not take her long to see he was just using her, however. His lack of emotion, his intense contempt for other people horrified her. Konovalenko came to dominate their lives totally. Occasionally, late at night, she and Vladimir had talked about getting out, starting all over again, far away from Konovalenko’s influence. But nothing had ever come of it, and now Vladimir was dead. She was standing in the courtyard, thinking about how much she missed him. She had no idea what would happen next. Konovalenko was obsessed with wiping out this policeman who had killed Vladimir and caused him so much trouble. She guessed thoughts about the future could wait until it was all over, the cop dead and the African back in South Africa to carry out his assignment. She realized she was dependent on Konovalenko, whether she liked it or not. She was in exile, and there was no going back. She had vague and increasingly rare thoughts about Kiev, the city both she and Vladimir came from. What hurt was not all the memories, but her conviction that she would never again see the place and the people who used to be the foundation of her life. The door had slammed inexorably behind her. It was locked, and the key had been tossed away. The final remnants had gone with Vladimir.
She thought about the girl being held prisoner in the cellar. That was the only thing she had asked Konovalenko about these last few days. What would happen to her? He said they would let her go once he had captured her father. But she wondered from the first if he really meant that. She shuddered at the thought of him killing her as well.
Tania had trouble sorting out her own feelings on this matter. She could feel unreserved hatred for the girl’s father, who had killed her husband, and barbarically to boot, although Konovalenko had not explained in any detail what he meant by that. But sacrificing the policeman’s daughter as well was going too far, she thought. At the same time she knew she could do nothing to prevent it happening eventually. The slightest sign of resistance on her part would only result in Konovalenko turning his deadly attention to her as well.
She was shivering in the rain, which had grown heavier, and went back into the house. The mumbling sound of Konovalenko’s voice could be heard from behind the closed door. She went out into the kitchen and looked at the hatch in the floor. The clock on the wall indicated it was time to give the girl something to eat and drink. She had already prepared a plastic carrier bag with a flask and some sandwiches. So far the girl in the cellar had never touched the food she had been given. Each time Tania came back up with what she had taken down last time. She switched on the light Konovalenko had rigged up. She carried a flashlight in one hand.
Linda had crept into a corner. She lay there rolled up, as if suffering severe stomach cramps. Tania shone the flashlight on the pot they had left on the stone floor. It was unused. She was full of pity for the girl. At first she was so preoccupied with the pain she felt after Vladimir’s death, there had been no room for anything else. But now, when she saw the girl rolled up, paralyzed with fear, she had the feeling there was no limit to Konovalenko’s cruelty. There was absolutely no reason why she should be in a dark cellar. And with chains around her legs. She could have been kept locked in one of the rooms upstairs, tied so she could not leave the house.
The girl did not move, but she followed Tania’s movements with her eyes. Her cropped hair made Tania feel sick. She crouched down beside the motionless girl.
“It’ll be over soon,” she said.
The girl did not answer. Her eyes stared straight into Tania’s.
“You must try and eat something,” she said. “It’ll be over soon.”
Her fear has already started to consume her, Tania thought. It’s gnawing away at her from the inside.
Suddenly she knew she would have to help Linda. It could cost her her life. But she had no choice. Konovalenko’s evil was to great to bear, even for her.
“It’ll be over soon,” she whispered, placing the bag by the girl’s face and going back up the stairs. She closed the hatch and turned around.
Konovalenko was standing there. She gave a start and squealed softly. He had a way of creeping up on people without a sound. She sometimes had the feeling his hearing was unnaturally well developed. Like a nocturnal animal, she thought. He hears what other people can’t.
“She’s asleep,” said Tania.
Konovalenko looked at her sternly. Then he suddenly smiled and left the kitchen without saying a word.
Tania flopped into a chair and lit a cigarette. She noticed her hands were shaking. But she knew now the resolve that had formed within her was irreversible.
Shortly after one o’clock Svedberg called Wallander.
He picked up the receiver after the first ring. Svedberg had been sitting in his apartment for some time, trying to figure out how to convince Wallander he should not challenge Konovalenko on his own again. But he realized Wallander was no longer acting rationally. He had reached a point where emotional impulses were just as strong as reason in guiding his actions. The only thing he could do was to urge Wallander not to confront Konovalenko on his own. In a way he is not responsible for his actions, Svedberg thought. He is being driven by fear of what might happen to his daughter. There’s no telling what he might do.
He came straight to the point.
“I’ve found Konovalenko’s house,” he said.
He had the feeling Wallander winced at the other end of the line.
“I found a clue in the stuff Rykoff had in his pockets,” he went on. “I don’t need to go into details, but it led me to an ICA store in Tomelilla. A check-out girl with a phenomenal memory pointed me in the right direction. The house is just to the east of Tomelilla. By a quarry that doesn’t seem to be in commission any more. It used to be a farm.”
“I hope nobody saw you,” said Wallander.
Svedberg could hear how tense and weary he was.
“Not a soul,” he said. “No need to worry.”
“How could I not worry?” asked Wallander.
Svedberg did not answer.
“I think I know where that quarry is,” Wallander went on. “If what you say is right, that gives me an advantage over Konovalenko.”
“Have you heard from him again?” asked Svedberg.
“Twelve hours means eight o’clock tonight,” said Wallander. “He’ll be on time. I’m not going to do anything until he contacts me again.”
“It’ll be catastrophic if you try to take him on your own,” said Svedberg. “I can’t bear to think what would happen.”
“You know there’s no other possibility,” said Wallander. “I’m not going to tell you where I shall meet him. I know you mean well. But I can’t take any risks. Thank you for finding the house for me. I won’t forget that.”
Then he hung up.
Svedberg was left sitting there with the receiver in his hand.
What should he do now? It had not occurred to him that Wallander might simply withhold vital information.
He replaced the receiver, convinced that while Wallander might not think he needed any help, Svedberg certainly did. The only question was who he could get to go with him.
He went over to a window and looked out at the church tower half-hidden by the rooftops. When Wallander was on the run after that night at the military training ground, he had chosen to contact Sten Widen, he thought. Svedberg had never met the guy before. He had never even heard Wallander mention him. Nevertheless, they were obviously close friends who had known each other for a long time. He was the one Wallander turned to for help. Now Svedberg decided to do the same thing. He left the apartment and drove out of town. The rain had grown heavier, and a wind was getting up. He followed the coast road, thinking how all the things that had happened lately must come to an end soon. It was all too much for a little police district like Ystad.
He found Sten Widen out in the stable. He was standing in front of a stall fitted with bars in which a horse was pacing up and down restlessly and occasionally delivering a vicious kick at the woodwork. Svedberg said hello and stood by his side. The restless horse was very tall and thin. Svedberg had never sat on a horse’s back in his whole life. He had a great fear of horses and could not understand how anyone would voluntarily spend his life training them and looking after them.
“She’s sick,” said Sten Widen suddenly. “But I don’t know what’s matter with her.”
“She seems a bit restless,” said Svedberg cautiously.
“That’s the pain,” said Sten Widen.
