He had also tried to figure out what Konovalenko had in mind. He had returned to Skane, and succeeded in killing Victor Mabasha. Wallander had difficulty in believing he was acting on his own. He had brought Rykoff with him, but how had he managed to get away without outside help? Rykoff’s wife, Tania, must be around, and maybe other henchmen Wallander didn’t know about. They had rented a house under a false name before. Maybe they’ve hidden themselves away again in some remote house out in the sticks.
Having got that far, Wallander realized there was another important question still waiting to be resolved.
What happens after Victor Mabasha, he wondered. What about the assassination that was the center of everything that’s happened? What about the invisible organization that’s pulling all the strings, even Konovalenko’s? Will the whole thing be called off? Or will these faceless men keep on trekking towards their goal?
He drank his coffee, and concluded there was only one thing open to him. He had to make sure Konovalenko could find him. When they attacked the apartment, they were looking for him as well. Victor Mabasha’s last words were that he didn’t know where Wallander was. Konovalenko wanted to know.
He could hear footsteps in the hall. Sten Widen came in. He was dressed in dirty overalls and muddy boots.
“We’re racing at Jagersro today,” he said. “How about coming along?”
Wallander was tempted, just for a moment. He welcomed anything that could divert his thoughts.
“Is Fog running?” he asked.
“She’s running, and she’s going to win,” said Sten Widen. “But I doubt whether the gamblers will have enough faith in her. That means you could earn a few kronor.”
“How can you be so sure she’s the best?” wondered Wallander.
“She’s a temperamental beast,” said Sten Widen, “but today she’s raring to go. She’s restless in her box. She can sense the chips are down. And the opposition is not all that brilliant. There are a few horses from Norway I don’t know much about. But I guess she can beat them as well.”
“Who’s the owner of this horse?” asked Wallander.
“Some businessman by the name of Morell.”
Wallander recognized the name. He had heard it not long ago, but could not remember the context.
“Stockholmer?”
“No. From Skane.”
Something clicked for Wallander. Peter Hanson and his pumps. A fence by the name of Morell.
“What line of business is this Morell in?” asked Wallander.
“To tell you the truth, I think he’s a little shady,” said Sten Widen. “Or so rumor has it. But he pays his training bills on time. No business of mine where the money comes from.”
Wallander had no more questions.
“I don’t think I’ll come, thanks all the same,” he said.
“Ulrika bought in some food,” said Sten Widen. “We’ll be taking the horses off in an hour or two. You’ll have to look after yourself.”
“What about the Duett? asked Wallander. ”Will you leave it here?”
“You can borrow it if you like,” said Sten Widen. “But remember to fill the tank. I keep forgetting.”
Wallander watched the horses being led into the big horse boxes, and driven off. Not long afterwards he was also on his way. When he got to Ystad he took the risk of driving down Mariagatan. It looked pretty desolate. A yawning hole in the wall, surrounded by filthy bricks, showed where the window used to be. He stopped only briefly, before driving right through town. As he passed the military training ground he noted a squad car parked a long way from the perimeter. Now the fog had disappeared, the distance seemed shorter than he remembered it. He drove on and turned off down to the harbor at Kaseberga. He knew there was a risk he might be recognized, but the photo of him in the newspapers was not a particularly good likeness. The problem was he might bump into somebody he knew. He went into a phone booth and called his father. Just as he had hoped, his daughter answered.
“Where are you?” she asked. “What are you up to?”
“Just listen,” he said. “Can anybody overhear you?”
“How could anybody? Grandad’s painting.”
“Nobody else?”
“There’s nobody here, I told you!”
“Haven’t the police stationed a guard yet? Isn’t there a car parked on the road?”
“There’s Nilson’s tractor in one of the fields.”
“Nothing else?”
“Dad, there’s nobody here. Stop worrying about it.”
“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” he said. “Don’t say anything to your grandad.”
“Have you seen what they put in the papers?”
“We can talk about that later.”
He replaced the receiver, thinking how pleased he was nobody had yet confirmed that he killed Rykoff. Even if the police knew, they wouldn’t release the information until Wallander returned. He was quite sure of that, after all his years in the force.
He drove straight to his father’s house from Kaseberga. He left the car on the main road and walked the last bit, taking a path where he knew he could not be seen.
She was standing at the door, waiting for him. When they got into the hallway, she hugged him. They stood there in silence. He did not know what she was thinking. As far as he was concerned, though, it was proof that they were on the way to establishing a relationship so close that words were sometimes unnecessary.
They sat in the kitchen, opposite each other at the table.
“Grandad won’t show up for quite some time yet,” she said. “I could learn a lot from his working discipline.”
“Or stubbornness,” he said.
They both burst out laughing at the same time.
Then he grew serious again. He told her slowly what had happened, and why he had decided to accept the role of a wanted man, a half-crazy cop on the loose.
“Just what do you think you’ll achieve? All by yourself?”
He could not make up his mind whether fear or skepticism lay behind her question.
“I’ll lure him out. I’m well aware I’m no one-man army. But if this thing is going to be solved, I have to take the first step myself.”
Quickly, as if in protest at what he had just said, she changed the subject.
“Did he suffer a lot?” she asked. “Victor Mabasha?”
“No,” Wallander replied. “It was over in a flash. I don’t think he had any idea he was going to die.”
“What’ll happen to him now?”
“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “I guess there’ll be an autopsy. Then it’s a matter of whether his family want him buried here, or in South Africa. Assuming that’s where he comes from.”
“Who is he, in fact?”
“I don’t know. I sometimes felt I’d established some kind of contact with him. But then he slipped away again. I can’t say I know what he was thinking deep down. He was a remarkable man, very complicated. If that’s how you get when you live in South Africa, it must be a country you wouldn’t even want to send your worst enemy to.”
“I want to help you,” she said.
“You can,” said Wallander. “I want you to call the police station and ask to speak with Martinson.”
“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “I’d like to do something nobody else can do.”
“That’s not the kind of thing you can plan in advance,” said Wallander. “That just happens. When it happens.”
She called the police station and asked to speak with Martinson. But the switchboard could not track him down. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and asked what she should do. Wallander hesitated. But then he realized he could not afford to wait, nor pick and choose. He asked her to get Svedberg instead.