Martinson looked at her in surprise.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Of course you can have a glass of water.”
He got up and left the room.
Tania had already noticed the address book on his desk. As soon as Martinson went out, she picked it up and found the letter W. Wallander’s home number at the Mariagatan apartment was listed, and his father’s number as well. Tania wrote it down quickly on a piece of paper she had in her coat pocket. Then she replaced the address book and looked around the office.
Martinson came back with a glass of water, and a cup of coffee for himself. The telephone started ringing, but he picked up the receiver and laid it on the desk. Then he asked his questions and she described the imaginary break-in. She gave the registration number of a car she had seen parked in the center of town. They had taken a radio, and a bag containing liquor. Martinson wrote it all down, and when he had finished he asked her to read it through and sign. She called herself Irma Alexanderson, and gave an address on the Malmo Road. She handed the sheet of paper back to Martinson.
“You must be very worried about your colleague,” she said in a friendly tone. “What was his name, now? Wallander?”
“Yes,” said Martinson. “It’s not easy.”
“I’m sorry for his daughter,” she said. “I used to be her music teacher once upon a time. But then she moved to Stockholm.”
Martinson looked at her with somewhat renewed interest.
“She’s back here again now,” he said.
“Really?” said Tania. “She must have been very lucky, then, when the apartment burned down.”
“She’s with her grandfather,” said Martinson, replacing the telephone receiver.
Tania got up.
“I won’t disturb you any longer,” she said. “Many thanks for your help.”
“No problem,” said Martinson, shaking her by the hand.
Tania knew he would forget her the moment she left the room. The dark wig she was wearing over her own blond hair meant he would never be able to recognize her.
She nodded to the woman in reception, passed by a crowd of journalists who were waiting for a press conference due to begin any time now, and left the police station.
Konovalenko was waiting in his car at the gas station on the hill leading to the town center. She got into the car.
“Wallander’s daughter is staying with his father,” she said. “I’ve got his telephone number.”
Konovalenko looked at her. Then he broke into a smile.
“We’ve got her,” he said quietly. “We’ve got her. And when we’ve got her, we’ve got him as well.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Wallander dreamed he was walking on water.
The world he found himself in was a strange blue color. The sky and its jagged clouds were blue, the edge of a forest in the far distance was also blue, and the cliff face was cluttered with blue birds roosting. And there was the sea he was walking on as well. Konovalenko was also somewhere in the dream. Wallander had been following his tracks in the sand. But then, instead of turning up toward the slope leading away from the beach, they went straight out into the sea. In his dream it was obvious that he should follow them. And so he walked on water. It was like walking over a thin layer of fine glass splinters. The surface of the water was uneven, but it bore his weight. Somewhere, beyond the last of those blue islets, close to the horizon, was Konovalenko.
He remembered his dream when he woke up early on Sunday morning, May 17. He was on the sofa in Sten Widen’s house. He padded out into the kitchen and noted it was half past five. A quick look into Sten Widen’s bedroom revealed that he was up already, and had gone out to the horses. Wallander poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table.
The previous evening he had tried to start thinking again.
In one sense his situation was easy to assess. He was a wanted man, and they were looking for him. But he could be wounded, he could be dead. Moreover, he had pointed guns at his colleagues and thus demonstrated that he was out of his mind. In order to catch Konovalenko they would also have to track down Chief Inspector Wallander from Ystad. So far, his situation was quite clear. The previous day, when Sten Widen told him what was in the evening papers, he had decided to play the part assigned to him. That would give him time. And he needed that time in order to catch up with Konovalenko and, if necessary, kill him.
Wallander realized he was setting up a sacrificial lamb. Himself. He doubted whether the police could arrest Konovalenko without more cops being injured, perhaps killed. And therefore he would sacrifice himself. The very thought terrified him. But he felt he could not run away. He had to achieve what he had set out to do, regardless of the consequences.
Wallander tried to imagine what Konovalenko was thinking. He concluded that Konovalenko could not be completely indifferent to his existence. Even if Konovalenko did not regard him as a worthy adversary, he must have gathered that Wallander was a cop who went his own way and did not hesitate to use a gun if necessary. If nothing else that should have earned him a certain amount of respect, even if Konovalenko knew deep down that the basic assumption was false. Wallander was a cop who never took unnecessary risks. He was both cowardly and cautious. When he reacted in primitive fashion, it was always because he was in desperate circumstances. But by all means let Konovalenko go on thinking I’m not the man I really am, thought Wallander.
He had also tried to figure out what Konovalenko had in mind. He had returned to Skane, and succeeded in killing Victor Mabasha. Wallander had difficulty in believing he was acting on his own. He had brought Rykoff with him, but how had he managed to get away without outside help? Rykoff’s wife, Tania, must be around, and maybe other henchmen Wallander didn’t know about. They had rented a house under a false name before. Maybe they’ve hidden themselves away again in some remote house out in the sticks.
Having got that far, Wallander realized there was another important question still waiting to be resolved.
What happens after Victor Mabasha, he wondered. What about the assassination that was the center of everything that’s happened? What about the invisible organization that’s pulling all the strings, even Konovalenko’s? Will the whole thing be called off? Or will these faceless men keep on trekking towards their goal?
He drank his coffee, and concluded there was only one thing open to him. He had to make sure Konovalenko could find him. When they attacked the apartment, they were looking for him as well. Victor Mabasha’s last words were that he didn’t know where Wallander was. Konovalenko wanted to know.
He could hear footsteps in the hall. Sten Widen came in. He was dressed in dirty overalls and muddy boots.
“We’re racing at Jagersro today,” he said. “How about coming along?”
Wallander was tempted, just for a moment. He welcomed anything that could divert his thoughts.
“Is Fog running?” he asked.
“She’s running, and she’s going to win,” said Sten Widen. “But I doubt whether the gamblers will have enough faith in her. That means you could earn a few kronor.”
“How can you be so sure she’s the best?” wondered Wallander.
“She’s a temperamental beast,” said Sten Widen, “but today she’s raring to go. She’s restless in her box. She can sense the chips are down. And the opposition is not all that brilliant. There are a few horses from Norway I don’t know much about. But I guess she can beat them as well.”
“Who’s the owner of this horse?” asked Wallander.
“Some businessman by the name of Morell.”
Wallander recognized the name. He had heard it not long ago, but could not remember the context.
“Stockholmer?”
“No. From Skane.”
Something clicked for Wallander. Peter Hanson and his pumps. A fence by the name of Morell.
