Sten Widen stood watching him in the doorway.
“How are things?” Wallander inquired.
“I’ve started singing again,” said Sten Widen.
“You must tell me all about it,” said Wallander.
Sten Widen left the room. Wallander could hear a horse whinnying out in the yard. The last thing he thought before falling asleep was that Sten Widen was just the same as ever. The same tousled hair, the same dry eczema on his neck.
Nevertheless there was something different.
When he woke up, he was not sure where he was at first. He had a headache, and pain all over his body. He put his hand on his forehead and could feel he had a temperature. He lay still under the blanket, which smelled of horses. When he went to check his watch, he found he must have dropped it at some point during the night. He got up and went out into the kitchen. A clock on the wall showed half past eleven. He had slept for over four hours. The fog had lifted somewhat, but was still there. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. Then he stood up and opened various cabinets until he found some painkillers. Shortly afterwards the telephone rang. Wallander heard Sten Widen come in and answer it. The call had to do with hay. They were discussing the price of a delivery. When he finished talking, he came into the kitchen.
“Awake?” he asked.
“I needed some sleep,” said Wallander.
Then he told him what had happened. Sten Widen listened in silence, expressionless. Wallander started with the disappearance of Louise Akerblom. He talked about the man he had killed.
“I just had to get away,” he concluded. “I know of course my colleagues will be looking for me now. But I’ll have to tell them a white lie. Say I passed out and lay behind a bush. But I’d be grateful if you could do one thing for me. Call my daughter and tell her I’m OK. And tell her she should stay where she is.”
“Should I tell her where you are?”
“No. Not yet. But you’ve got to convince her.”
Sten Widen nodded. Wallander gave him the number. But there was no answer.
“You’ll have to keep on trying until you reach her,” he said.
One of the stable girls came into the kitchen. Wallander nodded, and she introduced herself as Kristina.
“You can go get a pizza,” said Sten Widen. “Buy a few newspapers, too. There isn’t a bite to eat in the house.”
Sten Widen gave the girl some money. She drove off in the Duett.
“You said you started singing again,” said Wallander.
Sten Widen smiled for the first time. Wallander could remember that smile, but it was many years since he had last seen it.
“I’ve joined the church choir at Svedala,” ha said. “I sometimes sing solos at funerals. I realized I was missing it. But the horses don’t like it if I sing in the stables.”
“Do you need an impresario?” wondered Wallander. “It’s hard to see how I can keep going as a cop after all this.”
“You killed in self-defense,” said Sten Widen. “I’d have done the same thing. Just thank your lucky stars you had a gun.”
“I don’t think anybody can understand what it feels like.”
“It’ll pass.”
“Never.”
“Everything passes.”
Sten Widen tried calling again. Still no answer. Wallander went out to the bathroom and took a shower. He borrowed a shirt from Sten Widen. That also smelled like horses.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“How’s what going?”
“The horse business.”
“I’ve got one that’s good. Three more that might become good. But Fog’s got talent. She’ll bring in the money. She might even be a possibility for the Derby this year.”
“Is she really called Fog?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I was thinking about last night. If I’d had a horse I might have been able to catch up with Konovalenko.”
“Not on Fog you wouldn’t. She throws riders she doesn’t know. Talented horses are often a handful. Like people. Full of themselves, and whimsical. I sometimes wonder if she should have a mirror in the horse box. But she runs fast.”
The girl called Kristina came back with the pizza and some newspapers. Then she went out again.
“Isn’t she going to eat?” asked Wallander.
“They eat in the stables,” said Sten Widen. “We have a little kitchen there.” He took the top newspaper and leafed through. One of the pages attracted his attention.
“It’s about you,” he said.
“I’d rather not know. Not yet.”
“As you like.”
Sten Widen got a reply the third time he called. It was Linda who answered, not Wallander’s father. Wallander could hear she was insisting on asking lots of questions. But Sten Widen only said what he was supposed to.
“She was very relieved,” he said when the call was over. “She promised to stay put.”
The ate their pizzas. A cat jumped up onto the table. Wallander gave it a piece. He noticed the cat smelled like horses, too.
“The fog’s lifting,” said Sten Widen. “Did I ever tell you I’d been in South Africa? Apropos of what you were just saying.”
“No,” said Wallander, surprised. “I didn’t know that.”
“When nothing came of the opera-singing business, I went away,” he said. “I wanted to get away from everything, you’ll remember that. I thought I might become a big game hunter. Or go looking for diamonds in Kimberley. Must have been something I’d read. And I actually went. Got as far as Cape Town. I stayed for three weeks, and then I’d had enough. Ran away. Came back here. And so it was horses instead, when Dad died.”
“Ran away?”
“The way those blacks were treated. I was ashamed. It was their country, but they were forced to go around cap in hand, apologizing for their existence. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ll never forget it.”
He wiped his mouth and went out. Wallander thought about what he had said. Then he realized he would soon have to go back to the police station in Ystad.
He went into the room where the telephone was, and found what he was looking for. A half-empty whiskey bottle. He unscrewed the cap, took a large mouthful, and then another. He watched Sten Widen ride past the window on a brown horse.
First I get burgled. Then they blow my apartment up. What next?
He lay down on the sofa again, and pulled the blanket up to his chin. His fever had been imagined, and his headache was gone. He would have to get up again soon.
Victor Mabasha was dead. Konovalenko had shot him. The investigation into Louise Akerblom’s disappearance and death was littered with dead bodies. He could see no way out. How were they ever going to catch up with Konovalenko?
After a while he fell asleep. He did not wake up again for another four hours.
Sten Widen was in the kitchen, reading an evening paper.
“You’re wanted,” he said.
Wallander looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“Who is?”
“You,” repeated Sten Widen. “You’re wanted. They’ve sent out an APB. You can also read between the lines that they think you’ve gone temporarily insane.”
