A staircase led down from ground level to a black-painted iron door. Above it was a filthy red neon sign. Several of the letters had gone out. Wallander began to wonder why he had decided to take a look at the place into which somebody had thrown a few tear gas canisters a couple of days previously. But he was groping so much in the dark, he couldn’t afford not to follow up the very slightest chance of finding a black man with a severed finger. He went down the stairs, opened the door, and entered a dark room where he had difficulty seeing anything at all at first. He could barely hear some music coming from a loudspeaker hanging from the ceiling. The room was full of smoke, and he thought at first he was the only one there. Then he made out some shadows in a corner with the whites of their eyes gleaming, and a bar counter slightly more illuminated than the rest of the room. When he’d gotten used to the light, he went over to the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender had a shaven head.
“We can manage on our own, thank you,” he said.
Wallander did not know what he was talking about.
“We can supply all the security cover we need ourselves,” the guy said.
Wallander realized to his surprise that the bartender was onto him.
“How do you know I’m a cop?” he asked, wishing he hadn’t even as the words crossed his lips.
“Trade secret,” the bartender replied.
Wallander noticed he was starting to get angry. The guy’s arrogant self-assurance irritated him.
“I have a few questions,” he said. “Since you already know I’m a cop, I don’t need to show you my ID.”
“I very rarely answer questions,” said the bartender.
“You will this time,” said Wallander. “God help you if you don’t.”
The man stared at Wallander in astonishment.
“I might answer,” he said.
“You get a lot of Africans in here,” said Wallander.
“They just love this joint.”
“I’m looking for a black guy about thirty, and there’s something very special about him.”
“Such as?”
“He’s missing a finger. On his left hand.”
Wallander did not expect the reaction he got. The bald guy burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny about that?” Wallander wondered.
“You’re number two,” said the bartender.
“Number two?”
“Who’s asking. There was a guy here last night who was also wondering if I’d seen an African with a maimed left hand.”
Wallander thought for a moment before going on.
“What did you tell him?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I ain’t seen nobody missing a finger.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
“Who was asking?”
“Never seen him before,” he said, starting to wipe a glass.
Wallander suspected the man was lying.
“I’ll ask you one more time,” he said. “But only once.”
“I have nothing more to say.”
“Who was doing the asking?”
“Like I said. No idea.”
“Did he speak Swedish?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That he didn’t sound like you and me.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Wallander. I must make sure he doesn’t wriggle off the hook.
“What did he look like?”
“Don’t remember.”
“There’ll be hell to pay if you don’t give me a straight answer.”
“He looked kinda ordinary. Black jacket. Blond hair.”
Wallander suddenly got the feeling the man was scared.
“Nobody can hear us,” said Wallander. “I promise you I’ll never repeat what you tell me.”
“His name might have been Konovalenko,” said the man. “The beer’s on the house if you get out right now.”
“Konovalenko?” said Wallander. “Are you sure?”
“How the hell can you be sure of anything in this world?” said the man.
Wallander left and managed to flag down a cab right away. He sank back into the back seat, and gave the name of his hotel.
When he got back to his room, he reached for the phone and was about to call his daughter. Then he let it be. He would call her early next morning.
He lay in bed for a long time, wide awake.
Konovalenko, he thought. A name. Would it put him on the right track?
He thought through everything that had happened since the morning Robert Akerbloms first came to his office.
It was dawn before he finally fell asleep.
Chapter Sixteen
When Wallander got to the police station the next morning, Whe was told Loven was already in a meeting with the team investigating Tengblad’s killer. He got himself some coffee, went to Loven’s office, and called Ystad. After a brief pause Martinson answered.
“What’s new?” asked Martinson.
“I’m concentrating on a guy who might be Russian and whose name could be Konovalenko,” said Wallander.
“I hope to God you haven’t found yourself another Balt,” said Martinson.
“We don’t even know if Konovalenko really is his name,” said Wallander. “Or if he really is Russian. He could easily be Swedish.”
“Alfred Hanson,” said Martinson. “He told us the man who rented the house had a foreign accent.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Wallander. “But I have my doubts whether that was Konovalenko.”
“How come?”
“Just a hunch. The whole of this investigation is full of hunches. I don’t like it at all. He also said the guy who rented the room was very fat. That doesn’t fit in with the guy who shot Tengblad. If it was the same man, that is.”
“Where does this African with the severed finger fit in?”
Wallander gave him a quick rundown on his visit to the Aurora the previous night.
“You could be onto something,” said Martinson. “You’ll be staying longer in Stockholm?”
“Yeah. I have to. One more day at least. Everything quiet in Ystad?”
“Robert Akerblom has asked via Pastor Tureson when he can bury his wife.”
“There’s nothing stopping him, is there?”
“Bjork said I should talk to you.”
“Well, now you have. What’s the weather like?”
