The Pyramid (4 page)

Wallander went back into the building and unlocked Hålén's door.
Before he walked in he called out but received no answer. He turned on the hall light and walked into the main room. The chest drawers were pulled out. Wallander looked around. Someone had been in the apartment and looking for something. He walked over to a window and tried to see if it had been forced open. But he found no marks on it. That meant he could draw two conclusions. The unknown person who had been in the apartment had had access to keys. And he or she had not wanted to be found out.

Wallander turned on the light in the room and started to look around to see if anything that had been there earlier in the day had gone missing. But he was unsure of his memory. The most noticeable things were still there. The beetle from Brazil, the sea logs and the old photograph.
But the photograph had been removed from the envelope and was lying on the floor. Wallander crouched down and studied the envelope. Someone had taken the picture out. The only explanation he could think of was that someone had been looking for something that might be found in an envelope.

He got up and continued to look around. The bedclothes were torn from the bed, the cupboard door was open. One of Hålén's two suits had ended up on the floor.

Someone has been searching, Wallander thought. The question is, for what? And did he or she find it before I rang the doorbell?

He walked out to the kitchen. The cabinets were open. A pot had fallen to the floor. Maybe that was what had woken him up? Really, he thought, the answer is obvious. If the person who was in here had found what he was looking for, he would have left. And hardly through the window. Therefore whatever the person was looking for was still here. If it ever had been.

Wallander returned to the room and looked at the dried blood on the floor.

What happened? he thought. Was it really suicide?

He continued to search the apartment. But at ten past four he gave up, returned to his apartment and got back into bed. He set his alarm for seven. He was going to talk to Hemberg first thing in the morning.

A few hours later Wallander had to run to the bus stop in pouring rain. He had had a restless sleep and woken up long before the alarm went off. The thought that he might be able to impress Hemberg with his attentiveness had led him to lie there fantasising about how he would one day be a criminal investigator a cut above the rest. This thought also made him decide to stand his ground with Mona. You could not expect a policeman to be punctual.

It was four minutes to seven when he arrived at the station. He had heard that Hemberg often showed up very early to work and an enquiry to reception revealed this to be correct. Hemberg had been there since six o'clock. Wallander walked up to the section where the crime squad was based. Most of the offices were still empty. He walked straight to Hemberg's door and knocked. When he heard
Hemberg's voice he opened it and walked in. Hemberg was sitting in the visitor's chair, cutting his nails. When he saw that it was
Wallander he frowned.

'Do we have a scheduled appointment? I don't recall seeing anything like that.'

'No. But I have something to report.'

Hemberg put the nail scissors next to his pens and sat down at his desk.

'If this is going to take more than five minutes, you can sit down,' he said.

Wallander remained standing. Then he told him what had happened.
He started with the salesman and went on to the night's events. He could not determine if Hemberg was listening with interest or not. His face revealed nothing.

'That was it,' Wallander finished. 'I thought I should report this as soon as possible.'

Hemberg gestured for Wallander to have a seat. Then he pulled over a pad of paper, chose a pen, and wrote down the name and number of the encyclopedia salesman, Holmberg. Wallander made a mental note to himself about the notepad. Hemberg did not favour loose papers or preformatted report forms.

'The nightly visit appears strange,' he then said. 'But in the end it does not change anything. Hålén committed suicide. I am convinced of it. When the autopsy and weapons report come in we'll have that confirmed.'

'The question is who was there last night.'

Hemberg shrugged.

'You have given a possible answer yourself. Someone with keys.
Someone looking for something he or she did not want to let slip out of their hands. Rumours spread quickly. People saw the police cars and ambulance. Many people must have known that Hålén was dead after only a couple of hours.'

'But it's strange that this person jumped out of the window.'

Hemberg smiled.

'He may have thought you were a burglar,' he said.

'Who rang the bell?'

'A standard way of seeing if anyone's home.'

'At three o'clock in the morning?'

Hemberg threw down the pen and leaned back in his chair.

'You don't seem convinced,' he said, without masking the fact that
Wallander was beginning to get on his nerves.

Wallander immediately realised that he had gone too far and started his retreat.

'Of course I am,' he said. 'It's definitely suicide and nothing more.'

