It was not until he had left the government building that what President de Klerk said really sunk in. Unseen eyes were watching over him as well. He broke into a cold sweat as he got into his car and drove home.
One again his mind wandered to the lioness that had seemed almost white in the cold, clear moonlight.
Chapter Twenty-four
Kurt Wallander had always imagined death as black.
Now, as he stood on the beach shrouded in fog, he realized that death did not respect colors. Here it was white. The fog enclosed him completely; he thought he could hear the gentle lapping of waves on the shore, but it was the fog that dominated and strengthened his feeling of not knowing which way to turn.
When he had been higher up on the training ground, surrounded by invisible sheep, and it was all over, he did not have a single clear thought in his head. He knew Victor Mabasha was dead, that he himself had killed a human being, and that Konovalenko had escaped yet again, swallowed up by all the whiteness surrounding them. Svedberg and Martinson had emerged from the fog like two pale ghosts of themselves. He could see in their faces his own horror at being surrounded by dead bodies. He had felt simultaneously a desire to run away and never come back, but also to continue the hunt for Konovalenko. Afterwards he recalled what happened in those few moments as something peripheral to him, seen from a distance. It was a different Wallander standing there, waving his guns around. Not him, but somebody who had temporarily possessed him. Only when he yelled at Martinson and Svedberg to keep their distance, then skidded and scrambled up the slope finding himself being alone in the fog, did he slowly begin to understand what had happened. Victor Mabasha was dead, shot through the head, just like Louise Akerblom. The fat man had started back and flung his hands in the air. He was also dead, and Wallander had shot him.
He yelled out, like a solitary human foghorn in the mist. There’s no turning back, he told himself desperately. I’ll disappear into this fog. When it lifts, I won’t exist any more.
He tried to gather the last vestiges of reason he thought he still had left. Go back, he told himself. Go back to the dead men. Your colleagues are there. You can continue the search for Konovalenko together.
Then he walked away. He could not go back. If he had one duty left, it was to find Konovalenko, kill him if that could not be avoided, but preferably catch him and hand him over to Bjork. Once that was done he could sleep. When he woke up again, the nightmare would be over. But that was not true. The nightmare would still be there. In shooting Rykoff, he had done something he would never be able to shake off. And so he might just as well go hunting for Konovalenko. He had a vague feeling he was already trying to find some way to atone for the killing of Rykoff.
Konovalenko was somewhere out there in the fog. Maybe close by. Helplessly, Wallander fired a shot straight into the whiteness, as if trying to split the fog. He brushed aside the sweaty hair that was sticking to his forehead. Then he saw he was bleeding. He must have cut himself when Rykoff shattered the window panes on Mariagatan. He looked down at his clothes, and saw they were soaked in blood. It was dripping down onto the sand. He stood still, waiting for his breathing to calm down. Then he continued. He could follow Konovalenko’s tracks in the sand. He tucked the pistol in his belt. He held the shotgun cocked and ready, at hip level. It seemed to him from Konovalenko’s footprints that he had been moving quickly, running perhaps. He speeded up, following the scent like a dog. The thick fog suddenly gave him the impression he was standing still while the sand was moving. Just then, he noted that Konovalenko had stopped and turned around before running off in a different direction. The tracks led back up to the cliff. Wallander realized they would disappear as soon as they came to the grass. He scrambled up the slope and saw he was at the eastern edge of the training ground. He stopped to listen. Far behind him he could hear the sound of a siren fading away into the distance. Then a sheep bleated, very close by. Silence once again. He followed the fence northwards. It was the only bearing he had. He half-expected Konovalenko to loom up out of the fog at any moment. Wallander tried to imagine what it must be like to be shot through the head. But he could not feel anything. The whole purpose of his life just now was to follow that fence along the perimeter of the training ground, nothing else. Konovalenko was somewhere out there with his gun and Wallander was going to find him.
When Wallander hit the road to Sandhammaren, there was nothing to see but fog. He thought he could make out the dim shape of a horse on the other side, standing motionless, ears cocked.
Then he stood in the middle of the road and urinated. In the distance he could hear a car going by on the road to Kristianstad.
He started walking towards Kaseberga. Konovalenko had disappeared. He had escaped yet again. Wallander was walking aimlessly. Walking was easier than standing still. He wished Baiba Leipa would emerge from the whiteness and come towards him. But there was nothing. Just him and the damp asphalt.
A bicycle leaned against the remains of an old milk pallet. It was unlocked, and it seemed to Wallander someone had left it there for him. He used the baggage rack for the shotgun and cycled off. As soon as possible he turned off the road onto the dirt roads criss-crossing the plain. Eventually he came to his father’s house. It was dark, apart from a single lamp outside the front door. He stood still and listened. Then he hid the bicycle behind the shed. He tiptoed carefully over the gravel. He knew his father had a spare key hidden underneath a broken flowerpot on the outside stairs leading down to the cellar. He unlocked the door to his father’s studio. There was an inside room where he kept his paints and old canvases. He closed the door behind him and switched on the light. The brightness from the bulb took him by surprise. It was as if he expected the fog to be here as well. He ducked under the cold water tap and tried to rinse the blood off his face. He could see his reflection in a broken mirror on the wall. He did not recognize his own eyes. They were staring, bloodshot, shifting anxiously. He heated up some coffee on the filthy electric hot plate. It was four in the morning. He knew his father generally got up at half past five. He would have to be gone by then. What he needed just now was a hideaway. Various alternatives, all of them impossible, flashed through his mind. But in the end he decided what to do. He drank his coffee, left the studio, crossed over the courtyard, and carefully unlocked the door to the main house. He stood in the hall, and could smell the acrid, oldmannish aroma in his nostrils. He listened. Not a sound. He went cautiously into the kitchen where the telephone was, closing the door behind him. To his surprise he remembered the number. With his hand on the receiver, he thought about what he was going to say. Then he dialed.
Sten Widen answered almost right away. Wallander could hear he was already wide awake. Horsey people get up early, he thought.
“Sten? It’s Kurt Wallander.”
Once upon a time they had been very close friends. Wallander knew he hardly ever displayed a trace of surprise.
“I can hear that,” he said. “You’re calling at four in the morning?”
“I need your help.”
Sten Widen said nothing. He was waiting to hear more.
“On the road to Sandhammaren,” said Wallander. “You’ll have to come and get me. I need to hide in your house for a while. A few hours at least.”
“Where?” asked Sten Widen.
Then he started coughing.
He’s still smoking those cheroots, thought Wallander.
“I’ll wait for you at the Kaseberga exit,” he said. “What kind of car do you have?”
“An old Duett.”
“How long will it take you?”