“That’s a matter for me and him.”
“He’s my husband.”
“Is he at home?”
“I’ll go get him for you.”
As the woman disappeared through a door that he assumed led into the bedroom, he took a look around. The apartment was expensively furnished. Even so, he got the feeling everything was temporary. As if whoever lived there was ready to pack up at any moment and move on.
The door opened and Vladimir Rykoff entered the room. He was dressed in a robe that looked pretty expensive to Wallander. His hair was a mess. Wallander guessed he had been asleep.
He got the distinct impression Rykoff was also on his guard.
It suddenly dawned on him he was getting somewhere. Something was about to boost the investigation that had started almost two weeks ago when Robert Akerblom came to his office and reported his wife was missing. An investigation that had tended to get deeper and deeper bogged down in a maze of confusing tracks, criss-crossing without providing any coherent context he could come to grips with.
He’d had a similar feeling in previous investigations. The sense of being on the verge of a breakthrough. It often turned out to be true.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” he said, “but I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”
“What about?”
Rykoff had still not asked him to sit down. His tone was brusque and dismissive. Wallander decided to take the bull by the horns. He sat down in a chair and gestured to Rykoff and his wife to follow suit.
“According to my information you came here as an Iranian refugee,” Wallander began. “You were granted Swedish citizenship in the 1970s. The name Vladimir Rykoff doesn’t sound especially Iranian.”
“My name’s my business.”
Wallander’s eyes were glued to Rykoff’s face.
“Of course,” he said. “But in some circumstances the case for granting citizenship in this country can be reexamined. If it turns out that it was based on false information.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Not at all. What’s your job?”
“I run a travel agency.”
“Called?”
“Rykoff’s Travel Service.”
“What countries do you organize trips to?”
“It varies.”
“Can you give me some examples?”
“Poland.”
“More!”
“Czechoslovakia.”
“Keep going!”
“What the hell! What are you getting at?”
“Your travel agency is registered as an independent enterprise with the local authority. But according to the tax people you have made no declarations the last two years. As I naturally assume you’re not trying to evade taxes, I have to conclude that your travel business hasn’t being operating for the last few years.”
Rykoff stared at him, dumbstruck.
“We’re living on the profits from the good years,” said his wife all of a sudden. “There’s no law that says you have to keep working every year.”
“Absolutely,” said Wallander. “Mind you, most people do. For whatever reason.”
The woman lit a cigarette. Wallander could see she was nervous. Her husband stared at her disapprovingly. Demonstratively, she got up and opened a window. It was stuck, and Wallander was about to help her when it finally opened.
“I have a lawyer who takes care of everything concerning the travel agency,” said Rykoff, who was beginning to look agitated. Wallander wondered if that was due to anger, or fear.
“Let’s be frank,” said Wallander. “You have as many roots in Iran as I have. You come from Russia. It would probably be impossible to take your Swedish citizenship away from you. In any case, that’s not why I’m here. But you are Russian, Rykoff. And you know what’s going on in Russian immigrant circles. Not least among those of your countrymen who are on the wrong side of the law. A few days ago a cop was shot here in Stockholm. That’s the stupidest thing a guy can do. We get angry in a very special way. If you know what I mean.”
Rykoff seemed to have regained his composure. But Wallander could see his wife was still uneasy, although she was trying to hide it. She kept looking at the wall behind him.
Before sitting down he had noticed a clock hanging there.
Something’s supposed to happen, he thought. And they don’t want me here when it does.
“I’m looking for a man called Konovalenko,” said Wallander calmly. “Do you know anyone of that name?”
“No,” said Rykoff. “Not that I can think of.”
At that moment, three things became clear to Wallander. First, that Konovalenko existed. Second, that Rykoff knew exactly who he was. And third, that he was not at all happy about the cops asking after him.
Rykoff denied everything. But Wallander had glanced at Rykoff’s wife as he asked the question, trying to make it look coincidental. Her face, the sudden twitch in her eye, had given him the answer he was looking for.
“Are you absolutely sure? I thought Konovalenko was quite a common name.”
“I don’t know anybody called that.”
Then Rykoff turned to his wife.
“We don’t know anybody of that name, do we?”
She shook her head.
Oh yes, thought Wallander. You know Konovalenko all right. We’re going to get to him through you.
“That’s a pity,” said Wallander.
Rykoff stared at him in surprise.
“Was that all you wanted to know?”
“For the time being,” said Wallander. “But I’ve no doubt you’ll be hearing from us again. We won’t give up until we’ve nailed whoever shot that policeman.”
“I know nothing about that,” said Rykoff. “I think like everybody else, of course: it’s very sad when a young cop gets killed.”
“Of course,” said Wallander, getting to his feet. “There was just one other thing,” he went on. “You might have read in the newspapers about a woman who was murdered in the south of Sweden a few weeks ago? Or maybe you saw something about it on the TV. We think Konovalenko was involved in that, too.”
This time it was Wallander who reacted by stiffening up.
He had noticed something about Rykoff that did not quite register right away.
Then he realized what it was. The man was totally expressionless.
That was the question he’d been expecting, thought Wallander as his pulse quickened. He started prowling around the room in order to conceal his reaction.
“Do you mind if I take a look around?” he asked.
“Be my guest,” said Rykoff. “Tania, open all the doors for our visitor.”
Wallander took a look through all the doors. But all his attention was focused on Rykoff’s reaction.
Loven did not know how right he was, thought Wallander. We have a lead in this apartment in Hallunda.
He was surprised at how calm he felt. He ought to have left the apartment right away, called Loven, and requested a full-scale raid. Rykoff would have been subjected to interrogation, and the police would not have relaxed until he had admitted the existence of Konovalenko, and preferably also revealed where he could be found.
It was when he looked into the little room he assumed was reserved for guests that something attracted his attention, although he could not put his finger on it. There was nothing striking about the room. A bed, a desk, a Windsor-style chair, and blue drapes. A few ornaments and books occupied a bookcase on one wall. Wallander tried hard to figure out what it was he had seen, without having seen it. He memorized the details, then turned on his heel.
“Time to leave you in peace,” he said.
“We’ve nothing to hide from the police,” said Rykoff.
“Then you have nothing to fear,” Wallander replied.
He drove back to town.
Now we’ll pounce, he thought. I’ll tell Loven and his boys this remarkable story, and we’ll get either Rykoff or his wife to spill the beans.
But now we’ll get them, he thought. Now we’ll get them.
Konovalenko had very nearly missed Tania’s signal. When he parked his car in front of the apartment block in Hallunda, he glanced up at the facade as usual. They had agreed that Tania would leave a window open if it was dangerous for him to come up, for some reason or other. The window was closed. As he was on the way to the elevator, it dawned on him he had left the carrier bag with the two bottles of vodka in the car. He went back to fetch them, and from pure habit happened to look up at the facade again. This time the window was open. He returned to the car, and sat behind the wheel to wait.