The Pyramid (19 page)

'A doctor knows about poisons,' Rydberg said. 'That's always a start.'

'You're right, of course,' said Wallander. 'But there's something else too. I can't put my finger on it, though.'

'Why don't I run a search through the registers?' asked Hansson.
'It's too bad Martinsson is sick. He's the best at that sort of thing.'

Wallander nodded. Then an idea struck him.

'Do one for his wife as well. Kajsa Stenholm.'

The investigation was put on hold for the Valpurgis Night holiday and the weekend. Wallander spent a large part of his free time at his father's house. He spent one afternoon repainting the kitchen. He also called
Rydberg, for no other reason than the fact that Rydberg was as solitary as he was. But when Wallander called, Rydberg turned out to be drunk, and the conversation was a very short one.

On Monday, 4 May, he was back at the police station early. While he waited to hear if Hansson had found anything of interest in the registers, he resumed his work on the gang smuggling stolen cars into
Poland. It wasn't until eleven the next morning that Hansson eventually showed up.

'I can't find a thing about Martin Stenholm,' he said. 'It looks as if he's never done a dishonest thing in his whole life.'

Wallander wasn't in the least surprised. He had been aware from the start that they could be heading into a cul-de-sac.

'What about his wife?'

Hansson shook his head.

'Even less,' said Hansson. 'She was a prosecutor in Nynäshamn for many years.'

Hansson put a file full of papers on Wallander's desk.

'I'll go and talk to the taxi drivers again,' he said. 'Perhaps they saw something without realising it.'

When Hansson had left, Wallander opened the file. It took him an hour to work his way carefully through all the documents. For once
Hansson hadn't overlooked anything. Even so, Wallander was convinced that Alexandersson's death had something to do with the old doctor. He knew without knowing, as so many times before. He didn't trust his intuition, it was true, but he couldn't deny that it had served him well many times in the past. He called Rydberg, who came to his office immediately. Wallander handed him the file.

'I'd like you to read through this,' he said. 'Neither Hansson nor I can see anything of interest, but I'm sure we're missing something.'

'We can forget Hansson,' Rydberg said, making no attempt to disguise the fact that his respect for his colleague was limited.

Late that afternoon Rydberg returned the file, shaking his head. He hadn't found anything either.

'We'll have to start again from the beginning,' said Wallander. 'Let's meet here in my office tomorrow morning and decide where we go from here.'

An hour later Wallander left the police station and drove to Svarte.
Once again he took a long walk along the beach. He didn't see another soul. Then he sat in his car and read one more time through the material Hansson had given him. What is it that I'm missing? he asked himself. There is a link between this doctor and Göran Alexandersson.
It's just me who can't see what it is.

He drove back to Ystad and took the file home with him to
Mariagatan. They had lived in the same three-room apartment ever since they moved to Ystad twelve years earlier.

He tried to relax, but the file gave him no peace. As midnight approached, he sat down at the kitchen table and went through it one more time. Although he was very tired, he did in fact find one detail that caught his attention. He knew it might well have no significance.
Nevertheless, he decided to look into it early the following morning.

He slept badly that night.

He was back at the police station by 7 a.m. Ystad was enveloped in drizzle. Wallander knew the man he was looking for was just as much of an early bird as he was. He went to the part of the building that housed the prosecutors and knocked on Per Åkeson's door. As usual, the room was in chaos. Åkeson and Wallander had worked together for many years and had great faith in each other's judgement. Åkeson pushed his glasses up on top of his head and looked at Wallander.

'Are you here already?' he said. 'So early? That must mean you have something important to tell me.'

'I don't know if it's important,' Wallander said, 'but I need your help.'

Wallander moved several bundles of paper from the visitor's chair to the floor and sat down. Then he summarised briefly the circumstances of Göran Alexandersson's death.

'It sounds very strange,' said Åkeson when Wallander had finished.

'Strange things do happen now and then,' Wallander said. 'You know that as well as I do.'

'I don't think you've come here at seven in the morning just to tell me this. I hope you're not going to suggest we should arrest that doctor?'

'I need your help with his wife,' Wallander said. 'Kajsa Stenholm. A former colleague of yours. She worked in Nynäshamn for many years.
But she had several temporary assignments too. Seven years ago she was filling in for somebody in Stockholm. It happened to be at the same time as Alexandersson's son's murder. I need your help to find out if there is a connection between those two events.'

Wallander leafed through his papers before continuing.

