Henning Mankell - The White Lioness

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 kept his eye on Robert Akerblom’s reaction the whole time.

It was exactly what he had expected. Incomprehension.

“Are you arresting me?” he asked.

“No,” said Wallander. “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,” said Robert Akerblom. “I’ve never seen them before.”

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

“I just don’t get it,” said Robert Akerblom.

Suddenly Wallander knew the man across the kitchen table was lying. A barely noticeable shift in his voice, a sudden insecurity in his eyes. But enough for Wallander to register it.

“Could anybody else have put them there?” he went on.

“I don’t know,” said Robert Akerblom. “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 kids’ friends.”

“That’s quite a lot of people,” said Wallander.

“I don’t get it,” said Robert Akerblom again.

Maybe you don’t understand how you could have forgotten to take them away, thought Wallander. Just for now the question is, what do they mean?

For the first time Wallander asked himself whether Robert Akerblom could have killed his own 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?” asked Wallander once 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 license. 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?” asked Robert Akerblom.

“I don’t think anything,” said Wallander. “I just want to know why these handcuffs were hidden away in a desk drawer.”

“I’ve already said I don’t understand how they could have gotten 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 perverted and possibly dramatic sex life? Could that in its turn explain why Louise Akerblom had disappeared?

Wallander slid his teacup to one side, indicating that the conversation was over. He put the handcuffs back in his pocket, wrapped inside a handkerchief. A technical analysis might be able to reveal more about what they’d been used for.

“That’s all for the time being,” said Wallander, getting to his feet. “I’ll be in touch just as soon as 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.”

Robert Akerblom nodded without replying.

Wallander shook hands and went out to his car. The weather was changing. It was drizzling and the wind had eased off. Wallander drove down to Fridolf’s Cafe near the coach station for a coffee and a couple of sandwiches. It was half past twelve by the time he was back behind the wheel and on his way out to the scene of the fire. He parked, clambered over the barriers, and observed that both the house and the barn were already smoking ruins. It was too early yet for the police techies to start their investigation. Wallander approached the seat of the fire and had a word with the man in charge, Peter Edler, whom he knew well.

“We’re soaking it in water,” he said. “Not much else we can do. Is it arson?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Wallander. “Have you seen Svedberg or Martinson?’

“I think they’ve gone for something to eat,” said Edler. “In Rydsgard. And Lieutenant-Colonel Hernberg has taken his soaking wet recruits to their barracks. They’ll be back, though.”

Wallander nodded, and left the fire chief.

A policeman with a dog was standing a few meters 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 cop 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.

“What’s the dog found?” he asked.

The cop turned round to face Wallander. He was white as a sheet, and trembling.

Wallander hurried over and bent down.

In the mud before him was a finger.

A black finger. Not a thumb, and not a little finger. But a human finger.

Wallander felt ill.

He told the dog handler to get in touch with Svedberg and Martinson right away.

“Get them here immediately,” he said. “Even if they’re halfway through their meal. There’s an empty plastic bag in the back seat of my car. Get it.”

The cop did as he was told.

What’s going on? thought Wallander. A black finger. A black man’s finger. Cut off. In the middle of Skane.

When the cop returned with the plastic bag, Wallander made a temporary cover to protect the finger from the rain. The rumor had spread, and several firefighters gathered around the find.

“We must start looking for the remains of bodies among the ashes,” said Wallander to the fire chief. “God knows what’s been going on here.”

“A finger,” said Peter Edler incredulously.

Twenty minutes later Svedberg and Martinson arrived, and came running up to the spot. They stared at the black finger uncomprehendingly.

Neither had anything to say.

In the end, it was Wallander who broke the silence.

“One thing’s for sure at least,” he said. “This isn’t one of Louise Akerblom’s fingers.”

They gathered at five o’clock in one of the conference rooms at the police station. Wallander could not remember a more silent meeting.

In the middle of the table, on a plastic cloth, was the black finger.

He could see that Bjork had angled his chair so he couldn’t see it.

Everyone else stared at the finger. Nobody said a word.

After a while, an ambulance arrived from the hospital and removed the severed remnant. Once it was gone, Svedberg went to get a tray of coffee cups, and Bjork commenced proceedings.

“Just for once, I’m speechless,” was his opening gambit. “Can any of you suggest a plausible explanation?”

Nobody responded. It was a pointless question.

“Wallander,” said Bjork, trying another angle, “could you perhaps give us a summary of where we’ve gotten so far?”

“It won’t be easy,” said Wallander, “but I’ll give it a shot. The rest of you can fill in the gaps.”

He opened his notebook and leafed through.

“Louise Akerblom went missing almost exactly four days ago,” he began. “To be more precise, ninety-eight hours ago. Nobody’s seen her since, as far as we know. While we were looking for her, and not least for her car, a house exploded just where we think she might be found. We now know the occupant is deceased, and the house was up for sale. The representative of the estate is a lawyer who lives in Varnamo. He’s at a loss to explain what has happened. The house has been empty for more than a year. The beneficiaries have not yet been able to decide whether to sell or to keep it in the family, and rent it. It’s not impossible that some of the heirs might buy out the rest. The lawyer’s name is Holmgren, and we’ve asked our colleagues in Varnamo to discuss the matter with him. At the very least, we want the names and addresses of the rest of the beneficiaries.”