he noted that Konovalenko had stopped and turned around before running off in a different direction. The tracks led back up to the cliff. Wallander realized they would disappear as soon as they came to the grass. He scrambled up the slope and saw he was at the eastern edge of the training ground. He stopped to listen. Far behind him he could hear the sound of a siren fading away into the distance. Then a sheep bleated, very close by. Silence once again. He followed the fence northwards. It was the only bearing he had. He half-expected Konovalenko to loom up out of the fog at any moment. Wallander tried to imagine what it must be like to be shot through the head. But he could not feel anything. The whole purpose of his life just now was to follow that fence along the perimeter of the training ground, nothing else. Konovalenko was somewhere out there with his gun and Wallander was going to find him.
When Wallander hit the road to Sandhammaren, there was nothing to see but fog. He thought he could make out the dim shape of a horse on the other side, standing motionless, ears cocked.
Then he stood in the middle of the road and urinated. In the distance he could hear a car going by on the road to Kristianstad.
He started walking towards Kaseberga. Konovalenko had disappeared. He had escaped yet again. Wallander was walking aimlessly. Walking was easier than standing still. He wished Baiba Leipa would emerge from the whiteness and come towards him. But there was nothing. Just him and the damp asphalt.
A bicycle leaned against the remains of an old milk pallet. It was unlocked, and it seemed to Wallander someone had left it there for him. He used the baggage rack for the shotgun and cycled off. As soon as possible he turned off the road onto the dirt roads criss-crossing the plain. Eventually he came to his father’s house. It was dark, apart from a single lamp outside the front door. He stood still and listened. Then he hid the bicycle behind the shed. He tiptoed carefully over the gravel. He knew his father had a spare key hidden underneath a broken flowerpot on the outside stairs leading down to the cellar. He unlocked the door to his father’s studio. There was an inside room where he kept his paints and old canvases. He closed the door behind him and switched on the light. The brightness from the bulb took him by surprise. It was as if he expected the fog to be here as well. He ducked under the cold water tap and tried to rinse the blood off his face. He could see his reflection in a broken mirror on the wall. He did not recognize his own eyes. They were staring, bloodshot, shifting anxiously. He heated up some coffee on the filthy electric hot plate. It was four in the morning. He knew his father generally got up at half past five. He would have to be gone by then. What he needed just now was a hideaway. Various alternatives, all of them impossible, flashed through his mind. But in the end he decided what to do. He drank his coffee, left the studio, crossed over the courtyard, and carefully unlocked the door to the main house. He stood in the hall, and could smell the acrid, oldmannish aroma in his nostrils. He listened. Not a sound. He went cautiously into the kitchen where the telephone was, closing the door behind him. To his surprise he remembered the number. With his hand on the receiver, he thought about what he was going to say. Then he dialed.
Sten Widen answered almost right away. Wallander could hear he was already wide awake. Horsey people get up early, he thought.
“Sten? It’s Kurt Wallander.”
Once upon a time they had been very close friends. Wallander knew he hardly ever displayed a trace of surprise.
“I can hear that,” he said. “You’re calling at four in the morning?”
“I need your help.”
Sten Widen said nothing. He was waiting to hear more.
“On the road to Sandhammaren,” said Wallander. “You’ll have to come and get me. I need to hide in your house for a while. A few hours at least.”
“Where?” asked Sten Widen.
Then he started coughing.
He’s still smoking those cheroots, thought Wallander.
“I’ll wait for you at the Kaseberga exit,” he said. “What kind of car do you have?”
“An old Duett.”
“How long will it take you?”
“It’s thick fog. Say forty-five minutes. Maybe a little less.”
“I’ll be there. Thanks for your help.”
He hung up and left the kitchen. Then he could not resist the temptation. He walked through the living room where the old television set was, and carefully pulled aside the curtain to the guest room where his daughter was sleeping. In the weak light from the lamp outside the kitchen door, he could see her hair and forehead, some of her nose. She was fast asleep.
Then he left the house and cleaned up after himself in the inside room of the studio. He cycled down to the main road and turned right. When he came to the Kaseberga exit he put the bicycle behind a hut belonging to the telephone company, concealed himself in the shadows, and settled down to wait. The fog was just as thick as before. Suddenly a police car flashed past on the way to Sandhammaren. Wallander thought he recognized Peters behind the wheel.
His thoughts turned to Sten Widen. They had not met for over a year. In connection with a criminal investigation Wallander had gotten the idea of calling on him at his stables near the ruined castle at Stjarnsund. That was where he trained a number of trotting horses. He lived alone, probably drank too much and too often, and had unclear relationships with his female employees. Once upon a time they had shared a common dream. Sten Widen had a fine baritone voice. He was going to become an opera singer, and Wallander would be his impresario. But the dream faded away, their friendship dissolved, and finally ceased to be.
Even so, he’s perhaps the only real friend I’ve ever had, thought Wallander as he waited in the fog. If I don’t count Rydberg. But that was something different. We’d never have gotten close to each other if we hadn’t both been cops.
Forty minutes later the wine-red Duett came gliding through the fog. Wallander emerged from behind the hut and got into the car. Sten Widen looked at his face, dirty, smeared with blood. But as usual he displayed no surprise.
“I’ll explain later,” said Wallander.
“When it suits you,” said Sten Widen. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth, and smelled of strong liquor.
They passed the training ground. Wallander crouched down and made himself invisible. There were several police cars by the side of the road. Sten Widen slowed down but did not stop. The road was clear, no roadblocks. He looked across at Wallander, who was still trying to hide. But he said nothing. They drove past Ystad, Skurup, then took a right towards Stjarnsund. The fog was still as thick as ever when they turned into the stable yard. A girl of about seventeen stood yawning and smoking in front of the stalls.
“My face has been in the newspapers and on TV,” said Wallander. “I’d prefer to be anonymous.”
“Ulrika doesn’t read the papers,” said Sten Widen. “If she ever watches TV, it’s just videos. I have another girl, Kristina. She won’t say anything either.”
They went into the untidy, chaotic house. Wallander had the feeling it looked exactly the same as the last time he was there. Sten Widen asked if he was hungry. Wallander nodded and they sat down in the kitchen. He had some sandwiches and a cup of coffee. Sten Widen occasionally went out into the next room. Whenever he came back he smelled even more strongly of spirits.
“Thanks for coming for me,” said Wallander.
Sten Widen shrugged.
“No problem,” he said.
“I need a few hours’ sleep,” Wallander went on. “Then I’ll tell you what’s going on.”
“The horses have to be looked after,” said Sten Widen. “You can sleep in here.”
He got up and Wallander followed him. His exhaustion caught up with him. Sten Widen showed him into a little room with a sofa.
“I doubt if I have any clean sheets. But you can have a pillow and a blanket.”
“That’s more than enough,” said Wallander.
“You know where the bathroom is?”
Wallander nodded. He could remember.
Wallander took off his shoes. You could hear the sand crunching underfoot. He slung his jacket over a chair.
