straightforward. He parked his car at the front of the hospital, walked through reception and showed the security guards an identity card issued by a transport firm often used by hospitals and laboratories.
“I’m here for an urgent blood sample,” he said. “A patient on ward two.”
“Do you know your way?” asked the guard.
“I’ve been there before,” replied Jan Kleyn, pressing the elevator button.
That was absolutely true, in fact. He had been to the hospital the previous day, carrying a bag of fruit. He pretended to be visiting a patient on ward two. He knew exactly how to get there.
The corridor was empty, and he went straight to the room he knew van Heerden was in. At the far end of the corridor a night nurse was busy reading case records. He moved quietly and opened the door carefully.
When van Heerden turned around in terror, Jan Kleyn already had the silenced pistol in his right hand.
In his left hand was a jackal skin.
Jan Kleyn sometimes liked to make his presence felt by introducing a touch of the macabre. In this case, moreover, the jackal skin would act as a decoy, diverting the detectives who would arrive later to investigate the murder. An intelligence officer shot in a hospital would cause quite a stir in the Johannesburg homicide department. They would try to establish a link between the murder and the work Pieter van Heerden was doing. His links with President de Klerk would make it all the more imperative to solve the murder. Jan Kleyn had therefore decided to point the police in a direction that was bound to lead nowhere. Black criminals sometimes amused themselves by introducing some ritual element or other into their crimes. That was especially true in cases of robbery with violence. They were not content with smearing blood on the walls. The perpetrator often left some kind of symbol by the victim’s side. A broken branch, or stones arranged in a certain pattern. Or an animal skin.
Kleyn had immediately thought of a jackal. As far as he was concerned, that was the role van Heerden had been playing: exploiting other people’s abilities, other people’s information, and passing them on in a way he should never have contemplated.
He observed van Heerden’s horrified expression.
“The operation’s been cancelled,” said Jan Kleyn in a hoarse voice.
Then he threw the jackal skin over van Heerden’s face and pumped three bullets into his head. A stain started to spread over the pillow. Kleyn put the pistol in his pocket and opened a drawer in the bedside table. He took van Heerden’s wallet, and left the room. He managed to get away as unobtrusively as he came. Afterwards, the guards would be unable to give any clear description of the man who had robbed and killed van Heerden.
Robbery with violence was how the police classified the attack, which was eventually written off. But President de Klerk was not convinced. As far as he was concerned, van Heerden’s death had been his last communique. There was no longer any doubt about it. The conspiracy was a fact.
Whoever was behind the plot meant business.
A Flock of Sheep in the Fog
Chapter Fifteen
On Monday, May 4, Kurt Wallander was ready to turn over responsibility for the investigation into Louise Akerblom’s death to one of his colleagues. It was not because he felt the fact they were getting nowhere reflected badly on his abilities as a policeman. It was down to something quite different. A feeling he had that was getting stronger and stronger. It was quite simply that he couldn’t raise the effort anymore.
The investigation was completely stalled on Saturday and Sunday. It was the May Day holiday weekend, and people were away or unobtainable. It was practically impossible to get any response from the technical guys in Stockholm. The hunt for an unknown man who shot a young policeman in the capital was still going at full throttle.
The investigation into Louise Akerblom’s death was shrouded in silence. Bjork had been struck down by a sudden severe attack of gallstones on Friday night and rushed to the hospital. Wallander visited him early on Saturday to receive instructions.
When he got back from the hospital, Wallander sat down with Martinson and Svedberg in the conference room at the station.
“Today and tomorrow Sweden is closed down,” said Wallander. “The results of the various technical tests we’re waiting for are not going to be here before Monday. That means we can use the next two days to go through the material we already have. I also think it would be a good idea for you, Martinson, to show your face at home and spend some time with your family. I suspect next week might be a bit busy. But let’s keep our wits about us for a while this morning. I want us to go through the whole thing so far just one more time, right from the start. I also want you to answer a question, both of you.”
He paused for a moment before continuing.
“I know this isn’t in accordance with police procedures,” he said, “but throughout this investigation I’ve had the feeling there’s something funny going on. I can’t put it any clearer than that. What I want to know is, have either of you had the same feeling? As if we were up against a crime that doesn’t fit into the usual patterns?”
Wallander had expected a surprised reaction, possibly even skepticism. But Martinson and Svedberg shared his feeling.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like this,” said Martinson. “Of course, I don’t have as much experience as you, Kurt. But I have to admit I’m baffled by the whole business. First we try to catch somebody who’s carried out the horrific murder of a woman. The deeper we dig, the harder it is to understand why she’s been murdered. In the end we come back to the feeling that her death is just an incident on the periphery of something quite different, something bigger. I didn’t get much sleep this last week. That’s unusual for me.”
Wallander nodded and looked at Svedberg.
“What can I say?” he began, scratching his bald head. “Martinson’s already said it, better than I could put it. When I got home last night I made a list: dead woman, well, black finger, blown-up house, radio transmitter, pistol, South Africa. Then I sat staring at that list for over an hour, as if it were a rebus. It’s like we can’t grasp that there just don’t seem to be any connections and contexts in this investigation. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a feeling of wandering around in the dark as I do now.”
“That’s what I wanted to know,” said Wallander. “I guess it’s not insignificant that we all feel the same about this investigation. Nevertheless, let’s see if we can manage to penetrate a bit of this darkness Svedberg is talking about.”
They went through the investigation right from the beginning. It took them nearly three hours; afterward, they felt once again that they hadn’t made any big mistakes, despite everything. But they also hadn’t found any new clues.
“It’s all very obscure, to say the least,” said Wallander, summing up. “The only real clue we have is a black finger. We can also be pretty sure the man who lost his finger was not alone, assuming he’s the one who did it. Alfred Hanson had rented the house to an African. We know that for sure. But we’ve no idea who this man is who calls himself Nordstrom and paid ten thousand kronor up front. Nor do we know what the house was used for. When it comes to the connection between these people and Louise Akerblom or the blown-up house, the radio transmitter, and the pistol, we only have vague and unsubstantiated theories. There’s nothing so dangerous as investigations that invite guessing rather than logical thinking. The theory that seems most likely just now, despite everything, is that Louise Akerblom happened to see something she shouldn’t have seen. But what kind of people turn that into a reason for an execution? That’s what we have to find out.”
They sat around the table in silence, thinking over what he had said. A cleaning lady opened the door and peeked in.
“Not now,” said Wallander.
She shut the door again.
“I think I’ll spend the day going through the tipoffs we’ve had,” said Svedberg. “If I need any help, I’ll let you know. I’m hardly going to have time for anything else.”
“It might be as well to sort out Stig Gustafson once and for all,” said Martinson. “I can start by checking his alibi, in so far as that’s possible on a day like today. If necessary I’ll drive over to Malmo. But first I’ll try and track
