“I can feel a cold coming on,” said Martinson. “I had it with me when we were sitting here yesterday.”
Wallander could not remember Martinson having a cap with him the previous day when he and Svedberg had been in Wallander’s office to go through the latest developments in the investigation and the hitherto fruitless search for Konovalenko.
“Look on the floor under the chair,” said Wallander.
When Martinson bent down Wallander hastily stuffed the passport into his pocket.
“Nothing,” said Martinson. “I’m always losing my caps.”
“Ask the cleaner,” Wallander suggested.
Martinson was about to leave when something struck him.
“Do you remember Peter Hanson?” he asked.
“How could I ever forget him?” wondered Wallander.
“Svedberg called him a few days ago and asked about a few details in the interrogation report. Then he told Peter Hanson about the break-in at your apartment. Thieves generally know what each other is up to. Svedberg thought it might be worth a try. Peter Hanson called in today and said maybe he knew who did it.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Wallander. “If he can arrange for me to get back my records and tapes, I’ll forget about the hi-fi.”
“Have a word with Svedberg tomorrow,” said Martinson. “And don’t stay here all night.”
“I was just about to leave,” said Wallander, getting to his feet.
Martinson paused in the doorway.
“Do you think we’ll get him?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Wallander. “Of course we’ll get him. Konovalenko isn’t going to get away.”
“I wonder if he’s still in the country,” said Martinson.
“We have to assume that,” said Wallander.
“What about the African who’s missing a finger?”
“No doubt Konovalenko can explain that.”
Martinson nodded doubtfully.
“One other thing,” he added. “It’s Louise Akerblom’s funeral tomorrow.”
Wallander looked at him. But he said nothing.
The funeral was at two o‘clock on Wednesday afternoon. Wallander wondered whether or not he should go right to the last minute. He had no personal connections with the Akerblom family. The woman they were burying had been dead when he first came into contact with her. On the other hand, might it be misunderstood if somebody from the police was there? Not least in view of the fact that the killer had not yet been nailed. Wallander had trouble figuring out why he was thinking of going. Was it curiosity? Or a guilty conscience? All the same, at one o’clock he changed into a dark suit and spent some time looking for his white necktie. Victor Mabasha sat watching him tying the knot in front of the hall mirror.
“I’m going to a funeral,” said Wallander. “The woman Konovalenko killed.”
Victor Mabasha stared at him in astonishment.
“Only now?” he asked in surprise. “Back home we bury our dead as soon as possible. So they don’t walk.”
“We don’t believe in ghosts,” said Wallander.
“Spirits aren’t ghosts,” said Victor Mabasha. “I sometimes wonder how it’s possible for white folk to understand so little.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Wallander. “Or maybe you’re wrong. It could be the other way around.”
Then he went out. He noticed that Victor Mabasha’s question had annoyed him.
Does that black bastard think he can come here and tell me what to think? he thought irreverently. Where would he be without me and the help I’ve given him?
He parked his car some way from the chapel at the crematorium and waited while the bells were ringing and the black-clad congregation entered. Only when a janitor started closing the doors did he go in himself and sit in the back. A man a couple of rows in front of him turned round and greeted him. He was a journalist from the Ystad Chronicle.
Then he listened to the organ music and felt a lump in his throat. Funerals were a great strain as far as he was concerned. He dreaded the day he would have to follow his father to the grave. His mother’s funeral eleven years ago could still conjure up unpleasant memories. He was supposed to make a short speech over the bier, but had broken down and rushed out of the church.
He tried to control his emotions by contemplating the rest of the congregation. Robert Akerblom was on the front row with his two daughters, both wearing white dresses. Next to them was Pastor Tureson, who would be in charge of the burial.
He suddenly started thinking about the handcuffs he found in a desk drawer at the Akerbloms’ house. It was over a week since he last thought about them.
He thought how policemen have a sort of curiosity that goes beyond the immediate investigative work. Maybe it’s a kind of occupational hazard brought on by having to spend so many years delving into the most private parts of peoples’ lives. I know those handcuffs can be excluded from the murder investigation. They have no significance. All the same I’m ready to spend time and effort trying to figure out why they were in that drawer. Trying to figure out what they meant to Louise Akerblom, and maybe also her husband.
He shuddered at the unpleasant implications of his train of thought, and concentrated on the funeral service. At one point during Pastor Tureson’s homily he caught the eye of Robert Akerblom. Despite the distance he could sense the depths of sorrow and forlornness. The lump came back into his throat, and tears started to flow. In order to regain control of his emotions he started thinking about Konovalenko. Like most of the other cops in Sweden, no doubt, Wallander was secretly pro death penalty. Quite apart from the scandal that it had been enforced against traitors during the war, it was not that he saw it as a knee-jerk reaction to a certain kind of crime. It was rather that certain murders, certain assaults, certain drug offenses were so appallingly immoral, so crass in their disregard of human dignity, that he could not help feeling the perpetrators had forfeited all right to life themselves. He could see that his thinking was riddled with contradictions, and that laws to introduce it would be impossible and unjust. It was just his raw experience speaking, unrefined yet painful. What he was forced to come up against because he was a cop. Things that caused reactions, irrational and excruciating.
After the interment he shook hands solemnly with Robert Akerblom and the other principal mourners. He avoided looking at the two daughters, afraid of bursting into tears.
Pastor Tureson took him to one side outside the chapel. “Your presence was very much appreciated,” he told Wallander. “Nobody had expected the police to send a representative to the funeral.”
“I’m representing nobody but myself,” said Wallander.
“So much the better that you came,” said Pastor Tureson. “Are you still looking for the man behind the tragedy?”
Wallander nodded.
“But you will catch him?”
Wallander nodded again.
“Yes,” he said. “Sooner or later. How’s Robert Akerblom taking it? And the daughters?”
“The support they’re getting from the church is all-important to them just now,” said Pastor Tureson. “And then, he has his God.”
“You mean he still believes?” wondered Wallander quietly.
Pastor Tureson frowned.
“Why should he abandon his God for something human beings have done to him and his family?”
“No,” said Wallander quietly. “Why should he do that?”
“There’ll be a meeting at the church in an hour,” said Pastor Tureson. “You’re welcome to come.”
“Thanks,” said Wallander. “But I’ve got to get back to work.”
They shook hands and Wallander returned to his car. It suddenly dawned on him that spring had really arrived.
Just wait till Victor Mabasha has left, he thought. Just wait till we’ve caught Konovalenko. Then I can devote myself to spring.
On Thursday morning Wallander drove his daughter out to his father’s house in Loderup. When they got
