Wallander grabbed hold of the newspaper. There was a picture of him, and of Bjork.
Sten Widen was telling the truth. He was a wanted man. He and Konovalenko. They also suspected he might not be fit to look after himself.
Wallander stared in horror at Sten Widen.
“Call my daughter,” he said.
“I already did,” he said. “And I told her you were still compos mentis.”
“Did she believe you?”
“Yes. She believed me.”
Wallander sat there motionless. Then he made up his mind. He would play the role they had given him. A chief detective inspector from Ystad, temporarily out of his mind, missing and wanted. That would give him the thing he needed above all else.
Time.
When Konovalenko caught sight of Wallander in the fog down by the sea, in the field with the sheep, he realized to his astonishment that he was up against a worthy opponent. It was at the very moment Victor Mabasha was thrown backwards and was dead before he hit the ground. Konovalenko heard a roar coming out of the fog, and turned around while crouching down. And there he was, the chubby provincial cop who had defied him time and time again. Konovalenko could now see he had underestimated him. He watched as Rykoff was hit by two bullets that ripped open his rib cage. Using the dead African as a shield, Konovalenko backed up as far as the beach, knowing that Wallander would come after him. He would not give up, and it was clear now that he was dangerous.
Konovalenko ran along the beach in the fog. At the same time he called Tania on the mobile phone he had with him. She was waiting at the square in Ystad with a car. He got as far as the perimeter fence, scrambled up onto the road, and saw a sign pointing to Kaseberga. He directed her out of Ystad by telephone, talking to her all the time, and urged her to drive carefully. He said nothing about Vladimir being dead. That would come later. All the time he kept an eye out behind him. Wallander was not far away and he was dangerous, the first ruthless Swede he had come up against at close quarters. He could not believe what had happened. Wallander was just a provincial cop, after all. There was something about his behavior that simply did not add up.
Tania arrived, Konovalenko took over the wheel, and they drove back to the house near Tomelilla.
“Where’s Vladimir?” she asked.
“He’ll be coming later,” replied Konovalenko. “We were forced to split up. I’ll get him later.”
“What about the African?”
“Dead.”
“The cop?”
No answer. Tania realized something had gone wrong. Konovalenko was driving too fast. There was something bugging him.
It was while they were still in the car that Tania realized Vladimir was dead. But she said nothing, and managed to keep up the facade until they got back to the house where Sikosi Tsiki was sitting on a chair watching them, his face devoid of expression. Then she started screaming. Konovalenko slapped her, on the cheek with the flat of his hand at first, then harder and harder. But she kept on screaming until he managed to force some sedatives down her throat, so many they practically knocked her out. Sikosi Tsiki sat watching them the whole time from the sofa, without moving. Konovalenko had the impression he was performing on a stage, with Sikosi Tsiki the only member of the audience, albeit an attentive one. Once Tania had sunk into the no-man’s-land between deep sleep and unconsciousness, Konovalenko got changed and poured himself a glass of vodka. The fact that Victor Mabasha was dead at last did not give him the satisfaction he had expected. It solved the immediate practical problems, not least his sensitive relationship with Jan Kleyn. But he knew Wallander would come after him.
He would not give in. He would pick up the trail once more.
Konovalenko drank another glass of vodka.
The African on the sofa is a dumb animal, he thought. He watches me all the time, not in a friendly way, not unfriendly either, just watching. He says nothing, asks nothing. He could sit like that for days on end if anyone asked him to.
Konovalenko still had nothing to say to him. With every minute that passed, Wallander would be getting closer. What was needed now was an offensive on his part. Preparing for the actual assignment, the assassination in South Africa, would have to wait for a while.
He knew Wallander’s weak spot. That was what Konovalenko wanted to get at. But where was his daughter? Somewhere not far away, presumably in Ystad. But not in the apartment.
It took him an hour to figure out a solution to the problem. It was a very risky plan. But he had realized there was no such thing as a risk-free strategy as far as this remarkable cop Wallander was concerned.
Since Tania was the key to his plan and she was going to be asleep for many hours, all he needed to do was to wait. But he did not forget for one moment that Wallander was out there in the fog and darkness, and that he was getting closer all the time.
“I gather the big man won’t be coming back,” Sikosi Tsiki said suddenly. His voice was very husky, his English singsong.
“He made a mistake,” said Konovalenko. “He was too slow. Perhaps he thought there was a way back. But there isn’t.”
That was all Sikosi Tsiki said that night. He got up from the sofa and went back to his room. It occurred to Konovalenko that, despite everything, he preferred the replacement Jan Kleyn had sent. He would remember to point that out when he called South Africa the following night.
He was the only one still awake. The drapes were carefully drawn, and he refilled his glass with vodka.
He went to bed shortly before five in the morning.
Tania arrived at the police station in Ystad just before one in the afternoon on Saturday, May 16. She was still groggy, as a result of the shock over Vladimir’s death and the strong sedatives Konovalenko had given her. But she was also determined. Wallander was the guy who had killed her husband. The cop who visited them in Hallunda. Konovalenko had described Vladimir’s death in a way that bore little resemblance to what actually happened in the fog. As far as Tania was concerned, Wallander was a monster of uncontrolled, sadistic brutality. For Vladimir’s sake she would play the part Konovalenko had given her. Eventually there would be an opportunity to kill him.
She entered the reception area at the police station. A woman in a glass cage smiled at her.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“My car was broken into,” said Tania.
“Oh, dear,” said the receptionist. “I’ll see if there’s anybody who can deal with you. The whole place is upside down today.”
“I can imagine,” said Tania. “Wasn’t it awful, what happened.”
“I never thought we’d live to see anything like this happening in Ystad,” said the receptionist. “But obviously, you never know.”
She tried several numbers. Eventually someone answered.
“Is that Martinson? Do you have time to deal with a theft from a car?”
Tania could hear an excited voice at the other end of the line, harassed, negative. But the woman would not give up.
“We have to try and function normally, in spite of everything,” she said. “I can’t find anybody but you. And it won’t take long.”
The man on the phone conceded.
“You can talk to Detective Inspector Martinson,” she said, pointing. “Third door on the left.”
Tania knocked and entered the office, which was in a terrible mess. The man behind the desk looked weary and harassed. His desk was stacked up with paper. He looked at her with ill-concealed irritation, but he invited her to sit down and started rummaging through a drawer for a form.
“Car break-in,” he said.
“Yes,” said Tania. “The thief got away with my radio.”
“They usually do,” said Martinson.
“Please excuse me,” said Tania, “but I wonder if could have a glass of water? I have such a nagging cough.”