'The son was called Bengt,' he said eventually. 'Bengt Alexandersson.
He was eighteen when he was killed.'

Åkeson leaned his chair back and looked at Wallander with a furrowed brow.

'What do you think might have happened?' he asked.

'I don't know,' said Wallander, 'but I want to find out if there could be some sort of link. If Kajsa Stenholm was somehow involved in the investigation into the death of Bengt Alexandersson.'

'I take it you want to know as soon as possible?'

Wallander nodded.

'You should know by now that my patience is more or less nonexistent,' he said, rising to his feet.

'I'll see what I can do,' said Åkeson. 'But don't expect heaven and earth to be moved.'

When Wallander passed through reception on his way back to his office, he asked Ebba to send Rydberg and Hansson in to see him as soon as they came in.

'How are you nowadays?' Ebba asked. 'Are you getting a good night's sleep?'

'I sometimes feel I'm sleeping too much,' said Wallander evasively.
Ebba was reception's stalwart and kept a maternal watch on everybody's state of health. Wallander sometimes had to fend off her concern in as friendly a way as possible.

Hansson came to Wallander's office at about a quarter past eight, and Rydberg followed soon afterwards. Wallander summarised briefly what he had found in what were already being called 'Hansson's papers'.

'We'll have to wait and see what Åkeson comes up with,' said
Wallander. 'Maybe it's just a meaningless guess on my part. But on the other hand, if it does turn out that Kajsa Stenholm was assigned to
Stockholm when Bengt Alexandersson was murdered and that she was involved in the investigation, we've found the link we've been looking for.'

'Didn't you say she was on her deathbed?' wondered Rydberg.

'That's what her husband claimed,' Wallander said. 'I haven't actually met her.'

'With all due respect for your ability to find your way through complicated criminal investigations, this seems pretty vague to me,' said Hansson. 'Let's suppose that you're right. That Kajsa Stenholm was in fact involved in the investigation into the killing of young
Alexandersson. So what? Are you suggesting that a woman dying of cancer murdered a man who showed up out of her past?'

'It
is
very vague,' Wallander admitted. 'Let's wait and see what Åkeson comes up with.'

When Wallander was alone in his office again, he sat around for some time in a state of indecision. He wondered what Mona and Linda were doing at the moment. And what they were talking about. At about nine thirty he went to get a cup of coffee, and another one an hour or so later. He had just returned to his office when the telephone rang.
It was Åkeson.

'It went quicker than I'd expected,' he said. 'Do you have a pen handy?'

'I'm all set,' Wallander said.

'Between 10 March and 9 October 1980, Kajsa Stenholm was working as a prosecutor in the city of Stockholm,' Åkeson said. 'With some help from an efficient registry clerk at the county court, I found the answer to your second question, about whether Kajsa Stenholm was involved in the Bengt Alexandersson case.'

He fell silent. Wallander could feel the tension rising.

'It seems you were right,' said Åkeson. 'She was in charge of the preliminary investigation, and she was also the one who eventually put it aside. When the killer wasn't found.'

'Thank you for your help,' said Wallander. 'I'll look into this. I'll be in touch in due course.'

He hung up and walked over to the window. The glass was misted over. It was raining more heavily now. There's only one thing to do, he thought. I must get inside the house and find out what actually happened. He decided to take only Rydberg with him. He called him and Hansson on the intercom, and when they were in his office he told them what Åkeson had found out.

'Well, I'll be damned!' said Hansson.

'I thought you and I should take a drive out there,' Wallander said to Rydberg. 'Three would be one too many.'

Hansson nodded; he understood.

They drove to Svarte in Wallander's car. Neither spoke. Wallander parked about a hundred metres short of Stenholm's property.

'What do you want me to do?' asked Rydberg as they walked through the rain.

'Be there,' Wallander said. 'That's all.'

It suddenly struck Wallander that this was the first time Rydberg had ever assisted him, rather than the other way round. Rydberg had never formally lorded it over his colleague; it didn't suit his temperament to be a boss, and they had always worked in tandem. But during the years Wallander had been in Ystad, it was Rydberg who had been his teacher. Everything he knew today about the work of a police officer was mainly due to Rydberg.

They went through the gate and up to the front door. Wallander rang the bell. As if they had been expected, the door was opened almost immediately by the elderly doctor. Wallander thought in passing that it was odd the Labrador hadn't appeared.

'I hope we're not disturbing you,' Wallander said, 'but we have a few more questions that can't wait, unfortunately.'

'What about?'

