years ago when he had visited Oland with his sister Kristina and their parents. There was no bridge then. He had a vague memory of the little ferry that took them over the sound. They spent a week camping that summer. He remembered that week as a happy experience rather than a series of separate incidents. A vague feeling of something lost forever possessed him just for a moment. Then he redirected his thoughts to Konovalenko. He tried to convince himself that he was probably mistaken. The pencil marks in the atlas and the address in the directory need not have been made by Konovalenko. He would soon be on his way back to Skane.
He stopped when he came to the Oland side of the bridge. There was a large road map of the island there, and he got out to study it. Hemmansvagen was a side road just before the zoo entrance. He got back into the car and turned right. There was still not much traffic around. After a few minutes he found the right road. He left the car in a small parking lot. Hemmansvagen was made up of a mixture of old and new houses, all of them with large yards. He started walking. The first house had a number three on the fence. A dog eyed him suspiciously. He kept going, and figured out which house must be number fourteen. He noted that it was one of the older houses, with bay windows and elaborate ornamentation. Then he walked back the same way as he had come. He wanted to try approaching the house from the rear. He could not afford to take any risks. Konovalenko and his unknown companion could be there after all.
There was a sports field behind the houses. He clambered over the fence, ripping his trousers high up on one leg. He approached the house from behind a wooden spectator stand. It was painted yellow, with two stories and a tower in one corner. There was a boarded-up hot-dog stand next to the fence. Crouching down, he left the shelter of the spectator stand and ran over to the hut. Once there, he took his pistol out of his pocket. He stood motionless for five minutes, watching the house. Everything was very calm. There was a toolshed in one corner of the yard. He decided that was where he would hide. He looked again at the house. Then he went down carefully onto his knees and crawled over to the fence behind the shed. It was rickety and difficult to climb over. He almost fell over backward, but managed to regain his balance and jump down into the narrow gap behind the shed. He noticed he was breathing heavily. That’s due to all the evil, he thought. He carefully stuck his head out and contemplated the house from his new position. All was still quiet. The yard was overgrown and in bad shape. Next to him was a wheelbarrow full of last year’s leaves. He began to wonder if the house was deserted. After a while he was more or less convinced it was. He left the protection of the shed and ran to the house wall. Then he followed the wall to the right in order to get around to the other side of the house, where the front door was presumably located. He gave a start when he stumbled against a hedgehog. It hissed and raised its spikes. Wallander had put his pistol back in his pocket. Now, without being quite sure why, he took it out again. The sound of a foghorn drifted in from the sound. He crept around the corner of the house and found himself at the far gable end. What am I doing here, he wondered. If there is anybody in the house, it’s bound to be some old couple who are just waking up after a good night’s sleep. What on earth will they say if they find a runaway detective inspector sneaking around in their yard? He kept going to the next corner. Then he peered around it.
Konovalenko was standing on the gravel path by the flagpole, urinating. He was barefoot, dressed in trousers and an open shirt. Wallander did not move. Even so, something alarmed Konovalenko, possibly his instinct for danger that never waned. He turned around. Wallander had his pistol drawn. For a split second they both assessed the situation. Wallander realized Konovalenko had made the mistake of leaving the house without his gun. Konovalenko could see Wallander would either kill him or intercept him before he could reach the front door. Konovalenko found himself in a situation that gave him no choice. He flung himself to one side with such force that just for a moment, Wallander lost sight of him. Then he ran as fast as he could, dodging from side to side, and jumped over the fence. He was already in the road before Wallander had grasped what was happening and began chasing him. It had all happened in a flash. That is why he did not see Sikosi Tsiki standing in a window, watching what was going on.
Sikosi Tsiki knew something alarming had happened. He did not know what. But he realized the instructions Konovalenko gave him the day before must now be followed. “If anything happens,” Konovalenko told him, handing over an envelope, “follow the instructions inside here. That way you’ll make it back to South Africa. Get in touch with the man you already met, the one who gave you your money and your last set of instructions.”
He waited by the window for a short while.
