didn’t have any that could lead her to abandon her family and cause all this worry.”
Wallander had no more questions.
It doesn’t add up, he thought again. There’s something in this picture of perfection that simply doesn’t add up.
He got to his feet and thanked Pastor Tureson.
“I’ll be talking with other members of your congregation,” he said. “If she doesn’t turn up, that is.”
“She’ll have to turn up,” said Pastor Tureson. “There’s no other possibility.”
It was five minutes past four when Wallander left the Methodist chapel. It had started raining, and he shivered in the wind. He sat in the car for a while, feeling tired. It was as if he couldn’t cope with the thought that two little girls had lost their mother.
At half past four they were all gathered in Bjork’s office at the police station. Martinson was slumped back on the sofa; Svedberg leaned against a wall. As usual he was scratching his bald head, as if searching absentmindedly for the hair he had lost. Wallander sat on a wooden chair. Bjork was leaning over his desk, engrossed in a telephone conversation. At last he put down the receiver and told Ebba they were not to be disturbed for the next half-hour. Unless it was Robert Akerblom.
“Where are we?” asked Bjork. “Where shall we start?”
“We’ve gotten nowhere,” replied Wallander.
“I’ve filled in Svedberg and Martinson,” Bjork went on. “We’ve put out a search for her car. All the usual routines for missing person cases we consider to be serious.”
“Not consider to be serious,” said Wallander. “They are serious. If there had been an accident, we’d have heard about it by now. But we haven’t. That means we’re dealing with a crime. I’m convinced she’s dead.”
Martinson started to ask a question, but Wallander interrupted and summarized what he’d been doing that afternoon. He had to get his colleagues to see what he had realized. A person like Louise Akerblom wouldn’t voluntarily abandon her family.
Somebody or something must have forced her to fail to turn up at home at five o’clock, as she had promised on the telephone.
“It sounds nasty, no doubt about that,” said Bjork when Wallander had finished.
“Real estate agent, free church member, family,” said Martinson. “Maybe it all got too much for her? She buys the pastries, drives off home. Then all of a sudden she turns around and heads for Copenhagen instead.”
“We have to find the car,” said Svedberg. “Without that, we won’t get anywhere.”
“First of all we have to find the house she was going to see,” Wallander pointed out. “Hasn’t Robert Akerblom called yet?”
No one had heard from him.
“If she really did go to see that house somewhere near Krageholm, we ought to be able to follow her tracks until we find her, or until the tracks come to an end.”
“Peters and Noren have been combing the side roads around Krageholm,” said Bjork. “No Toyota Corolla. They did find a stolen truck, though.”
Wallander took the cassette from the answering machine out of his pocket. With some considerable difficulty they eventually managed to find a machine to play it. They all stood around the desk, listening to Louise Akerblom’s voice.
“We have to analyze the tape,” said Wallander. “I can’t imagine what the technical guys could possibly find. But still.”
“One thing is clear,” said Martinson. “When she left her message she wasn’t threatened or pressured, scared or worried, desperate or unhappy.”
“Which means something must have happened,” said Wallander. “Between three and five. Somewhere in the area of Skurup, Krageholm, Ystad. Just over three days ago.”
“How was she dressed?” asked Bjork.
Wallander suddenly realized he’d forgotten to ask her husband this most basic question. He admitted as much.
“I still think there could be a natural explanation,” said Martinson thoughtfully. “It’s like you say yourself, Kurt. She’s not the type to disappear of her own free will. But in spite of everything, assault and murder are still pretty rare. I think we should go about it in the usual way. Let’s not get hysterical.”
“I’m not hysterical,” said Wallander, realizing he was getting mad. “I know what I think, though, and I think certain conclusions speak for themselves.”
Bjork was just about to intervene when the telephone rang.
“I said we shouldn’t be disturbed,” said Bjork.
Wallander quickly put his hand over the receiver.
“It could be Robert Akerblom,” he said. “Maybe it’s best if I talk to him?”
He picked up the phone and gave his name.
“Robert Akerblom here. Have you found Louise?”
“No,” said Wallander. “Not yet.”
“The widow just called,” said Robert Akerblom. “I have a map. I’m going there myself to take a look.”
Wallander thought for a moment.
“I’ll take you there,” he said. “That’ll probably be best. I’ll come right away. Can you make a few copies of the map? Five will do.”
“OK,” said Robert Akerblom.
Wallander thought how truly religious people were usually law-abiding and compliant with authority. Yet nobody could have stopped Robert Akerblom from going out on his own to look for his wife.
Wallander slammed down the receiver.
“We have a map now,” he said. “We’ll take two cars to start with. Robert Akerblom wants to come along. He can ride with me.”
“Shouldn’t we take a few patrol cars?” wondered Martinson.
“We’d have to drive as a column if we did that,” said Wallander. “Let’s take a look at the map first, and draw up a plan. Then we can send out everything we’ve got.”
“Call me if anything happens,” said Bjork. “Here or at home.”
Wallander almost ran down the corridor. He was in a hurry. He had to know if the track just petered out. Or if Louise Akerblom was out there somewhere.
They took the map Robert Akerblom had sketched in accordance with what he’d heard and spread it out over the hood of Wallander’s car. Svedberg had dried it first with his handkerchief, as it had rained earlier that afternoon.
“E14,” said Svedberg, “As far as the exit for Katslosa and Lake Kade. Take a left to Knickarp, then a right, then left again, and look for a dirt road.”
“Wait a minute,” said Wallander. “If you’d been in Skurup, which road would you have taken then?”
There were lots of possibilities. After some discussion Wallander turned to Robert Akerblom.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I think Louise would have taken a minor road,” he said without hesitation. “She didn’t like all the traffic on the E14. I think she’d have gone via Svaneholm and Brodda.”
“Even if she was in a hurry? If she had to be home by five o’clock?”
“Even then,” said Robert Akerblom.
“You take that road,” said Wallander to Martinson and Svedberg. “We’ll go straight to the house. We can use the car phone if we need to.”
They drove out of Ystad. Wallander let Martinson and Svedberg pass, since they had the longest distance to travel. Robert Akerblom sat staring straight ahead. Wallander kept glancing at him. He was rubbing his hands anxiously, as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether or not to clasp them together.
Wallander could feel Akerbom’s tension. What would they find?
He braked as they approached the exit for Lake Kade, let a truck pass, and recalled how he had driven along the same road one morning two years before, when an old farmer and his wife had been beaten to death in a remote farmhouse. He shuddered at the memory, and thought as he so often did of his colleague Rydberg, who died last year. Every time Wallander was faced with an investigation out of the ordinary, he missed the experience and