Wallander noticed that all the friendliness the man had shown before was gone. He seemed scared and irritated.

'About that man on the beach,' Wallander said.

'I've already told you I've never seen him.'

'We'd also like to talk to your wife.'

'I've told you she's fatally ill. What could she have seen? She's in bed. I don't understand why you can't leave us in peace!'

'Then we won't disturb you any more,' said Wallander. 'Not just now, at least. But I have no doubt we'll be back. And then you'll have to let us in.'

He took Rydberg's arm and steered him towards the gate. The door closed behind them.

'Why did you give in so easily?' Rydberg asked.

'Something you taught me,' Wallander said. 'That it does no harm to let people stew for a while. Besides, I need a warrant from Åkeson to search the house.'

'Is he really the one who killed Alexandersson?' asked Rydberg.

'Yes,' said Wallander. 'I'm certain of it. He's the one. But I still don't understand how it all fits together.'

That afternoon Wallander received the authorisation he needed. He decided to wait until the next morning. But just in case, he persuaded
Björk to have a guard placed on the house until then.

When Wallander woke up as dawn was breaking the next morning,
7 May, and opened the curtains, Ystad was covered in fog. Before taking a shower he did something he had forgotten to do the previous night: he looked up Stenholm in the telephone directory. There was no mention of a Martin or Kajsa Stenholm. He phoned directory assistance and ascertained that the number was unlisted. He nodded to himself, as if that was exactly what he had expected.

As he drank his morning cup of coffee, he asked himself if he should take Rydberg with him or drive out to Svarte on his own. It wasn't until he was behind the wheel that he decided to go himself. The fog was thick along the coast road.

Wallander drove very slowly. It was nearly eight when he pulled up outside the Stenholm house. He walked through the gate and rang the doorbell. It wasn't until the third ring that the door opened. When
Stenholm saw that it was Wallander, he tried to slam it shut again, but
Wallander managed to put his foot in the way.

'What right do you have to break in here?' the old man shouted in a shrill voice.

'I'm not breaking in,' Wallander said. 'I have a search warrant. You might as well accept that. Can we sit down somewhere?'

Stenholm suddenly seemed resigned. Wallander followed him into a room full of books. Wallander sat down in a leather armchair, and
Stenholm sat opposite him.

'Do you really have nothing to say to me?' Wallander asked.

'I haven't seen anybody wandering up and down the beach. Nor has my wife, who's seriously ill. She's in bed upstairs.'

Wallander decided to come right to the point. There was no reason to beat around the bush any longer.

'Your wife was a public prosecutor,' he said. 'For most of 1980 she was assigned to Stockholm. Among a lot of other things, she was in charge of a preliminary investigation into the circumstances surrounding the death of an eighteen-year-old named Bengt
Alexandersson. She was also responsible for putting the case aside some months later. Do you recall those events?'

'Of course not,' said Stenholm. 'It has always been our habit not to talk shop at home. She said nothing about the people she was prosecuting, I said nothing about my patients.'

'The man who was walking on the beach here was the father of
Bengt Alexandersson,' said Wallander. 'He was poisoned and died in the back seat of a taxi. Does that seem like a mere coincidence?'

Stenholm made no reply. And then the penny suddenly dropped for
Wallander.

'When you retired you moved down from Nynäshamn to Skåne,' he said slowly. 'To a place in the middle of nowhere like Svarte. You're not even in the telephone book because your number's unlisted. Needless to say, that could be because you want to be left in peace and quiet, to live out your old age in anonymity. But there could be another explan ation. You might have moved out here as discreetly as possible in order to escape from something or somebody. Perhaps to get away from a man who can't understand why a prosecutor didn't put more effort into solving the pointless murder of his only child. You moved, but he tracked you down. I don't suppose we'll ever know how he managed that. But one day, there he is on the beach. You meet him while you're out walking your dog. Naturally, it's a big shock. He repeats his accusations, maybe he even makes threats. Your wife is seriously ill upstairs. I have no doubt that's the case. The man on the beach keeps on coming back, day after day. He won't let you shake him off. You see no way of getting rid of him. No way out at all. Then you invite him into your house. Presumably you promise him that he can talk to your wife. You give him some poison, possibly in a cup of coffee. Then you suddenly change your mind and tell him to come back the next day.
Your wife is in great pain, or perhaps she's asleep. But you know he'll never come back. The problem is solved. Göran Alexandersson will die of something that looks like a heart attack. Nobody has ever seen you together, nobody knows about the link between you. Is that what happened?'