Then he sat down at a table and opened the envelope.
An hour later he left the house and was on his way.
Konovalenko had about a fifty-meter head start. Wallander wondered how he could run so incredibly fast. They were running in the direction of where Wallander had parked his car. Konovalenko had a car parked in the same lot! Wallander cursed and ran even faster. But the distance between them got no shorter. He was right. Konovalenko headed for a Mercedes, ripped open the door, which was unlocked, and started the engine. It all went so fast Wallander realized the ignition key must have been in the lock. Konovalenko was prepared, even if he had made the mistake of leaving the house without a gun. Just then Wallander saw a flash. Instinctively he threw himself to one side. The bullet whined past and hit the asphalt. Wallander huddled behind a bicycle stand and hoped he was invisible. Then he heard the car make a racing start.
He rushed towards his own car, fumbling with the keys and thinking he had doubtless lost Konovalenko already. But he was sure he would get off Oland as quickly as possible. If he stayed on the island he was bound to be cornered sooner or later. Wallander slammed down the gas pedal. He caught sight of Konovalenko at the rotary just before the bridge. Wallander overtook a slow-moving truck at vast speed and nearly lost control of the car as he clipped the flower bed in the center of the rotary. Then he raced onto the bridge. The Mercedes was in front of him. He must think of something. If it came down to a car chase, he wouldn’t stand a chance against Konovalenko.
It all came to a head at the highest part of the bridge.
Konovalenko was going at very high speed, but Wallander had managed to keep on his tail. When he was sure of not hitting a car coming in the opposite direction, he stuck his pistol out of the window and shot. His aim was just to hit the car. The first shot missed. But the second was on target, and by an incredible stroke of luck he managed to burst one of the rear tires. The Mercedes immediately went into a skid, and Konovalenko could not stop it. Wallander slammed on the brakes and watched as Konovalenko careered into the concrete barrier at the outer edge of the bridge. There was an enormous crash. Wallander could not see what had happened to Konovalenko behind the wheel. But without a second thought he shifted into first gear and drove straight into the back of the wrecked car. He felt a searing pain as the safety belt bit into his chest. Wallander wrestled with the lever to find reverse. With tires screeching, he backed off and prepared for another ram. Then he repeated the maneuver one more time. The car in front was hurled a few more meters forward. Wallander backed off again, flung open the door, and took cover. Cars were already lining up behind him. When Wallander waved his pistol and yelled at the drivers to keep out of the way, several tumbled out of their cars and ran for it. Wallander could see a similar line of cars on the other side of the bridge. Still no sign of Konovalenko. Even so, he fired a shot at the crumpled car.
After the second bullet, the gas tank exploded. Wallander never knew for sure afterwards if it was his bullet that caused the fire, or whether the leaking gas had ignited for some other reason. The car was instantly engulfed by roaring flames and thick smoke. Wallander approached the car cautiously.
Konovalenko was on fire.
He was trapped on his back with half his upper body sticking out through the windshield. Afterwards, Wallander would remember his staring eyes, indicating he could not believe what was happening to him. Then his hair started burning, and a few seconds later it was obvious to Wallander he was dead. Sirens were approaching in the distance. He walked slowly back to his own car and leaned against the door.
He gazed out over Kalmar Sound. The water glistened. There was a smell of the sea. His mind was a complete blank; he could not think at all. Something had come to an end, and he felt stupefied. Then he heard a voice from a megaphone ordering somebody to lay down their arms. It was a while before he realized the voice was talking to him. He turned round and saw fire engines and patrol cars on the Kalmar side. Konavalenko’s car was still ablaze. Wallander looked at his pistol. Then he threw it over the side of the bridge. Armed police were coming towards him. Wallander waved his ID.
“Chief Inspector Wallander,” he yelled. “I’m a cop!”
He was soon surrounded by suspicious local colleagues.
“I’m a cop and my name’s Wallander,” he repeated. “You might have read about me in the papers. There’s been an APB on me since last week.”
“I recognize you,” said one of the cops in a broad local accent.
