Henning Mankell - The White Lioness

“You’re right,” he said. “I want to know more about this.”

Nyberg picked up another piece of metal from the plastic sheet.

“This is at least as interesting,” he said. “Can you see what it is?”

Wallander thought it looked like a pistol butt.

“A gun,” he said.

Nyberg nodded.

“A pistol,” he said. “There was presumably a live magazine in place when the house blew up. The pistol was smashed to bits when the magazine exploded, due either to the fire or the pressure waves. I also have a suspicion this is a pretty unusual model. The butt is extended, as you can see. It’s certainly not a Luger or a Beretta.”

“What is it, then?” asked Wallander.

“Too early to say,” said Nyberg. “But I’ll let you know as soon as we find out.”

Nyberg filled his pipe and lit up.

“What do you think about this little lot?” he asked.

Wallander shook his head.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so confused,” he answered, honestly. “I can’t find any links. All I know is I’m looking for a missing woman, and all the time I keep coming across the strangest things. A severed finger, parts of a powerful radio transmitter, unusual weapons. Maybe it’s precisely these unusual features I should use as a starting point? Something I haven’t come across before in all my police experience?”

“Patience,” said Nyberg. “We’ll establish the links sooner or later, no doubt.”

Nyberg went back to his meticulous piecing together of the jigsaw. Wallander wandered around for a while, trying yet again to summarize everything to his own satisfaction. In the end he gave up.

He got into his car and called the station.

“Have we had many tipoffs?” he asked Ebba.

“The calls are coming in non-stop,” she replied. “Svedberg stopped by a couple of minutes ago, and said some of the people offering information seemed reliable and interesting. That’s all I know.”

Wallander gave her the number of the Methodist chapel, and made up his mind to do another thorough search of Louise Akerblom’s desk at the office, when he’d finished talking to the minister. He had a guilty conscience for not having followed up his first cursory search.

He drove back to Ystad. As he had plenty of time before he was due to meet Tureson, he parked at the Square and went into the radio store. Without wasting much time thinking about it, he signed up for a credit purchase of a new hi-fi installation. Then he drove home to Mariagatan and set it up. He’d bought a CD of Puccini’s Turandot. He put it on, lay back on the sofa, and tried to think of Baiba Liepa. But instead, Louise Akerblom’s face kept filling his mind.

He woke with a start and looked at his watch. He cursed when he realized he ought to have been at the chapel ten minutes ago.

Pastor Tureson was waiting for him in a back room, a sort of storeroom and office combined. Tapestries with various Bible quotations were hanging on the walls. A coffee machine stood on a window ledge.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Wallander.

“I’m well aware you police have a lot to do,” said Tureson.

Wallander sat down on a chair and took out his notebook. Tureson offered him a cup of coffee, but he declined.

“I’m trying to build up an image of just what Louise Akerblom, is really like,” he began. “Everything I’ve found out so far seems to indicate just one thing: Louise Akerblom was a woman completely at peace with herself who would never voluntarily leave her husband and her children.”

“That’s the Louise Akerblom we all know,” said Tureson.

“At the same time, that makes me suspicious,” said Wallander.

“Suspicious?”

Tureson looked puzzled.

“I just cannot believe that such perfect individuals exist,” Wallander explained. “Everybody has his or her secrets. The question is: what are Louise Akerblom’s? I take it for granted she hasn’t vanished voluntarily because she hasn’t been able to cope with her own good fortune.”

“You’d get the same answers from every single member of our church, Inspector,” said Tureson.

Afterwards, Wallander could never manage to put his finger on just what had happened; but there was something in Tureson’s response that made him sit up and take notice. It was as if the minister were defending Louise Akerblom’s image, even though it was not being questioned, apart from the general points Wallander was making. Or was there something else he was defending?

Wallander rapidly shifted his position and put a question that had seemed less important previously.

“Tell me about your congregation,” he said. “Why does one choose to become a member of the Methodist church?”

“Our faith and our interpretation of the Bible stand out as being right,” came Tureson’s reply.

“Is that justified?” Wallander wondered.

“In my opinion and that of my congregation it is,” said Pastor Tureson. “Needless to say, members of other denominations would disagree. That’s only natural.”

“Is there anybody in your congregation who doesn’t like Louise Akerblom?” asked Wallander, and immediately got the impression the man opposite was hesitating just a fraction too long before replying.

“I can’t imagine there would be,” said Pastor Tureson.

There it is again, thought Wallander. Something evasive, something not quite straightforward about his answer.

“Why don’t I believe you?” he asked.

“But you should, Inspector,” said Tureson. “I know my congregation.”

Wallander suddenly felt tired. He could see he would have to put his questions rather differently if he was going to succeed in throwing the minister off balance. A full frontal attack it would have to be.

“I know that Louise Akerblom has enemies in your congregation,” he said. “Never mind how I know. But I’d like to hear your views.”

Tureson stared hard at him for some time before replying.

“Not enemies,” he said. “But it is true that one of our members had an unfortunate relationship with her.”

He got up and went over to a window.

“I’ve been wavering,” said Pastor Tureson. “I almost called you last night, in fact. But I didn’t. I mean, everybody hopes Louise will come back to us. That everything will turn out to have a natural explanation. All the same, I’ve been getting more and more worried. I have to admit that.”

He returned to his chair.

“I also have responsibilities to all the other members of my church,” he said. “I don’t want to have to put anybody in a bad light, to make an accusation that later proves to be completely wrong.”

“This conversation is not an official interrogation,” said Wallander. “Whatever you say will go no further. I’m not taking minutes.”

“I don’t know how to put it,” said Pastor Tureson.

“Tell it as it is,” said Wallander. “That’s generally the simplest way.”

“Two years ago, our church welcomed a new member,” Tureson began. “He was an engineer on one of the Poland ferries, and he started coming to our services. He was divorced, thirty-five, friendly and considerate. He soon became well liked and much appreciated by other church members. About a year ago, though, Louise Akerblom asked to speak to me. She was very insistent that her husband Robert shouldn’t know anything about it. We sat here in this room, and she told me that the new member of our congregation had started pestering her with declarations of love. He was sending her letters, stalking her, calling her. She tried to put him off as nicely as she could, but he persisted and the situation was becoming intolerable. Louise asked me to have a word with him. I did so, and suddenly he seemed to change into an altogether different person. He fell into a terrible rage, claimed that Louise had let him down, and that he knew I was the one having a bad influence on her. He claimed she was actually in love with him, and wanted to leave her husband. It was totally absurd. He stopped coming to our meetings, he gave up his job on the ferry, and we thought he’d disappeared for good. I simply told the rest of the congregation that he’d moved away from town, and was too shy to say goodbye. It was a great relief for Louise, of course. But then about three months ago, it all started again. One evening Louise noticed him standing on the street outside their house. It was a terrible shock for her, naturally. He started pestering her with declarations of love all over again. I have to admit, Inspector Wallander, that we actually considered calling in the police. Now, of course, I’m sorry we didn’t. It might just have been a coincidence, naturally. But I begin to wonder more and more as the days pass.”