'Good,' Hemberg said. 'Then that's settled. It was good of you to report this. I'll send over a couple of guys to deal with the mess. Then we'll wait for the medical examiners and forensic lab. After that we can put Hålén in a folder and forget about him.'

Hemberg put his hand on the phone as a signal that the conversation was over and Wallander left the room. He felt like an idiot. An idiot who had run away with himself. What was it he had imagined?

That he had tracked down a murder? He walked back to his office and decided that Hemberg was right. Once and for all, forget all thoughts of Hålén. And be a diligent patrolman a little longer.

That evening Mona came out to Rosengård. They had dinner and
Wallander said none of his prepared speech. Instead he apologised for being late. Mona accepted this and then spent the night. They lay awake for a long time, talking about July, when they were going on holiday together for two weeks. They had still not decided what they were going to do. Mona worked in a hair salon and did not make much money.
Her dream was to be able to open her own place sometime in the future. Wallander also did not have a high salary. To be exact, 1,896 kronor a month. They had no car and they would have to plan carefully to get the money to last.

Wallander had suggested they travel north and hike in the mountains.
He had never been further than Stockholm. But Mona wanted to go somewhere where you could swim. They had done the calculation to see if they could afford to go to Mallorca. But that was too expensive. Instead Mona suggested they go to Skagen in Denmark. She had been there a few times with her parents as a child and had never forgotten it. She had also already found out that there were many inexpensive bed and breakfasts that were not yet fully booked. Before they fell asleep they had managed to reach an agreement. They would go to Skagen. The next day Mona would book a room, while Wallander would check the train schedule from Copenhagen.

The following evening, 5 June, Mona went to visit her parents in
Staffanstorp. Wallander played poker with his father for several hours. For once his father was in a good mood and did not start criticising Wallander for his choice of profession. When he went on to win almost fifty kronor from his son he became so jolly that he took out a bottle of cognac.

'Sometime I want to go to Italy,' he said after they had said cheers.
'And once in my life I also want to see the pyramids in Egypt.'

'Why?'

His father looked at him for a long time.

'That is an extraordinarily stupid question,' he said. 'Of course you should see Rome before you die. And the pyramids. It is part of a well-rounded person's general education.'

'How many Swedes do you think can afford to go to Egypt?'

His father pretended not to hear his objection.

'But I am not about to die,' he added instead. 'What I will do is move to Löderup.'

'How's the property deal coming along?'

'It's already done.'

Wallander stared at him with surprise.

'What do you mean by "done"?'

'I've already bought and paid for the house. Svindala 12:24 is the address.'

'But I haven't even seen it.'

'You're not the one who's going to live there. I am.'

'Have you even been out there?'

'I've seen a picture of it. That's enough. I make no unnecessary trips.
It encroaches on my work.'

Wallander groaned inside. He was convinced his father had been duped. Taken advantage of, as he so often had been when he sold his paintings to the dubious characters in their large American cars who had been his clients all these years.

'This is news,' Wallander said. 'May I ask when you're planning to move?'

'The removal men are coming this Friday.'

'You're already moving this week?'

'You heard what I said. Next time we play cards we'll be in the middle of the Skåne mud.'

Wallander threw his arms out.

'When will you pack? Everything is a terrible mess.'

'I assumed that you wouldn't have any time. So I asked your sister to come down and help me.'

'So you're saying that if I hadn't come over tonight I would have found an empty house the next time I came for a visit?'

'Yes, you would have.'

Wallander held out his glass for more cognac, which his father parsimoniously only filled halfway.

'I don't even know where it is. Löderup? Is that on this or the far side of Ystad?'

'It's on this side of Simrishamn.'

'Can you answer my question?'

'I already have.'

His father stood up and put the bottle of cognac away. Then he pointed to the cards.

'One more hand?'

'I have no money left. But I'll try to drop by in the evenings and help you pack. How did you pay for this house?'

'I've already forgotten that.'

'You can't have done. Do you have that much money?'

'No. But money doesn't interest me.'

Wallander realised he was not going to get a clearer answer than this. It was already half past ten. He needed to get home and sleep. At the same time he had trouble leaving. This was where he had grown up. When he was born they had lived in Klagshamn but he had no real memories of it.

'Who is going to live here now?' he asked.

'I've heard it will be demolished.'

'You don't seem to care very much about that. How long have you lived here, anyway?'

