“He’s missing a finger. On his left hand.”
Wallander did not expect the reaction he got. The bald guy burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny about that?” Wallander wondered.
“You’re number two,” said the bartender.
“Number two?”
“Who’s asking. There was a guy here last night who was also wondering if I’d seen an African with a maimed left hand.”
Wallander thought for a moment before going on.
“What did you tell him?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I ain’t seen nobody missing a finger.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
“Who was asking?”
“Never seen him before,” he said, starting to wipe a glass.
Wallander suspected the man was lying.
“I’ll ask you one more time,” he said. “But only once.”
“I have nothing more to say.”
“Who was doing the asking?”
“Like I said. No idea.”
“Did he speak Swedish?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That he didn’t sound like you and me.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Wallander. I must make sure he doesn’t wriggle off the hook.
“What did he look like?”
“Don’t remember.”
“There’ll be hell to pay if you don’t give me a straight answer.”
“He looked kinda ordinary. Black jacket. Blond hair.”
Wallander suddenly got the feeling the man was scared.
“Nobody can hear us,” said Wallander. “I promise you I’ll never repeat what you tell me.”
“His name might have been Konovalenko,” said the man. “The beer’s on the house if you get out right now.”
“Konovalenko?” said Wallander. “Are you sure?”
“How the hell can you be sure of anything in this world?” said the man.
Wallander left and managed to flag down a cab right away. He sank back into the back seat, and gave the name of his hotel.
When he got back to his room, he reached for the phone and was about to call his daughter. Then he let it be. He would call her early next morning.
He lay in bed for a long time, wide awake.
Konovalenko, he thought. A name. Would it put him on the right track?
He thought through everything that had happened since the morning Robert Akerbloms first came to his office.
It was dawn before he finally fell asleep.
Chapter Sixteen
When Wallander got to the police station the next morning, Whe was told Loven was already in a meeting with the team investigating Tengblad’s killer. He got himself some coffee, went to Loven’s office, and called Ystad. After a brief pause Martinson answered.
“What’s new?” asked Martinson.
“I’m concentrating on a guy who might be Russian and whose name could be Konovalenko,” said Wallander.
“I hope to God you haven’t found yourself another Balt,” said Martinson.
“We don’t even know if Konovalenko really is his name,” said Wallander. “Or if he really is Russian. He could easily be Swedish.”
“Alfred Hanson,” said Martinson. “He told us the man who rented the house had a foreign accent.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Wallander. “But I have my doubts whether that was Konovalenko.”
“How come?”
“Just a hunch. The whole of this investigation is full of hunches. I don’t like it at all. He also said the guy who rented the room was very fat. That doesn’t fit in with the guy who shot Tengblad. If it was the same man, that is.”
“Where does this African with the severed finger fit in?”
Wallander gave him a quick rundown on his visit to the Aurora the previous night.
“You could be onto something,” said Martinson. “You’ll be staying longer in Stockholm?”
“Yeah. I have to. One more day at least. Everything quiet in Ystad?”
“Robert Akerblom has asked via Pastor Tureson when he can bury his wife.”
“There’s nothing stopping him, is there?”
“Bjork said I should talk to you.”
“Well, now you have. What’s the weather like?”
“As it should be.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s April. Changes by the minute. But I can’t pretend we’re having a heat wave.”
“Can you call my dad again and tell him I’m still in Stockholm?”
“The last time he invited me to go and visit. But I didn’t have time.”
“Can you do it?”
“Right away.”
Wallander hung up, then called his daughter. He could hear she was half asleep when she answered.
“You were supposed to call last night,” she said.
“I had to work until very late,” said Wallander.
“I can see you this morning,” she said.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’m going to be extremely busy these next few hours.”
“Maybe you don’t want to see me at all?”
“You know I do. I’ll call you later.”
Wallander hung up abruptly as Loven stomped into the office. He knew he had offended his daughter. Why didn’t he want Loven to hear he was talking with Linda? He didn’t know himself.
“You look like shit,” said Loven. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Maybe I slept too long,” replied Wallander evasively. “That can be just as bad. How’s it going?”
“No breakthroughs. But we’re getting there.”
“I have a question,” said Wallander, deciding he would not mention his visit to the Aurora just yet. “They’ve had an anonymous tip in Ystad that a Russian whose name could be Konovalenko might be mixed up in this police murder.”
Loven frowned.
“Is that something we should take seriously?”
“Could be. The informant seemed to know what he was talking about.”
Loven thought for a moment before responding.
“It’s true we do have a lot of trouble with Russian gangsters who are taking up residence in Sweden. We’re also well aware that little problem is likely to get worse rather than better over the next few years. That’s why we’ve tried to find out what’s happening on that score.”
He groped around among some files in a bookcase before he found the one he was looking for.
“We have a guy called Rykoff,” he said. “Vladimir Rykoff. He lives out at Hallunda. If there’s anybody by the name of Konovalenko in this town, that guy ought to know.”
“Why?”
“He’s said to be extremely well informed about what goes on in that particular circle of immigrants. We could drive out and say hello.”
Loven handed Wallander the file.
“Just read through this,” he said. “It’ll tell you a lot.”
“I can go and see him myself,” said Wallander. “We don’t both need to go.”
Loven shrugged.
“I’m happy to get out of it,” he said. “Let’s face it, we have a lot more leads to follow up in this Tengblad business, even if there is no sign of a breakthrough yet. By the way, the technical guys think your woman in Skane was shot by the same weapon. But of course, they can’t be absolutely certain. It was probably the same weapon. There again, of course, we don’t know if it was wielded by the same hand.”
It was nearly one o’clock by the time Wallander found his way out to Hallunda. He stopped off at a motel on the way and had lunch while reading through the material Loven had given him about Vladimir Rykoff. When he finally got to Hallunda and tracked down the apartment building, he paused for a while and observed the environment. It struck him that hardly any of the people who passed by were speaking Swedish.
This is where the future is, he thought. A kid growing up here and maybe becoming a cop will have experiences very different from mine.
He entered the hallway and found the name Rykoff. Then he took the elevator up.
A woman opened the door. Wallander could see right away she was on her guard, despite the fact he had not yet explained he was a cop. He showed her his ID.
“Rykoff,” he said. “I have a few questions for him.”
“What about?”
Wallander could hear she was foreign. She probably came from one of the eastern bloc countries.