“I hope there’s nobody in the car,” said Svedberg.
“That’s exactly what we’re going to find out,” said Wallander. “Come on.”
The pond was difficult to get to, close to a thicket, to the north of Krageholm on the way to Sjobo. It took the police three hours to get searchlights and a mobile crane on site, and it was half past nine before they had managed to attach a cable to the car. Then Wallander contrived to slip and fall halfway into the pond. He borrowed overalls from Noren, who had a spare in his car. But he hardly noticed he was wet and starting to feel cold. All his attention was concentrated on the car.
He was both tense and uncomfortable. He hoped it was the right car. But he was afraid Louise Akerblom might be found inside it.
“One thing’s for sure, in any case,” said Svedberg. “This was no accident. The car was driven into the mud so that it wouldn’t be seen. Probably in the middle of the night. Whoever did it couldn’t see the aerial sticking up.”
Wallander nodded. Svedberg was right.
The cable slowly tightened. The mobile crane strained against its stanchions and started to pull.
The rear end slowly came into view.
Wallander looked at Svedberg, who was an expert on cars.
“Is it the right one?” he asked.
“Hang on a bit,” said Svedberg, “I can’t see yet.”
Then the cable came loose. The car vanished back into the mud.
They had to start all over again.
Half an hour later, the crane started pulling once more.
Wallander kept looking from the slowly emerging car to Svedberg, and back again.
Suddenly, Svedberg nodded.
“That’s the one. It’s a Toyota Corolla. No doubt about it.”
Wallander aimed one of the searchlights. Now they could see the car was dark blue.
The car slowly emerged from the pond. The crane stopped. Svedberg looked at Wallander. They walked over and looked in, one at each side.
The car was empty.
Wallander opened the trunk.
Nothing.
“The car’s empty,” he told Bjork.
“She could still be in the pond,” said Svedberg.
Wallander nodded. The pond was about a hundred meters in circumference, but the aerial had been visible, so it couldn’t be very deep.
“We need some divers,” he said to Bjork. “Now, right away.”
“A diver wouldn’t be able to see anything, it’s too dark,” said Bjork. “We’d better wait till the morning.”
“They only need to wade along the bottom,” said Wallander. “Dragging grappling irons between them. I don’t want to wait till tomorrow.”
Bjork gave in. He went over to one of the police cars and made a call. Meanwhile Svedberg had opened the driver’s door and poked around with a torch. He carefully worked loose the soaking wet car telephone.
“The last number called is usually registered,” he said. “She might have made some other call, as well as the one to the answering machine at the office.”
“Good,” said Wallander. “Good thinking, Svedberg.”
While they were waiting for the divers, they made a preliminary search of the car. Wallander found a paper bag in the back seat, with soggy pastries.
Everything fits in so far, he thought. But then what happened? On the road? Who did you meet, Louise Akerblom? Somebody you’d arranged to see?
Or somebody else? Somebody who wanted to meet you, without your knowing about it?
“No purse,” said Svedberg. “No brief case. Nothing in the glove compartment apart from the log book and insurance documents. And a copy of the New Testament.”
“Look for a handwritten map,” said Wallander.
Svedberg did not find one.
Wallander walked slowly around the car. It was undamaged. Louise Akerblom had not been involved in an accident.
They sat in one of the patrol cars, drinking coffee from a thermos. It had stopped raining, and there was barely a cloud in the sky.
“Is she in the pond?” wondered Svedberg.
“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “Could be.”
Two young divers arrived in one of the fire brigade’s emergency vehicles. Wallander and Svedberg shook hands-they had met them before.
“What are we looking for?” asked one of the divers.
“Maybe a body,” said Wallander. “Maybe a briefcase, or a purse. Maybe something else we don’t know about.”
The divers made their preparations, then waded out into the dirty, stagnant water, holding a line with grappling irons between them.
The cops watched in silence.
Martinson showed up just as the divers had completed their first drag.
“It’s the right car, I see,” said Martinson.
“She could be in the pond,” said Wallander.
The divers were conscientious. One of them would occasionally stop and pull at the grappling iron. A collection of various objects was starting to build up on the shore. A broken sled, parts of a threshing attachment, some rotten tree branches, a rubber boot.
It was past midnight. Still no sign of Louise Akerblom.
“There’s nothing more in there,” said one of the divers. “We can try again tomorrow, if you think it would be worth it.”
“No point,” said Wallander. “She’s not there.”
They exchanged a few brief pleasantries, then drove off to their respective homes.
Wallander had a beer and a couple of crusty rolls when he got back. He was so exhausted, he couldn’t think straight. He didn’t bother to get undressed, just lay down on the bed with a blanket over him.
By seven-thirty on Wednesday morning, April 29, Wallander was back at the police station.
A thought had struck him while he was in the car. He looked up Pastor Tureson’s telephone number. Tureson himself answered. Wallander apologized for calling so early, then asked if they could meet some time that day.
“Is it about anything in particular?” asked Tureson.
“No,” replied Wallander. “I’ve just had a few thoughts that raise a few questions I’d like answering. You never know what might be important.”
“I heard the radio reports,” said Tureson. “And I’ve read the papers. Is there anything new?”
“She’s still missing,” said Wallander. “I can’t say very much about how the investigation is proceeding, for technical reasons.”
“I understand,” said Tureson. “Forgive me for asking. I am worried about Louise’s disappearance, though, naturally.”
They agreed to meet at eleven o’clock, at the Methodist chapel.
Wallander put the phone down, and went in to Bjork’s office. Svedberg was already sitting there, yawning, and Martinson was on Bjork’s phone. Bjork was drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk. Martinson replaced the receiver, making a face.
“The tipoffs have started coming in,” he said. “There doesn’t seem to be anything worthwhile yet. Somebody called to say he was absolutely certain he had seen Louise Akerblom at Las Palmas airport last Thursday. The day before she vanished, that is.”
“Let’s get started,” said Bjork, interrupting him.
The chief constable had obviously slept badly. He seemed tired and irritated.
“Let’s continue where we left off yesterday,” said Wallander. “The car will have to be gone over thoroughly,
