going to succeed in throwing the minister off balance. A full frontal attack it would have to be.
“I know that Louise Akerblom has enemies in your congregation,” he said. “Never mind how I know. But I’d like to hear your views.”
Tureson stared hard at him for some time before replying.
“Not enemies,” he said. “But it is true that one of our members had an unfortunate relationship with her.”
He got up and went over to a window.
“I’ve been wavering,” said Pastor Tureson. “I almost called you last night, in fact. But I didn’t. I mean, everybody hopes Louise will come back to us. That everything will turn out to have a natural explanation. All the same, I’ve been getting more and more worried. I have to admit that.”
He returned to his chair.
“I also have responsibilities to all the other members of my church,” he said. “I don’t want to have to put anybody in a bad light, to make an accusation that later proves to be completely wrong.”
“This conversation is not an official interrogation,” said Wallander. “Whatever you say will go no further. I’m not taking minutes.”
“I don’t know how to put it,” said Pastor Tureson.
“Tell it as it is,” said Wallander. “That’s generally the simplest way.”
“Two years ago, our church welcomed a new member,” Tureson began. “He was an engineer on one of the Poland ferries, and he started coming to our services. He was divorced, thirty-five, friendly and considerate. He soon became well liked and much appreciated by other church members. About a year ago, though, Louise Akerblom asked to speak to me. She was very insistent that her husband Robert shouldn’t know anything about it. We sat here in this room, and she told me that the new member of our congregation had started pestering her with declarations of love. He was sending her letters, stalking her, calling her. She tried to put him off as nicely as she could, but he persisted and the situation was becoming intolerable. Louise asked me to have a word with him. I did so, and suddenly he seemed to change into an altogether different person. He fell into a terrible rage, claimed that Louise had let him down, and that he knew I was the one having a bad influence on her. He claimed she was actually in love with him, and wanted to leave her husband. It was totally absurd. He stopped coming to our meetings, he gave up his job on the ferry, and we thought he’d disappeared for good. I simply told the rest of the congregation that he’d moved away from town, and was too shy to say goodbye. It was a great relief for Louise, of course. But then about three months ago, it all started again. One evening Louise noticed him standing on the street outside their house. It was a terrible shock for her, naturally. He started pestering her with declarations of love all over again. I have to admit, Inspector Wallander, that we actually considered calling in the police. Now, of course, I’m sorry we didn’t. It might just have been a coincidence, naturally. But I begin to wonder more and more as the days pass.”
At last, thought Wallander. Now I have something to get my teeth into. Even if I don’t understand what’s going on regarding black fingers, blown-up radio stations and rare pistols. Now I have something to get my teeth into.
“What’s the man called?” he asked.
“Stig Gustafson.”
“Any idea of his address?”
“No. I’ve got his social security number, though. He fixed the church’s heating system on one occasion, and we paid him.”
Tureson went over to a desk and leafed through a file.
“570503-0370,” he said.
Wallander closed his notebook.
“You were right to tell me about this,” he said. “I’d have found out about it sooner or later, anyway. This way, we save time.”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Tureson suddenly exclaimed.
“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “To be absolutely honest with you, I just don’t know the answer to that question.”
Wallander shook hands with the minister and left the church. It was a quarter past twelve.
Now, he thought, at last I have something to go on.
He almost ran to his car and drove straight to the station. He hurried up to his office in order to summon his colleagues to a meeting. Just as he was sitting down at his desk, the phone rang. It was Nyberg, who was still rummaging through the ashes.
“Found something new?” asked Wallander.
“No,” said Nyberg. “But I’ve just realized what the make on the handgun is. The one we found the butt of.”
“I’m writing it down,” said Wallander, taking out his notebook.
“I was right when I said it was an unusual pistol,” Nyberg went on. “I doubt if there are many of them in this country.”
“So much the better,” said Wallander, “Makes it easier to trace.”
“It’s a 9mm Astra Constable,” said Nyberg. “I saw one at a gun show in Frankfurt once upon a time. I’ve got a pretty good memory for guns.”
“Where is it made?” asked Wallander.
“That’s what so odd about it,” said Nyberg. “As far as I know, it’s only manufactured legally in one country.”
“Which?”
“South Africa.”
Wallander put his pen down.
“South Africa?”
“Yes.”
“Why’s that?”
“I can’t tell you why a particular gun is popular in one country but not in another. It just is.”
“Damn it. South Africa?”
“There’s no denying it gives us a link to that finger we found.”
“What’s a South African pistol doing in this country?”
“That’s your job to find out,” said Nyberg.
“OK,” said Wallander. “It’s good that you called me right away. We’ll talk about this again later.”
“I just thought you’d want to know,” said Nyberg, and hung up.
Wallander got out of his chair and went over to the window.
A couple of minutes later, he’d made up his mind.
They’d give priority to finding Louise Akerblom and checking out Stig Gustafson. Everything else would have to take a back seat for the time being.
This is as far as we’ve gotten, thought Wallander. This is as far as we’ve gotten, a hundred and seventeen hours after Louise Akerblom disappeared.
He picked up the telephone.
Suddenly he didn’t feel the slightest bit tired.
Chapter Six
Peter Hanson was a thief.
He was not a particularly successful criminal, but he usually managed to execute the assignments allocated to him by his employer and customer, a fence in Malmo by the name of Morell.
That very day, the morning of Walpurgis Eve, April 30, Morell’s stock was at a pretty low ebb with Hanson. He planned to take the day off, like everyone else, and maybe treat himself to a trip to Copenhagen. Late the previous night, however, Morell called to say he had an urgent job for Peter Hanson.
