“As it should be.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s April. Changes by the minute. But I can’t pretend we’re having a heat wave.”
“Can you call my dad again and tell him I’m still in Stockholm?”
“The last time he invited me to go and visit. But I didn’t have time.”
“Can you do it?”
“Right away.”
Wallander hung up, then called his daughter. He could hear she was half asleep when she answered.
“You were supposed to call last night,” she said.
“I had to work until very late,” said Wallander.
“I can see you this morning,” she said.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’m going to be extremely busy these next few hours.”
“Maybe you don’t want to see me at all?”
“You know I do. I’ll call you later.”
Wallander hung up abruptly as Loven stomped into the office. He knew he had offended his daughter. Why didn’t he want Loven to hear he was talking with Linda? He didn’t know himself.
“You look like shit,” said Loven. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Maybe I slept too long,” replied Wallander evasively. “That can be just as bad. How’s it going?”
“No breakthroughs. But we’re getting there.”
“I have a question,” said Wallander, deciding he would not mention his visit to the Aurora just yet. “They’ve had an anonymous tip in Ystad that a Russian whose name could be Konovalenko might be mixed up in this police murder.”
Loven frowned.
“Is that something we should take seriously?”
“Could be. The informant seemed to know what he was talking about.”
Loven thought for a moment before responding.
“It’s true we do have a lot of trouble with Russian gangsters who are taking up residence in Sweden. We’re also well aware that little problem is likely to get worse rather than better over the next few years. That’s why we’ve tried to find out what’s happening on that score.”
He groped around among some files in a bookcase before he found the one he was looking for.
“We have a guy called Rykoff,” he said. “Vladimir Rykoff. He lives out at Hallunda. If there’s anybody by the name of Konovalenko in this town, that guy ought to know.”
“Why?”
“He’s said to be extremely well informed about what goes on in that particular circle of immigrants. We could drive out and say hello.”
Loven handed Wallander the file.
“Just read through this,” he said. “It’ll tell you a lot.”
“I can go and see him myself,” said Wallander. “We don’t both need to go.”
Loven shrugged.
“I’m happy to get out of it,” he said. “Let’s face it, we have a lot more leads to follow up in this Tengblad business, even if there is no sign of a breakthrough yet. By the way, the technical guys think your woman in Skane was shot by the same weapon. But of course, they can’t be absolutely certain. It was probably the same weapon. There again, of course, we don’t know if it was wielded by the same hand.”
It was nearly one o’clock by the time Wallander found his way out to Hallunda. He stopped off at a motel on the way and had lunch while reading through the material Loven had given him about Vladimir Rykoff. When he finally got to Hallunda and tracked down the apartment building, he paused for a while and observed the environment. It struck him that hardly any of the people who passed by were speaking Swedish.
This is where the future is, he thought. A kid growing up here and maybe becoming a cop will have experiences very different from mine.
He entered the hallway and found the name Rykoff. Then he took the elevator up.
A woman opened the door. Wallander could see right away she was on her guard, despite the fact he had not yet explained he was a cop. He showed her his ID.
“Rykoff,” he said. “I have a few questions for him.”
“What about?”
Wallander could hear she was foreign. She probably came from one of the eastern bloc countries.
“That’s a matter for me and him.”
“He’s my husband.”
“Is he at home?”
“I’ll go get him for you.”
As the woman disappeared through a door that he assumed led into the bedroom, he took a look around. The apartment was expensively furnished. Even so, he got the feeling everything was temporary. As if whoever lived there was ready to pack up at any moment and move on.
The door opened and Vladimir Rykoff entered the room. He was dressed in a robe that looked pretty expensive to Wallander. His hair was a mess. Wallander guessed he had been asleep.
He got the distinct impression Rykoff was also on his guard.
It suddenly dawned on him he was getting somewhere. Something was about to boost the investigation that had started almost two weeks ago when Robert Akerblom came to his office and reported his wife was missing. An investigation that had tended to get deeper and deeper bogged down in a maze of confusing tracks, criss-crossing without providing any coherent context he could come to grips with.
He’d had a similar feeling in previous investigations. The sense of being on the verge of a breakthrough. It often turned out to be true.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” he said, “but I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”
“What about?”
Rykoff had still not asked him to sit down. His tone was brusque and dismissive. Wallander decided to take the bull by the horns. He sat down in a chair and gestured to Rykoff and his wife to follow suit.
“According to my information you came here as an Iranian refugee,” Wallander began. “You were granted Swedish citizenship in the 1970s. The name Vladimir Rykoff doesn’t sound especially Iranian.”
“My name’s my business.”
Wallander’s eyes were glued to Rykoff’s face.
“Of course,” he said. “But in some circumstances the case for granting citizenship in this country can be reexamined. If it turns out that it was based on false information.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Not at all. What’s your job?”
“I run a travel agency.”
“Called?”
“Rykoff’s Travel Service.”
“What countries do you organize trips to?”
“It varies.”
“Can you give me some examples?”
“Poland.”
“More!”
“Czechoslovakia.”
“Keep going!”
“What the hell! What are you getting at?”
“Your travel agency is registered as an independent enterprise with the local authority. But according to the tax people you have made no declarations the last two years. As I naturally assume you’re not trying to evade taxes, I have to conclude that your travel business hasn’t being operating for the last few years.”
Rykoff stared at him, dumbstruck.
“We’re living on the profits from the good years,” said his wife all of a sudden. “There’s no law that says you