'Nineteen years. More than enough.'

'I can't accuse you of being sentimental, at any rate. Do you realise that this is my childhood home?'

'A house is a house,' his father answered. 'Now I've had enough of the city. I want to get out into the countryside. I'll be left in peace there and paint and plan my travels to Egypt and Italy.'

Wallander walked all the way back to Rosengård. It was overcast. He realised he was anxious that his father was going to move and that his childhood home was going to be torn down.

I am sentimental, he thought. Perhaps that's why I like opera. The question is, can you be a good police officer if you have a tendency towards sentimentality?

The day after, Wallander called to enquire about train departures for their holiday. Mona had booked a room in a bed and breakfast that sounded cosy. Wallander spent the rest of the day patrolling downtown
Malmö. The whole time he thought he saw the girl who had accosted him in the cafe. He longed for the day he could take off his uniform. Everywhere gazes were directed at him, expressing distaste or disdain, especially from people his own age. He was patrolling with an overweight and slow policeman by the name of Svanlund, who spent the whole time talking about the fact that he was going to retire in one year and move to his ancestral farm outside Hudiksvall. Wallander listened absently and mumbled something inconsequential from time to time. Apart from escorting some drunks away from a playground, nothing else happened other than Wallander's feet starting to hurt. It was the first time, even though he had patrolled so often during his working life thus far. He wondered if it was due to his increased desire to become a criminal investigator. When he came home he took out a washbowl and filled it with warm water. A feeling of well-being spread throughout his entire body when he put his feet into the water.

He closed his eyes and started to think about the tempting holiday.
He and Mona would have undisturbed time to plan their future. And soon he hoped to be able to hang up his uniform at long last and move up to the floor where Hemberg was.

He nodded off in the chair. The window was open a crack. Someone appeared to be burning rubbish. He picked up a faint smell of smoke.
Or perhaps dry twigs. There was a weak crackling sound.

He jerked and opened his eyes. Was there really someone burning rubbish in their garden? There were no free-standing houses with gardens in the neighbourhood.

Then he saw the smoke.

It was filtering in from the hallway. When he ran to the front door he knocked over the bowl of water. The stairwell was full of smoke, but he had no trouble determining the source of the fire.

Hålén's apartment was engulfed in flames.

Afterwards Wallander thought that for once he had really managed to act according to the rule book. He had run back into his apartment and called the fire brigade. Then he had returned to the stairwell, run up a floor, and banged on Linnea Almquist's door and made sure that she got out onto the street. She had at first protested but Wallander had insisted, grabbing her by the arm. When they made it out the front door Wallander discovered that he had a large cut on one knee. He had tripped over the bowl when he had gone back into the apartment and had hit his knee on a corner of the table. He only discovered now that it was bleeding.

Extinguishing the blaze had gone quickly since the fire had not really had a chance to establish itself before Wallander had smelled the smoke and alerted the fire brigade. When he approached the fire chief to find out if they had already determined the cause of the blaze, he had been turned away. Furious, he had gone to his apartment and retrieved his police badge. The fire chief 's name was Faråker and he was in his sixties, with a ruddy face and a sonorous voice.

'You could have told me you were police,' he said.

'I live in this building. I was the one who called in the alarm.'

Wallander told him what had happened with Hålén.

'Too many people are dying,' Faråker said firmly. Wallander was not completely sure how to take this unexpected comment.

'So this means that the apartment was empty,' Wallander said.

'It appears to have been started in the entrance hall,' Faråker said.
'I'll be damned if it wasn't arson.'

Wallander looked quizzically at him.

'How can you know that already?'

'You learn a thing or two as the years go by,' Faråker said at the same time that he handed out some instructions.

'You will do this too one day,' he continued and started stuffing an old pipe with tobacco.

'If this is arson, the crime division will have to be called in, won't it?' Wallander said.

'They're already on their way.'

Wallander joined some colleagues and helped them keep curious onlookers at bay.

'The second one today,' one of the officers said. His name was
Wennström. 'This morning we had a pile of burning timber out near
Limhamn.'

Wallander wondered briefly if his father had decided to burn the house since he was moving anyway. But he did not pursue this line of thought.

A car pulled up to the kerb. Wallander saw to his surprise that it was Hemberg. He waved Wallander over.

