The girl called Kristina came back with the pizza and some newspapers. Then she went out again.
“Isn’t she going to eat?” asked Wallander.
“They eat in the stables,” said Sten Widen. “We have a little kitchen there.” He took the top newspaper and leafed through. One of the pages attracted his attention.
“It’s about you,” he said.
“I’d rather not know. Not yet.”
“As you like.”
Sten Widen got a reply the third time he called. It was Linda who answered, not Wallander’s father. Wallander could hear she was insisting on asking lots of questions. But Sten Widen only said what he was supposed to.
“She was very relieved,” he said when the call was over. “She promised to stay put.”
The ate their pizzas. A cat jumped up onto the table. Wallander gave it a piece. He noticed the cat smelled like horses, too.
“The fog’s lifting,” said Sten Widen. “Did I ever tell you I’d been in South Africa? Apropos of what you were just saying.”
“No,” said Wallander, surprised. “I didn’t know that.”
“When nothing came of the opera-singing business, I went away,” he said. “I wanted to get away from everything, you’ll remember that. I thought I might become a big game hunter. Or go looking for diamonds in Kimberley. Must have been something I’d read. And I actually went. Got as far as Cape Town. I stayed for three weeks, and then I’d had enough. Ran away. Came back here. And so it was horses instead, when Dad died.”
“Ran away?”
“The way those blacks were treated. I was ashamed. It was their country, but they were forced to go around cap in hand, apologizing for their existence. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ll never forget it.”
He wiped his mouth and went out. Wallander thought about what he had said. Then he realized he would soon have to go back to the police station in Ystad.
He went into the room where the telephone was, and found what he was looking for. A half-empty whiskey bottle. He unscrewed the cap, took a large mouthful, and then another. He watched Sten Widen ride past the window on a brown horse.
First I get burgled. Then they blow my apartment up. What next?
He lay down on the sofa again, and pulled the blanket up to his chin. His fever had been imagined, and his headache was gone. He would have to get up again soon.
Victor Mabasha was dead. Konovalenko had shot him. The investigation into Louise Akerblom’s disappearance and death was littered with dead bodies. He could see no way out. How were they ever going to catch up with Konovalenko?
After a while he fell asleep. He did not wake up again for another four hours.
Sten Widen was in the kitchen, reading an evening paper.
“You’re wanted,” he said.
Wallander looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“Who is?”
“You,” repeated Sten Widen. “You’re wanted. They’ve sent out an APB. You can also read between the lines that they think you’ve gone temporarily insane.”
Wallander grabbed hold of the newspaper. There was a picture of him, and of Bjork.
Sten Widen was telling the truth. He was a wanted man. He and Konovalenko. They also suspected he might not be fit to look after himself.
Wallander stared in horror at Sten Widen.
“Call my daughter,” he said.
“I already did,” he said. “And I told her you were still compos mentis.”
“Did she believe you?”
“Yes. She believed me.”
Wallander sat there motionless. Then he made up his mind. He would play the role they had given him. A chief detective inspector from Ystad, temporarily out of his mind, missing and wanted. That would give him the thing he needed above all else.
Time.
When Konovalenko caught sight of Wallander in the fog down by the sea, in the field with the sheep, he realized to his astonishment that he was up against a worthy opponent. It was at the very moment Victor Mabasha was thrown backwards and was dead before he hit the ground. Konovalenko heard a roar coming out of the fog, and turned around while crouching down. And there he was, the chubby provincial cop who had defied him time and time again. Konovalenko could now see he had underestimated him. He watched as Rykoff was hit by two bullets that ripped open his rib cage. Using the dead African as a shield, Konovalenko backed up as far as the beach, knowing that Wallander would come after him. He would not give up, and it was clear now that he was dangerous.
Konovalenko ran along the beach in the fog. At the same time he called Tania on the mobile phone he had with him. She was waiting at the square in Ystad with a car. He got as far as the perimeter fence, scrambled up onto the road, and saw a sign pointing to Kaseberga. He directed her out of Ystad by telephone, talking to her all the time, and urged her to drive carefully. He said nothing about Vladimir being dead. That would come later. All the time he kept an eye out behind him. Wallander was not far away and he was dangerous, the first ruthless Swede he had come up against at close quarters. He could not believe what had happened. Wallander was just a provincial cop, after all. There was something about his behavior that simply did not add up.
Tania arrived, Konovalenko took over the wheel, and they drove back to the house near Tomelilla.
“Where’s Vladimir?” she asked.
“He’ll be coming later,” replied Konovalenko. “We were forced to split up. I’ll get him later.”
“What about the African?”
“Dead.”
“The cop?”
No answer. Tania realized something had gone wrong. Konovalenko was driving too fast. There was something bugging him.
It was while they were still in the car that Tania realized Vladimir was dead. But she said nothing, and managed to keep up the facade until they got back to the house where Sikosi Tsiki was sitting on a chair watching them, his face devoid of expression. Then she started screaming. Konovalenko slapped her, on the cheek with the flat of his hand at first, then harder and harder. But she kept on screaming until he managed to force some sedatives down her throat, so many they practically knocked her out. Sikosi Tsiki sat watching them the whole time from the sofa, without moving. Konovalenko had the impression he was performing on a stage, with Sikosi Tsiki the only member of the audience, albeit an attentive one. Once Tania had sunk into the no-man’s-land between deep sleep and unconsciousness, Konovalenko got changed and poured himself a glass of vodka. The fact that Victor Mabasha was dead at last did not give him the satisfaction he had expected. It solved the immediate practical problems, not least his sensitive relationship with Jan Kleyn. But he knew Wallander would come after him.
He would not give in. He would pick up the trail once more.
Konovalenko drank another glass of vodka.
The African on the sofa is a dumb animal, he thought. He watches me all the time, not in a friendly way, not unfriendly either, just watching. He says nothing, asks nothing. He could sit like that for days on end if anyone asked him to.
Konovalenko still had nothing to say to him. With every minute that passed, Wallander would be getting closer. What was needed now was an offensive on his part. Preparing for the actual assignment, the assassination in South Africa, would have to wait for a while.
He knew Wallander’s weak spot. That was what Konovalenko wanted to get at. But where was his daughter? Somewhere not far away, presumably in Ystad. But not in the apartment.
It took him an hour to figure out a solution to the problem. It was a very risky plan. But he had realized there was no such thing as a risk-free strategy as far as this remarkable cop Wallander was concerned.
Since Tania was the key to his plan and she was going to be asleep for many hours, all he needed to do was to wait. But he did not forget for one moment that Wallander was out there in the fog and darkness, and that he was getting closer all the time.