The White Lioness (6 page)

"Good," Wallander said. "It seems to have been a hell of a bang."

"That wasn't started with a match," the fireman said. "I wouldn't be surprised if a 100 kilos of dynamite went off."

Wallander called Ebba in the station and asked her to tell Bjork he was on his way, and drove back to Ystad. Then he remembered what it was he'd forgotten: one of the patrol car crews had reported they'd nearly been hit by a Mercedes going at a hell of a speed down one of the dirt roads. Wallander was pretty sure it was the very track where the house on fire was.

Too many coincidences, he thought. Soon we'll have to find something that starts to make it all add up.

Bjork was pacing restlessly up and down in the reception area when Wallander got there.

"I'll never get used to press conferences," he said. "What's all this about a fire that Svedberg tells me? He expressed himself very oddly, I must say. He said a house and barn had exploded. What did he mean by that? What house was he talking about?"

"The description was probably accurate," Wallander said. "It can hardly have anything to do with the press conference on the disappearance of Louise Akerblom, though, so I suggest we talk about it later. The team might have more information by then, anyway."

"OK, let's keep this simple," Bjork said. "A straightforward reference to her being missing, hand out the photos, appeal to the general public. You can deal with questions about how the investigation is going."

"The investigation isn't really going at all," Wallander said. "If only we'd traced her car. But we've got nothing."

"You'd better make something up," Bjork said. "Police who claim they have nothing to tell reporters are sitting ducks. Never forget that."

The press conference took just over half an hour. In addition to the local papers and local radio, the stringers for
Expressen
and
Idag
had shown up. Nobody from the Stockholm papers, though. They won't arrive until we've found her, Wallander thought. And if she's dead.

Bjork opened the conference and announced that a woman was missing in circumstances that the police were taking very seriously. He described the woman and her car, and distributed photographs. Then he invited questions, nodded towards Wallander, and sat down. Wallander took his place on the little dais podium and waited.

"What do you think has happened?" the reporter from the local radio station said. Wallander had never seen him before. They seemed always to be changing staff.

"We don't think anything," Wallander said. "But the circumstances suggest we should be taking the disappearance of Louise Akerblom seriously."

"Tell us about the circumstances, then," the reporter said.

Wallander waded in. "We must be clear that most people in this country who go missing in one way or another turn up again sooner or later. Two times out of three there is a perfectly simple explanation. One of the most common is forgetfulness. Just occasionally there are signs to suggest there could be another explanation. Then we treat the disappearance very seriously."

Bjork raised his hand. "Which is not to say, of course, that the police don't take all cases of missing persons very seriously," he said.

Oh my God, Wallander thought.

The man from
Expressen
, a young man with a red beard, raised his hand and said, "Can't you be a bit more precise? You're not excluding the possibility that a crime may have been committed. Why aren't you? And one more thing: it's not clear where she disappeared, and who was the last to see her."

The journalist was right. Bjork had been vague on several counts.

"She left the Savings Bank in Skurup just after 3 p.m. last Friday," Wallander said. "An employee at the bank saw her drive off around 3.15. Nobody saw her after that. We believe she took one of two routes. Either the E14 towards Ystad, or she might have driven past Slimminge and Rogla towards the Krageholm district. As you heard, Louise Akerblom is an estate agent. She may have gone to see a house that was being put up for sale. Or she may have driven straight home. We are not sure what she decided to do."

"Which house?" one of the local press reporters said.

"I can't answer that question - for reasons connected with the investigation," Wallander said.

The press conference died out of its own accord. The local radio reporter interviewed Bjork. Wallander talked to one of the local press reporters in the corridor. When he was alone, he made himself a cup of coffee, went into his office and called the scene of the fire. He got hold of Svedberg, who told him that Martinsson had already diverted a group of searchers to concentrate on the area around the burning house.

"I've never seen a fire like this one," Svedberg said. "There won't be a single roof beam left when it's over."

"I'll be out this afternoon," Wallander said. "I'm going to Akerblom's place again. Call me there if anything comes up."

"We'll call you," Svedberg said. "What did the press have to say?"

"Nothing of note," Wallander said, and put the phone down.

At that moment Bjork knocked and came in. "That went pretty well," he said. "No dirty tricks, just reasonable questions. Let's just hope they write what we want them to."

"We'll have to detail a few extra people to man the phones tomorrow," Wallander said, not bothering to comment on his assessment of the press conference. "When a church-going mother of two disappears, I'm afraid lots of people who've seen nothing at all will be calling in, giving the police the benefit of their blessing and prayers. Quite apart from those we hope might really have something useful to tell us."

"Assuming we don't find her in the course of today," Bjork said.

"I don't believe that, and neither do you," Wallander said.

Then he told him all he knew about the fire. The explosion. The fireman's assessment. Bjork listened, looking more and more worried. "What does all this mean?" he said.

Wallander stretched out his arms. "I don't know. I'm going back to see Akerblom now, though, to find out what else he's got to say."

Bjork stood in the door.

"We'll have a debriefing in my office at 5.00," he said.

Just as Wallander was about to leave his office, he remembered he'd forgotten to ask Svedberg to do something for him. He called the scene of the fire again.

"Do you remember that a police car nearly crashed into a Mercedes last night?" he said.

"It rings a bell," Svedberg said.

"Find out all you can about it," Wallander said. "I have a strong feeling that that Mercedes has something to do with the fire. I'm not so sure whether it has anything to do with Louise Akerblom."

