Then he drew the bolt and entered the stall. He grabbed the halter and the horse calmed down almost immediately. Then he bent down and examined her left foreleg. Svedberg leaned carefully over the edge of the stall to look.
“It’s swollen,” said Sten Widen. “Can you see?”
Svedberg could not see anything of the sort. But he muttered something in agreement. Sten Widen patted the horse for a while, then emerged from the stall.
“I need to talk to you,” said Svedberg.
“Let’s go in,” said Sten Widen.
When they entered the house Svedberg saw an elderly lady sitting on a sofa in the untidy living room. She did not seem to fit in with Sten Widen’s surroundings. She was strikingly elegantly dressed, heavily made up, and wearing expensive jewelry. Sten Widen noticed he had seen her.
“She’s waiting for her chauffeur to fetch her,” he said. “She owns two horses I have in training.”
“So that’s it,” said Svedberg.
“A master builder’s widow from Trelleborg,” said Sten Widen. “She’ll be on her way home soon. She comes occasionally and just sits there. I think she’s very lonely.”
Sten Widen said the last words with a degree of understanding that surprised Svedberg.
They sat in the kitchen.
“I don’t really know why I’m here,” said Svedberg. “Or rather, I do know, of course. But what exactly is involved if I ask you to help, I have no idea.”
He explained about the house he had discovered near the quarry outside Tomelilla. Sten Widen stood up and groped around in a drawer crammed full of papers and racing programs. Eventually he produced a dirty, torn map. He unfolded it on the table and Svedberg used a blunt pencil to point out where the house was situated.
“I’ve no idea what Wallander intends to do,” said Svedberg. “All I know is that he intends to confront Konovalenko on his own. He can’t take any risks for the sake of his daughter. One can understand that, of course. The problem is simply that Wallander hasn’t a chance in hell of getting Konovalenko into safe custody on his own.”
“So you’re intending to help him?” said Sten Widen.
Svedberg nodded.
“But I can’t do that on my own either,” he said. “I couldn’t think of anybody to talk to apart from you. It’s just not possible to take another cop. That’s why I came here. You know him, you’re his friend.”
“Maybe,” said Sten Widen.
“Maybe?” said Svedberg, puzzled.
“It’s true we’ve known each other for a long time,” said Sten Widen. “But we haven’t been in close touch for over ten years.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Svedberg. “I thought things were different.”
A car turned into the courtyard. Sten Widen got up and went out with the builder’s widow. It seemed to Svedberg he had made a mistake. Sten Widen was not as close a friend of Wallander’s as he thought.
“What exactly are you thinking of?” asked Sten Widen when he returned to the kitchen.
Svedberg told him. Some time after eight o’clock he would call Wallander. He would not be able to find out exactly what Konovalenko had said. Nevertheless, Svedberg hoped he might be able to persuade Wallander to tell him when the meeting was to take place, if nothing else. Once he knew the time of the meeting, he and preferably somebody else as well would go to the house during the night so they would be there on hand, invisible, in case Wallander needed help.
Sten Widen listened, expressionless. When Svedberg had finished, he got up and left the room. Svedberg wondered if he had gone to the bathroom, perhaps. But when Sten Widen reappeared, he had a rifle in his hand.
“We’d better try and help him,” he said abruptly.
He sat down to examine the rifle. Svedberg put his pistol on the table to show that he was armed as well. Sten Widen made a face.
“Not much to go hunting a desperate madman with,” he said.
“Can you leave the horses?” asked Svedberg.
“Ulrika sleeps here,” he said. “One of the girls who assist me.”
Svedberg felt hesitant in Sten Widen’s presence. His taciturnity and odd personality made it hard for Svedberg to relax. But he was glad he would not be on his own.
Svedberg went home at three in the afternoon. They agreed he would be in touch as soon as he had spoken to Wallander. On the way to Ystad he bought the evening papers that had just arrived. He sat in the car leafing through them. Konovalenko and Wallander were still big news, but they had already been relegated to the inside pages.
Svedberg’s attention was suddenly caught by some headlines. The headlines he had been dreading more than anything else.
And alongside them a photo of Wallander’s daughter.
He called Wallander at twenty past eight.
Konovalenko had made contact.
“I know you won’t want to tell me what’s going to happen,” said Svedberg. “But at least tell me when.”
Wallander hesitated before replying.
“Seven o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said.
“Not at the house, though,” said Svedberg.
“No,” said Wallander. “Somewhere else. But no more questions now.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“He’s promised to release my daughter. That’s all I know.”
You know all right, thought Svedberg. You know he’ll try to kill you.
“Be careful, Kurt,” he said.
“Sure,” said Wallander, and hung up.
Svedberg was certain now the meeting would take place at the house by the quarry. Wallander’s reply had come a little bit too readily. He sat quite still.
Then he called Sten Widen. They agreed to meet at Svedberg’s place at midnight, then drive out to Tomelilla.
They drank a cup of coffee in Svedberg’s kitchen.
It was still raining outside.
They set out at a quarter to two in the morning.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The man outside her house in Bezuidenhout Park had come back again. It was the third morning in succession Miranda had seen him standing on the other side of the street, motionless, waiting. She could see him through the thin drapes in the living room window. He was white, dressed in a suit and tie, and looked like a lost soul in this world of hers. She had noticed him early in the morning, not long after Matilda left for school. She reacted immediately, for people very rarely used her street. Every morning the men living in the detached houses drove off in their cars to the center of Johannesburg. Later on the womenfolk would set out in their own cars to do the shopping, go to the beauty parlor, or simply to get away. Bezuidenhout was the haunt of frustrated and restless members of the white middle class. The ones who could not quite make it into the very top white echelons. Miranda knew many of these people were thinking about emigrating. It had occurred to her that yet another fundamental truth was inevitably about to be revealed. For these people South Africa was not the natural fatherland where soil and blood had run in the same veins and furrows. Even if they had been born here, they did not hesitate to start thinking about running away as soon as de Klerk made his speech to the nation that February. Nelson Mandela had been released from prison, and a new age was dawning. A new age that might perhaps see other blacks as well as Miranda living in Bezuidenhout.