'I heard the dispatch,' he said. 'Lundin was supposed to take it, but
I thought I would take over since I recognised the address.'

'The fire chief thinks it's arson.'

Hemberg made a face.

'People believe a hell of a lot of things,' he said. 'I've known Faråker for almost fifteen years. It doesn't matter if it's a burning chimney or car engine. For him everything is a suspected case of arson. Come with me and you may learn something.'

Wallander followed him.

'What do you say about this?' Hemberg asked.

'Arson.'

Faråker sounded extremely sure. Wallander sensed that there was a deep-seated, mutual antipathy between the two men.

'The man who lives here is dead. Who would have started a fire in there?'

'That's your job to find out. I'm just saying it was arson.'

'Can we go in?'

Faråker shouted out to one of the firemen, who gave an all-clear signal. The fire was out and the worst of the smoke gone. They went in. The part of the entrance hall by the front door was scorched. But the flames had never reached further than the curtain that divided the hall from the main room. Faråker pointed to the letter box in the door.

'It might have been started here,' he said. 'Smouldered first, and then caught fire. There aren't any electrical wires or anything else that could catch fire on their own.'

Hemberg crouched down next to the door. Then he sniffed.

'It's possible that you're right for once,' he said and stood back up.
'It has a smell. Kerosene, maybe.'

'If it had been petrol, the fire would have been different.'

'So someone put it through the letter box?'

'That's the most likely scenario.'

Faråker poked the remains of the hall mat with his foot.

'Hardly paper,' he said. 'More likely a piece of cloth. Or cotton batting.'

Hemberg shook his head gloomily.

'Damn people who start fires in the homes of people who are already dead.'

'Your problem,' Faråker said. 'Not mine.'

'We'll have to ask forensics to take a look at this.'

For a moment Hemberg appeared concerned. Then he looked at
Wallander.

'Any possibility of getting a cup of coffee?'

They walked into Wallander's apartment. Hemberg looked at the overturned bowl and the pool of water on the floor.

'Were you trying to put the fire out yourself?'

'I was taking a footbath.'

Hemberg regarded him with interest.

'Footbath?'

'Sometimes my feet hurt.'

'Then you must have the wrong kind of shoes,' Hemberg said. 'I patrolled for more than ten years but my feet never gave me any trouble.'

Hemberg sat down at the kitchen table while Wallander prepared the coffee.

'Did you hear anything?' Hemberg asked. 'Anyone on the stairs?'

'No.'

Wallander thought it was embarrassing to admit he was sleeping this time as well.

'If anyone had been moving around out there, would you have heard them?'

'You can hear the front door slam,' Wallander said with deliberate vagueness. 'I probably would have heard someone come in. If the person didn't stop the door from slamming.'

Wallander set out a packet of plain vanilla wafers. It was the only thing he had to serve with the coffee.

'There's something strange here,' Hemberg said. 'Everything points to the fact that it was a perfect suicide. Hålén must have had a steady hand. He aimed well. Straight through the heart, no hesitation. The medical examiners aren't done yet, but we don't need to look for a cause of death other than suicide. There is none. The question is rather what this person was looking for. And why someone tried to burn down the apartment. It's probably the same person.'

Hemberg nodded to Wallander, indicating that he wanted more coffee.

'Do you have an opinion on this?' Hemberg asked abruptly. 'Show me now if you can think.'

Wallander was completely unprepared for this.

'The person who was here last night was looking for something,' he started. 'But probably he didn't find anything.'

'Because you interrupted him? Because otherwise he would have left already?'

'Yes.'

'What was he looking for?'

'I don't know.'

'And now tonight someone sets fire to the apartment. Let us assume it is the same person. What does this mean?'

Wallander pondered this.

'Take your time,' Hemberg said. 'If you are to make a good detective you have to learn to think methodically, and it is often the same thing as thinking slowly.'

'Perhaps he didn't want anyone else to find what he had been looking for?'

'Perhaps,' Hemberg said. 'Why "perhaps"?'

'Because there could be another explanation.'

'Like what, for example?'

Wallander searched frantically for an alternative without finding one.

'I don't know,' he replied. 'I can't find another alternative. At least not right now.'

Hemberg took a wafer.