"OK," Svedberg said. "Anything else?"

"We have a meeting here at 5.00," Wallander said, and replaced the receiver.

A quarter of an hour later he was back in the Akerbloms' kitchen. He sat on the same chair he'd occupied a few hours earlier, and had another cup of tea.

"Sometimes you get called out on some emergency," Wallander said. "There's been a major fire, but it's under control now."

"I understand," Akerblom said, politely. "It can't be easy, being a policeman."

Wallander observed the man opposite him at the table. At the same time, he could feel the handcuffs in his trouser pocket. He wasn't looking forward to the interrogation he was about to embark upon.

"I have a few questions," he said. "We can talk just as easily here as anywhere else."

"Of course," Akerblom said. "Ask as many questions as you like."

Wallander noticed he was irritated by the gentle and yet unmistakably admonishing tone in the man's voice.

"I'm not sure about the first question," Wallander said. "Does your wife have any medical problems?"

The man looked at him in surprise. "No," he said. "What are you suggesting?"

"It just occurred to me she might have heard she was suffering from some serious illness. Has she been to the doctor lately?"

"No. And if she'd been ill, she'd have told me."

"There are some serious illnesses that people are hesitant to talk about," Wallander said. "Or at least, they need a few days to gather their thoughts and emotions. It's often the case that the sick person is the one who has to console whoever it is he or she tells."

Akerblom thought for a moment before answering. "I'm certain that's not the case here," he said.

Wallander nodded and went on. "Did she have a drinking problem?"

Akerblom winced. "How can you ask such a question?" he said, after a moment's silence. "Neither of us so much as touches a drop of alcohol."

"Yet the cupboard under the sink is full of bottles," Wallander said.

"We have nothing against other people drinking," Akerblom said. "Within reason, of course. We sometimes have guests. Even a little estate agency like ours needs to entertain its clients occasionally."

Wallander nodded. He had no reason to question the response. He took the handcuffs out of his pocket and put them on the table. He watched Akerblom's reaction the whole time.

It was exactly what he had expected. Incomprehension.

"Are you arresting me?" he said.

"No," Wallander said. "But I found these handcuffs in the bottom drawer to the left of the desk, under a stack of writing paper, in your study upstairs."

"Handcuffs?" Akerblom said. "I've never seen them before in my life."

"As it can hardly have been one of your daughters who put them there, we'll have to assume it was your wife," Wallander said.

"I just don't understand it," Akerblom said.

Wallander knew at once that the man was lying. A barely noticeable shift in his voice, a sudden insecurity in his eyes. Enough for Wallander to register it.

"Could anybody else have put them there?" he said.

"I don't know," Akerblom said. "The only visitors we have are from the chapel. Apart from clients. And they never go upstairs."

"Nobody else at all?"

"Our parents. A few relatives. The children's friends."

"That's quite a lot of people," Wallander said.

"I don't understand it," Akerblom said, again.

Maybe you just don't understand how you could have forgotten to take them away, Wallander thought. For now, the question is: what do they mean?

For the first time Wallander asked himself whether Akerblom could have killed his wife. But he dismissed it. The handcuffs and the lie were not enough to overturn everything Wallander had already established.

"Are you certain you can't explain these handcuffs?" Wallander said again. "Perhaps I should point out it's not against the law to keep a pair of handcuffs in your home. You don't need a licence. On the other hand, of course, you can't just keep people locked up however you like."

"Do you think I'm not telling you the truth?" Akerblom said.

"I don't think anything," Wallander said. "I just want to know why these handcuffs were hidden in a desk drawer."

"I've already said I don't understand how they could have got into the house."

Wallander nodded. He didn't think it was necessary to press him any further. Not yet, at least. But Wallander was sure he was lying. Could it be that the marriage concealed a strange and possibly dramatic sex life? Could that in its turn explain why Mrs Akerblom had disappeared?

Wallander pushed his teacup to one side, indicating that the conversation was over. He put the handcuffs back in his pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief. A forensic analysis might reveal more about what they'd been used for.

"That's all for the time being," Wallander said, getting to his feet. "I'll call the minute I have anything to report. You'd better be ready for a bit of a fuss tonight, when the evening papers come out and the local radio has broadcast its piece. We'll have to hope it all helps us, of course."

Akerblom nodded, but said nothing.

Wallander shook hands and went out to his car. The weather was changing. It was drizzling and the wind had eased off. Wallander drove to Fridolf's Cafe near the bus station for a coffee and a couple of sandwiches. It was past noon before he was on his way to the scene of the fire. He parked, clambered over the barriers, and saw that both the house and the barn were now smoking ruins. It was still too soon for the forensic team to start their investigation. Wallander approached the edge of the fire and had a word with the man in charge, Peter Edler, whom he knew well.

"We're soaking it," he said. "Not much else we can do. Is it arson?"

"I've no idea," Wallander said. "Have you seen Svedberg or Martinsson?"

"I think they've gone for something to eat," Edler said. "In Rydsgard. And Colonel Hernberg has taken his wretchedly wet recruits back to their barracks. They'll be here again later."

Wallander nodded, and left the fire chief.

A policeman with a dog was standing a few metres away. He was eating a sandwich, and the dog was scratching away at the sooty, wet gravel with one paw. Suddenly the dog started howling. The policeman tugged impatiently at the leash a couple of times, then looked to see what the dog was digging for. Then Wallander saw him draw back with a start and drop his sandwich. Wallander couldn't help being curious, and walked over towards them.