Henning Mankell - The White Lioness

Nothing, he thought. Absolutely nothing.

He sighed, and moved on to the next room, which was furnished as a study. He sat at the desk, opening drawer after drawer. He immersed himself in photo albums and bundles of letters. He didn’t come across a single photograph in which Louise Akerblom was not smiling or laughing.

He replaced everything carefully, closed the drawer, and tried the next one. Tax returns and insurance documents, school reports and conveyancing deeds, nothing that struck him as odd.

It was only when he opened the bottom drawer in the last of the chests that he was surprised. At first he thought it contained nothing but plain white writing paper. When he felt the bottom of the drawer, however, his fingers came into contact with a metal object. He took it out and sat there, frowning.

It was a pair of handcuffs. Not toy handcuffs; real ones. Made in England.

He put them on the desk in front of him.

They don’t have to be significant, he thought. But they were well hidden. And I suspect Robert Akerblom would have taken them away, if he knew they were there.

He closed the drawer and put the handcuffs in his pocket.

Then he went down to the basement rooms and the garage. On a shelf over a little workbench he found a few neatly made balsawood model airplanes. He pictured Robert Akerblom in his mind’s eye. Maybe he’d once dreamed of becoming a pilot?

The telephone started ringing in the background. He hurried to answer it right away.

It was nine o’clock by this time.

“Could I speak with Inspector Wallander?” It was Martinson’s voice.

“Speaking,” said Wallander.

“You’d better get out here,” said Martinson. “Right away.”

Wallander could feel his heart beating faster.

“Have you found her?” he asked.

“No,” said Martinson. “Not her, and not the car either. But there’s a house on fire not far away. Or to be more accurate, the house exploded. I thought there might be a link.”

“I’m on my way,” said Wallander.

He scribbled a note for Robert Akerblom and left it on the kitchen table.

On the way to Krageholm he tried to work out the implications of what Martinson had said. A house had exploded? What house?

He overtook three large trucks in succession. The rain was now so heavy the wipers could only keep the windshield partially clear.

Just before he reached the shattered oak tree, the rain eased a little and he could see a column of black smoke rising above the trees. A police car was waiting for him by the oak. One of the cops inside indicated he should turn off. As they swung in from the main road, Wallander noted the road was one of those he’d taken in error the previous day, the one with the most tire ruts.

There was something else about that road, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was right now.

When he got to the scene of the fire, he recognized the house. It was to the left, and hardly visible from the road. The firefighters were already hard at work. Wallander got out of his car, and was immediately hit by the heat from the fire. Martinson was striding towards him.

“People?” asked Wallander.

“None,” said Martinson. “Not as far as we know. In any case, it’s impossible to go inside. The heat is terrific. The house has been empty for over a year since the owner died. One of the local farmers told me the background. Whoever was dealing with the estate couldn’t make up his mind whether to rent it or sell it.”

“Let’s hear it,” said Wallander, eying the enormous clouds of smoke.

“I was out on the main road,” said Martinson. “One of the army search lines had gotten into a bit of a mess. Then there was this sudden bang. It sounded like a bomb going off. At first I thought an airplane had crashed. Then I saw the smoke. It took me five minutes at most to get here. Everything was in flames. Not just the house, but the barn as well.”

Wallander tried to think.

“A bomb,” he said. “Could it have been a gas leak?”

Martinson shook his head.

“Not even twenty canisters of propane could have made an explosion like that,” he said. “Fruit trees in the back have snapped off. Or been blown up by the roots. It must have been set up.”

“The whole area is crawling with cops and soldiers,” said Wallander. “An odd time to choose for arson.”

“Exactly what I thought,” said Martinson. “That’s why I thought right away there could be a connection.”

“Any ideas?” asked Wallander.

“No,” said Martinson. “None at all.”

“Find out who owns the house,” said Wallander. “Who’s responsible for the estate. I agree with you, this seems to be more than just a coincidence. Where’s Bjork?”

“He already left for the station, to get ready for the press conference,” said Martinson. “You know how nervous he always gets when he has to face journalists who never write what he says. But he knows what’s happened. Svedberg’s been speaking to him. He knows you’re here as well.”

“I’ll have a closer look at this when they’ve put the fire out,” said Wallander. “But it would be a good idea for you to detail some guys to run a fine-tooth comb over this area.”

“Looking for Louise Akerblom?” asked Martinson.

“For the car in the first place,” replied Wallander.

Martinson went off to talk to the farmer. Wallander stayed put, staring at the raging fire.

If there is a connection, what is it? he wondered. A woman goes missing and a house explodes. Right under the noses of guys doing an intensive search.

He looked at his watch. Ten to ten. He beckoned to one of the firemen.

“When will I be able to start rooting around in there?” he asked.

“It’s burning pretty fast,” said the firefighter. “By this afternoon you should be able to get close to the house in any case.”

“Good,” said Wallander. “It seems to have been a hell of a bang,” he went on.

“That wasn’t started with a match,” said the fireman. “I wouldn’t be surprised if a hundred kilos of dynamite went off.”

Wallander drove back towards Ystad. He called Ebba in reception and asked her to tell Bjork he was on his way.

Then he suddenly remembered what it was he’d forgotten. The previous evening one of the patrol car crews reported they’d nearly been hit by a Mercedes speeding down one of the dirt roads. Wallander was pretty sure it was the very track where the house had exploded.

Too many coincidences, he thought. Soon we’ll have to find something that makes it all start to add up.

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

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

“Svedberg’s description was probably accurate,” said Wallander. “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 guys out there might have more information by then, anyway.”

Bjork nodded.

“Let’s keep this simple,” he said. “A brief and 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,” said Wallander. “If only we’d traced her car. But we’ve got nothing.”

“You’d better make something up,” said Bjork. “Police who claim they have nothing to tell reporters are fair game. Never forget that.”