The press conference died out of its own accord. The local radio reporter interviewed Bjork. Wallander talked to one of the local press reporters in the corridor outside. When he was alone, he fixed himself a cup of coffee, went into his office and called the scene of the fire. He got hold of Svedberg, who told him that Martinson had already diverted a group of searchers to concentrate on the area around the burning house.
“I’ve never seen a fire like this one,” said Svedberg. “There won’t be a single roof beam left when it’s over.”
“I’ll be out there this afternoon,” said Wallander. “I’m going out to Robert Akerblom’s place again. Call me there if anything develops.”
“We’ll call you,” said Svedberg. “What did the press have to say?”
“Nothing worth commenting on,” said Wallander, putting the phone down.
That moment Bjork knocked on his door.
“That went pretty well,” he said. “No dirty tricks, just reasonable questions. Let’s just hope they write what we want them to.”
“We’ll have to detail a few extra people to man the phones tomorrow,” said Wallander, not bothering to comment on his assessment of the press conference. “When a religious mother of two disappears, I’m afraid lots of folk who’ve seen nothing at all will be calling in. Giving the police the benefit of their blessing and prayers. Quite apart from those we hope might really have something useful to tell us.”
“Assuming we don’t find her during the course of today,” said Bjork.
“I don’t believe that, and neither do you,” said Wallander.
Then he told the story of the remarkable fire. The explosion. Bjork listened with a worried look on his face.
“What does all this mean?” he asked.
Wallander stretched out his arms.
“I don’t know. I’m going back to see Robert Akerblom now, though. Find out what else he’s got to say.”
Bjork stood in the door.
“We’ll have a debriefing in my office at five o’clock,” he said.
Just as Wallander was about to leave his office, he remembered he’d forgotten to ask Svedberg to do something for him. He called the scene of the fire once more.
“Do you remember how a police car nearly crashed into a Mercedes last night?” he asked.
“I have a vague memory,” said Svedberg.
“Find out all you can about the incident,” Wallander went on. “I have a strong suspicion that Mercedes has something to do with the fire. I’m not quite so sure whether it has anything to do with Louise Akerblom.”
“Roger,” said Svedberg. “Anything else?”
“We have a meeting here at five o’clock,” said Wallander, replacing the receiver.
A quarter of an hour later he was back in Robert Akerblom’s kitchen. He sat down on the same chair he’d occupied a few hours earlier, and had another cup of tea.
“Sometimes you get called out on some sudden emergency,” said Wallander. “There’s been a major fire incident. But it’s under control now.”
“I understand,” said Robert Akerblom politely. “I’m sure it’s not easy, being a cop.”
Wallander observed the man opposite him at the table. At the same time, he could feel the handcuffs in his trouser pocket. He wasn’t looking forward to the interrogation he was about to launch.
“I have a few questions,” he said. “We can talk just as easily here as anywhere else.”
“Of course,” said Robert Akerblom. “Ask as many questions as you like.”
Wallander noticed he was irritated by the gentle and yet unmistakably admonishing tone in Robert Akerblom’s voice.
“I’m not sure about the first question,” said Wallander. “Does your wife have any medical problems?”
The man looked at him in surprise.
“No,” he said. “What are you getting at?”
“It just occurred to me she might have heard she was suffering from some serious illness. Has she been to the doctor lately?”
“No. And if she’d been ill, she’d have told me.”
“There are some serious illnesses people are sometimes hesitant to talk about,” said Wallander. “Or at least, they need a few days to gather together their thoughts and emotions. It’s often the case that the sick person is the one who has to console whoever it is he or she tells.”
Robert Akerblom thought for a moment before answering.
“I’m sure that’s not the case here,” he said.
Wallander nodded and went on.
“Did she have a drinking problem?” he asked.
Robert Akerblom winced.
“How can you ask such a question?” he said after a moment’s silence. “Neither of us so much as touches a drop of alcohol.”
“Nevertheless the cupboard under the sink is full of liquor,” said Wallander.
“We have nothing against other people drinking,” said Robert Akerblom. “Within reason, of course. We sometimes have guests. Even a little real estate agency like ours occasionally needs to entertain its clients.”
Wallander nodded. He had no reason to question the response. He took the handcuffs out of his pocket and put them on the table. He kept his eye on Robert Akerblom’s reaction the whole time.
It was exactly what he had expected. Incomprehension.
“Are you arresting me?” he asked.
“No,” said Wallander. “But I found these handcuffs in the bottom drawer to the left of the desk, under a stack of writing paper, in your study upstairs.”
“Handcuffs,” said Robert Akerblom. “I’ve never seen them before.”
“As it can hardly have been one of your daughters who put them there, we’ll have to assume it was your wife,” said Wallander.
“I just don’t get it,” said Robert Akerblom.
Suddenly Wallander knew the man across the kitchen table was lying. A barely noticeable shift in his voice, a sudden insecurity in his eyes. But enough for Wallander to register it.
“Could anybody else have put them there?” he went on.
“I don’t know,” said Robert Akerblom. “The only visitors we have are from the chapel. Apart from clients. And they never go upstairs.”
“Nobody else at all?”
“Our parents. A few relatives. The kids’ friends.”
“That’s quite a lot of people,” said Wallander.
“I don’t get it,” said Robert Akerblom again.
Maybe you don’t understand how you could have forgotten to take them away, thought Wallander. Just for now the question is, what do they mean?
For the first time Wallander asked himself whether Robert Akerblom could have killed his own wife. But he dismissed it. The handcuffs and the lie were not enough to overturn everything Wallander had already established.
“Are you certain you can’t explain these handcuffs?” asked Wallander once again. “Perhaps I should point out it’s not against the law to keep a pair of handcuffs in your home. You don’t need a license. On the other hand, of course, you can’t just keep people locked up however you like.”
“Do you think I’m not telling you the truth?” asked Robert Akerblom.
“I don’t think anything,” said Wallander. “I just want to know why these handcuffs were hidden away in a desk drawer.”
“I’ve already said I don’t understand how they could have gotten into the house.”
Wallander nodded. He didn’t think it was necessary to press him any further. Not yet, at least. But Wallander was sure he was lying. Could it be that the marriage concealed a perverted and possibly dramatic sex life? Could that in its turn explain why Louise Akerblom had disappeared?
Wallander slid his teacup to one side, indicating that the conversation was over. He put the handcuffs back in his pocket, wrapped inside a handkerchief. A technical analysis might be able to reveal more about what they’d been used for.
“That’s all for the time being,” said Wallander, getting to his feet. “I’ll be in touch just as soon as I have anything to report. You’d better be ready for a bit of a fuss tonight, when the evening papers come out and the local radio has broadcast its piece. We’ll have to hope it all helps us, of course.”