The second was how he could get out of this country and return to South Africa.
He realized he would be forced to do what he wanted to do least of all. Find Konovalenko. That would be very difficult. Konovalenko would be as hard to track down as an individual spriengboek in the endless African bush. But somehow or other he would have to entice Konovalenko. He was the one with a passport, he was the one who could be forced to help him get away from this country. He did not think he could see any alternative.
He still hoped he would not need to kill anybody, apart from Konovalenko.
That evening he went back to the disco. There were not many people there, and he sat in a corner, drinking beer. When he went to the bar with his empty glass for another beer, the bald man spoke to him. At first Victor Mabasha did not understand what he was saying. Then he realized that two different people had been there the day before, looking for him. He could tell from the description that one of them was Konovalenko. But what about the other one? The man behind the bar said he was a cop. A cop with an accent that showed he came from the southern part of the country.
“What did he want?” wondered Victor Mabasha.
The bald man nodded at his filthy bandage.
“He was looking for a black man missing a finger,” he said.
He drank no more beer, but left the disco without more ado. Konovalenko might come back. He was still not prepared to face him, even though his gun was at the ready, tucked into his belt.
When he came out onto the street, he knew right away what he was going to do. This cop would help him find Konovalenko.
Somewhere or other there was an investigation going on into the disappearance of a woman. Maybe they had found her body already, wherever Konovalenko had hidden it. But if they had managed to find out about him, they might know about Konovalenko as well?
I left a clue, he thought. A finger. Maybe Konovalenko also left something behind?
He spent the rest of the evening hovering in the shadows outside the disco. But neither Konovalenko nor the cop showed up. The bald man had given him a description of the cop. It occurred to Victor Mabasha that a white man in his forties was not going to be a regular customer at the disco.
Late that night he went back to the tomb in the cemetery. The next day he stole another car, and that evening he hovered once more in the shadows outside the disco.
At exactly nine o’clock, a cab came to a halt at the entrance. Victor was in the front seat of his car. He sank down so that his head was level with the steering wheel. The cop got out of the taxi and disappeared into the underworld. As soon as he had vanished, Victor drove up to the entrance and got out. He withdrew to the darkest shadows, and waited. His pistol was in his jacket pocket, within easy reach.
The man who emerged a quarter of an hour later and looked around vaguely or possibly lost in thought was not on his guard. He gave the impression of being completely harmless, a solitary, unprotected nocturnal prowler. Victor Mabasha drew his pistol, took a few swift strides, and pressed the gun against the underside of the man’s chin.
“Not a move,” he said in English. “Not a single move.”
The man gave a start. But he understood English. He did not move.
“Go to the car,” said Victor Mabasha. “Open the door and get into the passenger seat.”
The man did as he was told. He was evidently very scared.
Victor quickly ducked into the car and punched him on the chin. Hard enough to knock him out, but not hard enough to break his jaw. Victor Mabasha knew his strength when he was in control of the situation. Something that did not apply that catastrophic last evening with Konovalenko.
He went through the cop’s pockets. Oddly enough, no gun. Victor Mabasha was even more convinced he was in a very strange country, with unarmed cops. Then he bound the man’s arms to his chest and taped over his mouth. A narrow trickle of blood was seeping from the side of his mouth. It was never possible to avoid injuring somebody altogether. The man had presumably bitten his own tongue.
During the three hours available to Victor Mabasha that afternoon, he had memorized the route he intended to take. He knew exactly where he was going and had no desire to risk a wrong turn. When he stopped at the first red light, he took out the man’s wallet and saw he was called Kurt Wallander, forty years old.
The lights changed, and he moved on. He kept a close eye on the rear mirror the whole time.
After the second red light he started to think he had a car on his tail. Could the cop have had a backup? If so, there would soon be problems. When he came to a multi-lane highway, he stepped on the gas. He suddenly felt he could have been imagining things. Maybe they were on their own after all?
The man in the passenger seat started groaning and moving. Victor Mabasha could see he must have hit him precisely as hard as he had intended.
He turned into the cemetery and came to a halt in the shadow of a green building containing a shop that sold flowers and wreaths during the day. Now it was closed and in darkness. He turned off his lights and watched the cars taking the slip road. None of them seemed to be slowing down.
He waited another ten minutes. But nothing happened, apart from the policeman coming to.
“Not a sound,” said Victor Mabasha, ripping off the tape over the man’s mouth.
A cop understands, he thought. He knows when a guy means what he says. He then began to wonder if a man who abducted a policeman risked hanging in Sweden.
He got out of the car, listened, and looked around. All was quiet, apart from the passing traffic. He walked round the car, opened the door and motioned to the man to get out. Then he led him to one of the iron gates and they soon disappeared in the darkness consuming the gravel paths and gravestones.
Victor Mabasha led him over to the burial vault where he had managed to open the iron door without difficulty. It smelled musty in the damp vault, but he was not scared by graveyards. He had often hidden among the dead in the past.
He had bought a hurricane lamp and an extra sleeping bag. At first the cop refused to go with him into the vault, and put up a show of resistance.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you, either. But you’ve got to go in there.”
He tucked the cop into one of the sleeping bags, lit the lamp, and went out to see if the light could be seen. But it was all dark.
Once again he stood still and listened. The many years he had spent constantly on the alert had developed his hearing. Something had moved on a gravel path. The cop’s backup, he thought. Or some nocturnal animal.
In the end he decided it was not a threat. He went back into the vault and squatted opposite the cop, whose name was Kurt Wallander.
The fear Wallander had first felt had now become positive fright, perhaps even terror.
“If you do as I say no harm will come to you,” said Victor Mabasha. “But you must answer my questions. And you must tell the truth. I know you’re a cop. I can see you’re looking at my left hand and the bandage all the time. That means you’ve found my finger. The one Konovalenko cut off. I want to tell you right away he was the one who killed the woman. It’s up to you if you believe me or not. I only came to this country to stay for a short time, and I’ve decided to kill only one person. Konovalenko. But you have to help me first by telling me where he is. Once Konovalenko’s dead, I’ll let you go right away.”
Victor Mabasha waited for a reply. Then he remembered something he had forgotten.
“I don’t suppose you have a shadow?” he asked. “A car following you?”
The man shook his head.
“You’re on your own?”
“Yes,” said the policeman, making a face.
“I had to make sure you didn’t start struggling,” said Victor Mabasha. “But I don’t think my punch did too much damage.”
“No,” said the man, grimacing.
Victor Mabasha sat there in silence. There was no rush for the moment. The cop would feel calmer if everything was quiet.
Victor Mabasha did not blame him for being afraid. He knew how abandoned a man could feel when he was terrified.
“Konovalenko,” he said quietly. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” said Wallander.
