“It’s all very mysterious. On the other hand, I think my theory about what happened during the night is correct. There’s no other plausible explanation.”
“I need your help,” said Wallander. “I have to drive out to that house again tonight.”
“You don’t mean you’re thinking of going after Konovalenko on your own again?” asked Svedberg, horrified.
“Not at all,” replied Wallander. “My daughter dropped a piece of jewelry while she was being held there. I don’t suppose you’ve found it?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Who’s on guard out there tonight?”
“I expect there’ll just be a patrol car checking up now and then.”
“Can you keep that patrol car out of the way between nine and eleven tonight? I’m officially in Copenhagen, as you might have heard from Bjork.”
“Yes,” said Svedberg.
“How can I get into the house?”
“We found a spare key in the gutter on the right-hand corner of the house, seen from the front that is. It’s still there.”
Afterwards Wallander wondered whether Svedberg had really believed what he said. Searching for a piece of jewelry was a pretty feeble excuse. If it was there, then of course the police would have found it. Then again, he had no idea what he thought he might find. During the last year Svedberg had developed into a skillful crime scene investigator. Wallander thought he might one day get up to Rydberg’s level. If there had been anything significant there, Svedberg would have found it. What Wallander might possibly be able to do was to see new connections.
In any case, that is where he had to start. It was most likely, of course, that Konovalenko and his companion had returned to Stockholm. But nothing was certain.
He left for Tomelilla at half past eight. It was warm, and he drove with the window open. It occurred to him that he still hadn’t discussed his vacation with Bjork.
He parked in the courtyard and found the key. When he got into the house he started by switching on all the lights. He looked round, and suddenly felt unsure about where to start looking. He wandered around the house, trying to pin down what he was actually looking for. A track leading to Konovalenko. A destination. An indication of who the unknown companion might be. Something that would reveal at last what was behind it all. He sat down in one of the chairs and thought back to when he checked the room first time around. At the same time he let his gaze wander. He saw nothing that seemed to him odd, or in any way remarkable. There’s nothing here, he thought. Even if Konovalenko left in a hurry, he’ll have covered up his tracks. The ashtray in Stockholm was an exception. A fluke.
He got up from the chair and went around the house again, more slowly this time, and more carefully. He paused occasionally, lifted up a tablecloth, leafed through magazines, felt underneath the seats of chairs. Still nothing. He went through the various bedrooms, leaving the room where they had found Tania until last. Nothing. In the garbage pail, which Svedberg had naturally been through already, he found a dead mouse. Wallander poked at it with a fork and saw it had not been killed by a mousetrap. Somebody had stabbed it to death. A knife, he thought. He remembered that Victor Mabasha had had a knife. But he was dead, in the morgue. Wallander left the kitchen and went into the bathroom. Konovalenko had left nothing behind. He returned to the living room and sat down again. He picked a different chair this time, so he could see the room from another angle. There’s always something, he thought. It’s just a case of finding it. He set off to search through the house once more. Nothing. By the time he sat down again, it was already a quarter past ten. He would soon have to leave. Time was running out.
Whoever used to live in this house had been very well organized. There was a logical plan for every object, every piece of furniture, every light fixture. He looked to see if he could find anything out of place. After a while his eye settled on a bookcase against one of the walls. All the books were standing in straight lines. Except on the bottom shelf. The back of one book was sticking out there. He got up and picked out the book. It was a road atlas of Sweden. He noticed a piece of the cover had been torn off and was inserted between a couple of pages. He opened the atlas and found himself looking at a map of eastern Sweden, including sections of Smaland, Kalmar County, and the island of Oland. He studied the map. Then he sat down at a table and adjusted the lamp. He could see some traces of pencil marks here and there. As if somebody had been following a route with a pencil, occasionally letting it touch the paper. One of the faint pencil marks was at the point where the Oland bridge starts out from Kalmar. Right down at the bottom of the page, more or less level with Blekinge, he found another mark. He thought for a while. Then he turned to the map of Skane. There were no pencil marks there. He went back to the previous page. The faint pencil marks followed the coastal road towards Kalmar. He put the atlas down again. Then he went into the kitchen and called Svedberg at home.
“I’m still out there,” he said. “If I say Oland, what does that mean to you?”
Svedberg pondered.
“Nothing,” he said.
“You didn’t find a notebook when you searched the house? No telephone book?”
“Tania had a little pocket diary in her purse,” said Svedberg. “But there was nothing in it.”
“No loose scraps of paper?”
“If you look in the woodstove, you’ll see somebody has been burning paper,” said Svedberg. “We went through the ashes. There was nothing there. Why do you mention Oland?”
“I found a map,” said Wallander. “But I don’t suppose it means anything.”
“Konovalenko has probably gone back to Stockholm,” said Svedberg. “I think he’s had enough of Skane.”
“You’re probably right,” said Wallander. “Sorry to disturb you. I’ll be leaving soon.”
“No problems with the key?”
“It was where you said it would be.”
Wallander returned the atlas to the bookcase. Svedberg was no doubt right. Konovalenko had gone back to Stockholm.
He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He happened to notice the telephone was standing on a directory. He picked it up and opened it.
Somebody had written an address on the inside cover: 14 Hemmansvagen. It was written in pencil. He thought for a moment. Then he called directory assistance. When they answered he asked for the number of a subscriber by the name of Wallander who lived at 14. Hemmansvagen in Kalmar.
“There is nobody called Wallander at the address you gave,” said the operator.
“It could be the phone is in his boss’s name,” said Wallander. “But I can’t remember what he’s called.”
“Could it be Edelman?” wondered the operator.
“That’s it,” said Wallander.
He was given the number, thanked the girl and hung up. Then he stood totally motionless. Was it possible? Did Konovalenko have another hideaway, this time on Oland?
He put out the lights behind him, locked up and replaced the key in the gutter. There was a breeze blowing. The evening was warm and suggested early summer. His mind had been made up for him. He drove away from the house and headed for Oland.
He stopped in Brosarp and called home. His father answered.
“She’s asleep,” he said. “We’ve been playing cards.”
“I won’t be coming home tonight,” said Wallander. “But don’t worry. I just have to catch up with a stack of routine work. She knows I like working nights. I’ll be in touch tomorrow morning.”
“You come when you’re ready,” said his father.
Wallander replaced the receiver. Their relationship might be improving after all. There was a different tone between them. Let’s hope it lasts, he thought. Maybe something good will come of this nightmare after all.
He reached the Oland bridge at four in the morning. He had stopped twice on the way, once to fill up with gas, and once to take a nap. Now that he had arrived, he no longer felt tired. He contemplated the mighty bridge looming up before him, and the water glittering in the morning sunlight. In the parking lot where he stopped was a phone booth with a ragged directory. Hemmansvagen was evidently on the other side of the bridge. He took his pistol out of the glove pocket and checked to make sure it was loaded. He suddenly remembered the time many
