That evening he had dinner with Linda in a restaurant not far from the hotel.
This time he felt more secure in her presence. When he got to bed shortly before one, it occurred to him that this was the most pleasant evening he’d had for a long time.
Wallander arrived at the Kungsholmen police station just before eight the next morning. An audience of cops listened in astonishment to what he had discovered in Hallunda, and the conclusions he had drawn. As he spoke, he could feel the skepticism that surrounded him. But the desire of the cops to catch the man who had shot their colleague was overwhelming, and he could feel the mood slowly changing. In the end, nobody challenged his conclusions.
Things moved quickly throughout the morning. The apartment block in Hallunda was placed under observation while the raid was prepared. An energetic young prosecutor had no hesitation in approving plans for arrest.
The raid was set for two o’clock. Wallander kept discreetly in the background while Loven and his colleagues went through what was going to happen in detail. At about ten, right in the middle of the most chaotic phase of the preparations, he went to Loven’s office and made a call to Bjork in Ystad. He explained about the action planned for that afternoon, and how the murder of Louise Akerblom might soon be solved.
“I have to say it all sounds pretty improbable,” said Bjork.
“We live in an improbable world,” said Wallander.
“Whatever happens, you’ve done a good job,” said Bjork. “I’ll let everybody at this end know what’s going on.”
“No press conference, though,” said Wallander. “And nobody is to speak with Robert Akerblom yet, either.”
“Of course not,” said Bjork. “When do you think you’ll be back?”
“As soon as possible,” said Wallander. “How’s the weather?”
“Terrific,” said Bjork. “It feels like spring is on the way. Svedberg is sneezing like a man with hay fever. That’s usually a sure sign of spring, as you well know.”
Wallander felt vaguely homesick as he put the phone down. But his excitement over the imminent raid was even stronger.
At eleven Loven called together everybody who would be taking part in the raid. Reports from those watching the building suggested both Vladimir and Tania were in the apartment. It was not possible to establish whether anybody else was there.
Wallander listened carefully to Loven’s summary. He could see that a raid in Stockholm was very different from anything he was used to. Besides, operations of this size were practically unknown in Ystad. Wallander could only remember one incident the previous year, when a guy high on narcotics had barricaded himself into a summer cottage in Sandskogen.
Before the meeting Loven had asked Wallander if he wanted to play an active role.
“Sure,” he replied. “If Konovalenko is there, in a sense he’s my baby. Half of him at least. Besides, I’m looking forward to seeing Rykoff’s face.”
Loven brought the meeting to a close at half past eleven.
“We really don’t know what we’ll be up against,” he said. “Probably just two people who’ll go along with the inevitable. But it could turn out different.”
Wallander had lunch in the police canteen with Loven.
“Have you ever asked yourself what you’ve gotten involved in?” asked Loven, all of a sudden.
“That’s something I think about every day,” said Wallander. “Don’t most cops?”
“I don’t know,” said Loven. “I only know what I think. And the thoughts that go through my head depress me. We’re on the brink of losing control here in Stockholm. I don’t know how it is in a smaller district like Ystad, but being a crook in this city must be a pretty pleasant existence. At least as far as the chances of getting caught are concerned.”
“We’re still in control, I guess,” said Wallander. “But the differences between different districts are decreasing all the time. What’s happening here happens in Ystad as well.”
“Lots of cops in Stockholm can’t wait to get transferred to the provinces,” said Loven. “They think they’d have an easier time there.”
“I guess there are quite a few who’d like to transfer here as well,” Wallander countered. “They think they lead too quiet a life out in the sticks, or in some little town.”
“I doubt if I’d be able to change,” said Loven.
“Me neither,” said Wallander. “Either I’m an Ystad cop, or I’m not a cop at all.”
The conversation petered out. Afterwards Loven had things to do.
Wallander found a quiet spot where he could stretch out on a sofa. It occurred to him that he had not had a good night’s sleep since the moment Robert Akerblom came into his office.
He dozed off for a few minutes, and awoke with a start.
Then he just lay there, thinking about Baiba Liepa.
The raid on the apartment in Hallunda took place at exactly two o’clock. Wallander, Loven, and three other cops climbed the stairs. After ringing twice without reply, they broke down the door with a crowbar. Specially trained men with automatic weapons were waiting in the background. All the cops on the stairs carried pistols, apart from Wallander. Loven asked him if he wanted a gun. But he declined. On the other hand, he was glad he was wearing a bulletproof vest like the others.
They stormed into the apartment, spread out, and it was all over before it had even begun.
The apartment was empty. All that remained was the furniture.
The cops looked at each other in bewilderment. Then Loven took out his walkie-talkie and contacted the officer in charge down below.
“The apartment’s empty,” he said. “There will be no arrests. You can call the special units off. But you can send in the technical guys to go over the place.”
“They must have left last night,” said Wallander. “Or at the crack of dawn.”
“We’ll get ’em,” said Loven. “Within half an hour there’ll be a country-wide APB.”
He handed Wallander a pair of plastic gloves.
“Maybe you’d like to do some dusting,” he said.
While Loven was talking to headquarters in Kungsholmen on his mobile, Wallander went into the little guest room. He put on the gloves and carefully removed the ashtray from the shelf. His eyes had not deceived him. It was an exact copy of the ashtray he had been staring at a couple of nights previously, when he had a skinful of whiskey. He handed the ashtray to a technician.
“There’s bound to be fingerprints on this,” he said. “We probably won’t have them in our files. But Interpol might have them.”
He watched the technician put the ashtray into a plastic bag.
Then he went over to the window and absentmindedly contemplated the surrounding buildings and the gray sky. He remembered vaguely that this was the window Tania had opened the day before, to let out the smoke that was irritating Vladimir. Without really being able to decide whether he was depressed or annoyed at the failure of the raid, he went into the big bedroom. He examined the wardrobes. Most of the clothes were still there. On the other hand, there was no sign of any suitcases. He sat on the edge of one of the beds and casually opened a drawer in the other bedside table. It was empty save for a cotton reel and half a pack of cigarettes. He noted that Tania smoked Gitanes.
Then he bent down and looked under the bed. Nothing but a pair of dusty slippers. He walked around the bed and opened the drawer in the other bedside table. It was empty. Standing on the table were a used ashtray and a half-eaten bar of chocolate.