Victor Mabasha eyed him up and down, and realized the cop knew who Konovalenko was, but did not actually know where he was. That was unfortunate. That would make everything more difficult, would take more time. But it wouldn’t really change anything fundamentally. Together, they would be able to find Konovalenko.
Victor Mabasha slowly recounted everything that had happened when the woman was killed. But he said nothing about why he was in Sweden in the first place.
“So he was the one who blew the house up?” said Wallander when he was through.
“You know what happened now,” said Victor Mabasha. “Now it’s your turn to put me in the picture.”
The cop had suddenly calmed down, even if he did seem put out at being in a cold, damp burial vault. Behind their backs were caskets inside sarcophagi, stacked on top of one another.
“Do you have a name?” he asked.
“Just call me Goli,” said Victor Mabasha. “That’ll do.”
“And you come from South Africa?”
“Maybe. But that’s not important.”
“It’s important for me.”
“The only thing that’s important for both of us is where Konovalenko is.”
The last part of this claim was spat out. The policeman understood. The fear returned to his eyes.
That very same moment Victor Mabasha stiffened. He had not relaxed his guard while talking to the policeman. Now his sensitive ears had picked up a noise outside the vault. He gestured to the cop to keep still. Then he took out his pistol and turned down the flame in the hurricane lamp.
There was somebody outside the vault. And it was not an animal. The movements were too meticulously cautious.
He leaned rapidly over the cop and grabbed him by the throat.
“For the last time,” he hissed, “was there anybody tailing you?”
“No. Nobody. I swear.”
Victor Mabasha let go. Konovalenko, he thought in a fury. I don’t know how you do it, but I do know now why Jan Kleyn wants you working for him in South Africa.
They could not stay in the vault. He eyed the hurricane lamp. That was their chance.
“When I open the door, throw the lamp to the left,” he said to the cop, untying his hands at the same time. He turned up the flame as far as it would go, and handed it over.
“Jump to the right,” he whispered. “Crouch down. Don’t get in my line of fire.”
He could see the cop wanted to protest. But he raised his hand and Wallander said nothing. Then he cocked the pistol and they got ready for action.
“I’ll count to three,” he said.
He flung open the iron door and the cop hurled the lamp to the left. Victor Mabasha fired at the same moment. The cop came stumbling behind him and he almost overbalanced. Just then he heard shots from at least two different weapons. He threw himself to one side and crawled behind a gravestone. The cop crawled off in some other direction. The hurricane lamp lit up the burial vault. Victor Mabasha detected a movement in one corner and fired. The bullet hit the iron door and disappeared whining into the vault. Another shot shattered the hurricane lamp and everything went black. Somebody scampered away along one of the gravel paths. Then all was quiet once more.
Kurt Wallander could feel his heart pounding like a piston against his ribs. He did not seem able to breathe properly, and thought he’d been hit. But there was no blood, and he couldn’t feel any pain apart from his tongue, which he had bitten some time ago. With great care he crawled behind a tall gravestone. He lay there absolutely still. His heart was still pounding away. Victor Mabasha was nowhere to be seen. Once he was sure he was alone, he started running. He stumbled his way forward along the gravel paths, running towards the lights on the main road, and the noise from what cars were still out. He kept running until he was outside the boundary fence of the cemetery. He stopped at a bus stop and managed to wave down a cab on its way back to the city from Arlanda airport.
“Central Hotel,” he gasped.
The driver eyed him up and down in suspicion.
“I don’t know if I want you in my cab,” he said. “You’ll make everything filthy.”
“I’m a cop, dammit,” Wallander roared. “Just drive!”
The driver pulled away from the bus stop. When they got to the hotel he paid for the taxi without waiting for either a receipt or his change, and collected his key from the receptionist, who stared at his clothes in astonishment. It was midnight when he closed the door behind him and collapsed onto the bed.
When he had calmed down, he called Linda.
“Why are you calling as late as this?” she wondered.
“I’ve been busy until now,” he said. “I didn’t have a chance to call you earlier.”
“Why do you sound so funny? Is something the matter?”
Wallander had a lump in his throat and was on the point of bursting into tears. But he managed to control himself.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“Are you sure everything’s all right?”
“Everything’s fine. Why shouldn’t it be?”
“You know better than I do.”
“Don’t you remember from when you used to live at home that I was always out working at strange hours?”
“I guess so,” she said. “I’d forgotten.”
He made up his mind on the spur of the moment.
“I’m coming over to your place in Bromma,” he said. “Don’t ask me why. I’ll explain later.”
He left the hotel and took a cab to where she lived in Bromma. Then they sat at the kitchen table with a beer each, and he told her what had happened.
“They say it’s good for kids to get some idea of what their parents do at work,” she said, shaking her head. “Weren’t you scared?”
“Of course I was scared. These people have no respect at all for human life.”
“Why don’t you send the cops after them?”
“I’m a cop myself. And I need to think.”
“Meanwhile they might kill a few more people.”
He nodded.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’ll go to the station at Kungsholmen. But I felt I needed to talk to you first.”
“I’m glad you came.”
She went out into the hall with him.
“Why did you ask if I was at home?” she asked suddenly, as he was about to leave. “Why didn’t you say you stopped by yesterday?”
Wallander did not know what she meant.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“I met Mrs. Nilson when I got home, she lives next door,” she said. “She told me you’d been here asking if I was in. You have a key, don’t you?”
“I haven’t spoken with any Mrs. Nilson,” said Wallander.
“Maybe I got her wrong, then,” she said.
A shiver suddenly ran down Wallander’s spine.
“What did she say?”
“One more time,” he said. “You came home. You met Mrs. Nilson. She said I’d been asking after you?”
“Yep.”
“Repeat what she said, word for word.”
“Your dad’s been asking after you. That’s all.”
Wallander felt scared.
“I’ve never met Mrs. Nilson,” he said. “How can she know what I look like? How can she know I’m me?”
It was a while before she caught on.
