Henning Mankell - The White Lioness

Nevertheless, the day after he had been ordered to take sick leave was a hot, windless summer day in southern Skane, and Wallander was sitting in his office. He still had some paperwork to attend to before he could clear his desk and go off in search of a cure for his depression. He felt a nagging sense of uncertainty, and wondered when he would be able to go back to work.

He had arrived at the office at six in the morning, after a sleepless night in his apartment. During the silent hours of the morning he had at last completed his comprehensive report on the murder of Louise Akerblom and everything that followed in its wake. He read through what he had written, and it was like descending into the underworld yet again, repeating the journey he wished he had never needed to undertake. Moreover, he was about to submit a report that was in some respects untruthful. It was still a mystery to him why some parts of his strange disappearance and his secret collaboration with Victor Mabasha had not been exposed. His extremely weak and in some parts contradictory explanations of some of his remarkable behavior had not, as he expected, aroused widespread skepticism. He could only think it was because he was surrounded by sympathy mixed with a rather vague esprit de corps, because he had killed a fellow human being.

He put the fat report on his desk and opened the window. Somewhere out there he could hear a child laughing.

What about my own summary, he thought. I found myself in a situation where I had no control over what happened. I made every mistake a cop can make, and the worst of all was that I put my own daughter’s life at risk. She has assured me she doesn’t blame me for those horrific days when she was chained up in a cellar. But do I really have any right to believe her? Have I not caused her suffering which might only come to the surface sometime in the future, in the form of angst, nightmares, a ruined life? That’s where my report has to begin, the one I’ll never write. The one which ends today with me being so shattered that a doctor has put me on sick leave indefinitely.

He went back to his desk and flopped down onto his chair. He had not slept a wink all night, it was true, but his weariness came from somewhere else, from the depths of his depression. Could it be that his fatigue was in fact depression? He thought about what would happen to him now. The doctor had suggested he should immediately start confronting his experiences through counseling. Wallander had taken that as an order that had to be obeyed. But what would he actually be able to say?

In front of him was an invitation to his father’s wedding. He did not know how many times he had read it since it came in the mail a few days before. His father was going to marry his home aide the day before Midsummer Eve. That was in ten days. He had talked several times to his sister, Kristina, who had come on a short visit some weeks earlier, when the chaos had been at its worst, and thought she had managed to put an end to the whole idea. Now Wallander had no more doubts about whether or not it would happen. Nor could he deny that his father was in a better mood now than he could ever remember, no matter how hard he tried. He had painted a gigantic backdrop in the studio, where the ceremony was to take place. To Wallander’s amazement it was exactly the same motif as he had been painting all his life, the static, romantic woodland landscape. The only difference was that he had now reproduced it giant-sized. Wallander had also talked with Gertrud, the woman he was going to marry. It was actually she who had wanted to speak with him, and he realized she had a genuine affection for his father. He had felt quite touched, and said he was happy about what was going to happen.

His daughter had returned to Stockholm over a week ago. She would come back for the wedding, and then go straight to Italy. That had brought home to Wallander the frightening realization of his own solitude. Wherever he turned, things seemed to be just as bleak. The night after Konovalenko’s death he visited Sten Widen and drank up nearly all his whiskey. He got very drunk, and started talking about the feeling of hopelessness that was getting him down. He thought it was something he shared with Sten Widen, even if his old friend had his stable girls to go to bed with occasionally, thus creating a superficial glimmer of what might be called companionship. Wallander hoped the renewed contact with Sten Widen would turn out to be lasting. He had no illusions about being able to return to the friendship they had shared in their youth. That was gone forever, and could not be resurrected.

His train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the door. He started. He had noticed last week at the police station that he was scared of being with people. The door opened and Svedberg looked in, hoping he wasn’t disturbing him.

“I hear you’re going away for a while,” he said.

Wallander immediately felt a lump in his throat.

“It seems to be necessary,” he said, blowing his nose.

Svedberg could see he was emotional. He changed the subject immediately.

“Do you remember those handcuffs you found in a drawer at Louise Akerblom’s house?” he asked. “You mentioned them once in passing. Do you remember?”

Wallander nodded. To him, the handcuffs had represented the mysterious side of everybody’s character. Only the day before he had been wondering what his own invisible handcuffs were.

“I was clearing out a closet at home yesterday,” said Svedberg. “There were lots of old magazines there I’d decided to get rid of. But you know how it is. I ended up sitting down and reading them. I happened to come across an article about variety artistes over the last thirty years. There was a picture of an escape artist, and he’d used the fanciful professional name of Houdini’s Son. His real name was Davidsson, and he eventually stopped wriggling out of chains and metal boxes and the like. Do you know why he stopped?”

Wallander shook his head.

“He saw the light. He became a born-again Christian. Guess which denomination he joined.”

“The Methodists,” said Wallander thoughtfully.

“Exactly. I read the whole article. At the end it said he was happily married and had several children. Among them a daughter called Louise. Nee Davidsson, later married to a man called Akerblom.”

“The handcuffs,” said Wallander pensively.

“A souvenir of her father,” said Svedberg. “It was as simple as that. I don’t know what you thought. I have to admit a few thoughts I wouldn’t repeat in front of children entered my head.”

“Mine, too,” said Wallander.

Svedberg got up. He paused in the doorway and turned round.

“There was one other thing,” he said. “Do you remember Peter Hanson?”

“The thief?”

“That’s the one. You may remember I asked him to keep his eyes open in case the things stolen from your apartment turned up on the market. He called me yesterday. Most of your stuff has no doubt been disposed of, I guess. You’ll never see it again. But oddly enough he managed to get hold of a CD he claims is yours.”

“Did he say which one it was?”

“I wrote it down.”

Svedberg searched through his pockets and eventually came across a crumpled scrap of paper.

“Rigoletto,” he read. “Verdi.”

Wallander smiled.

“I’ve missed that,” he said. “Send my regards to Peter Hanson, and thank him.”

“He’s a thief,” said Svedberg. “You don’t thank guys like that.”

Svedberg left the room with a laugh. Wallander started going through the remaining stacks of paper. It was nearly eleven by now, and he hoped to be finished by twelve.

The telephone rang. At first he thought he would ignore it. Then he picked it up.