my duty to do all I can to support the whites living there.”
“And you do that by renting out your house to Russian bandits who run errands for the South Africans, do you?” asked Wallander.
This time Hans Jernberg was genuinely surprised.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh yes you do,” said Wallander. “But you can answer another question instead. Which of your friends has had access to the house during this last week? Think carefully before you answer. If there’s the slightest sign of evasion I’ll ask one of the Goteborg prosecutors to issue a warrant for your arrest. And that’s what will happen, believe you me.”
“Ove Westerberg,” said Hans Jernberg. “He’s an old friend of mine who runs a construction firm here in town.”
“Address?” demanded Wallander, and received it.
It was all very confusing. But some effective work on the part of the CID in Goteborg threw some light on what had happened at the yellow house over the last few days. Ove Westerberg proved to be as good a friend of South Africa as Hans Jernberg. Through a series of contacts whose identities seemed shrouded in mist, he had received a query some weeks previously as to whether the house could be placed at the disposal of some South African guests, who would pay good money. As Hans Jernberg was abroad at the time, Ove Westerberg had not told him about it. Wallander also suspected the money had gone no further than Westerberg’s pocket. But Westerberg had no idea who these guests from South Africa were. He did not even know they had been there. That was as far as Wallander got that day. It would be the job of the Kalmar police to delve further into contacts between Swedish neo-nazis and the representatives of apartheid in South Africa. It was still not clear who had been in the yellow house with Konovalenko. While neighbors, cab drivers, and bus conductors were being interrogated, Wallander made a thorough search of the house. He could see that two of the bedrooms had been used recently, and that the house had been vacated in a great hurry. It seemed to him Konovalenko must have left something behind this time. He had left the house, never to return. It was possible, of course, that the other visitor had taken Konovalenko’s belongings with him. It was also possible that there was no limit to Konovalenko’s caution. Maybe he anticipated the possibility of a burglary every night, and hid all his belongings before going to bed? Wallander summoned Blomstrand, who was busy searching the toolshed. Wallander wanted every available cop to search the house looking for a bag. He couldn’t say what it looked like or how big it was.