'I can't either,' he said. 'Which means that the explanation may still be in the apartment. Without us having been able to find it. If this had all stopped at the nightly visit, this case would have ended as soon as the results of the weapons examination and autopsy were in. But with this fire, we'll probably have to do another round in there.'

'Did Hålén really not have any relatives?' Wallander asked.

Hemberg pushed away his cup and got to his feet.

'Come by my office tomorrow and I'll show you the report.'

Wallander hesitated.

'I don't know when I'll get time for that. We have to do a sweep of the Malmö parks tomorrow. Drugs.'

'I'll talk to your superior officer,' Hemberg said. 'We'll work it out.'

A little after eight the following day, 7 June, Wallander was reading through all of the case material that Hemberg had collected on Hålén.
It was extremely sparse. He had no fortune but also no debt. He appeared to have lived completely within the means of his pension.
The only recorded relative was a sister who had died in 1967 in
Katrineholm. The parents had passed away earlier.

Wallander read the report in Hemberg's office while Hemberg attended a meeting. He returned shortly after half past eight.

'Have you found anything?' he asked.

'How can a person be so alone?'

'You may ask,' Hemberg said, 'but it gives us no answers. Let's go over to the apartment.'

That morning the forensic technicians were making a thorough examination of Hålén's apartment. The man leading the work was small and thin and said almost nothing. His name was Sjunnesson; he was a legend in Swedish forensics.

'If there's anything here, he'll find it,' Hemberg said. 'Stay here and learn from him.'

Hemberg suddenly received a message and left.

'A man up in Jägersro has hanged himself in a garage,' he said when he returned.

Then he left again. When he returned, his hair had been trimmed.

At three o'clock Sjunnesson called the work to a halt.

'There's nothing here,' he said. 'No hidden money, no drugs. It's clean.'

'Then there was someone who imagined there was something here,'
Hemberg said. 'And who was wrong. Now we'll close this case.'

Wallander followed Hemberg out onto the street.

'You have to know when it's time to quit,' Hemberg said. 'That may be the most important thing of all.'

Wallander went back to his apartment and called Mona. They agreed to meet later that evening and take a drive. She had borrowed a car from a friend. She would drop by and pick Wallander up at seven.

'Let's go to Helsingborg,' she suggested.

'Why?'

'Because I've never been there.'

'Me neither,' Wallander said. 'I'll be ready at seven. And then we'll go to Helsingborg.'

But Wallander never made it to Helsingborg that evening. Shortly before six o'clock the phone rang. It was Hemberg.

'Come down here,' he said. 'I'm in my office.'

'Actually I have other plans,' Wallander said.

Hemberg interrupted him.

'I thought you were interested in what had happened to your neighbour.
Come down here and I'll show you. It won't take long.'

Wallander's curiosity was aroused. He called Mona at home but did not get an answer.

I'll make it back in time, he thought. I can't really afford a taxi but that can't be helped. He tore off a piece of paper from a bag and scribbled that he would be back at seven. Then he called for a cab. This time he was able to get through immediately. He attached the note to the door with a drawing pin and left for the police headquarters.
Hemberg was sitting in his office with his feet on the table.

He gestured for Wallander to sit down.

'We were wrong,' he said. 'There was an alternative that we didn't think of. Sjunnesson didn't make a mistake. He told the truth: there wasn't anything in Hålén's apartment. And he was right. But there had been something there.'

Wallander did not know what Hemberg was talking about.

'I also admit that I was tricked,' Hemberg said. 'But Hålén had removed what was in the apartment.'

'But he was dead.'

Hemberg nodded.

'The medical examiner called,' he said. 'The autopsy is complete.
And he found something very interesting in Hålén's stomach.'

Hemberg swung his feet off the desk. Then he took out a little folded piece of cloth from one of the drawers and carefully unwrapped it in front of Wallander.

There were stones inside. Precious stones. Of which type, Wallander was unable to determine.

'I had a jeweller here just before you arrived,' Hemberg said. 'He made a preliminary examination. These are diamonds. Probably from
South African mines. He said they were worth a minor fortune. Hålén had swallowed them.'

'He had these in his stomach?'

Hemberg nodded.

'No wonder we didn't find them.'

'But why did he swallow them? And when did he do this?'

'The last question is perhaps the most important. The doctor said that he swallowed them only a few hours before he shot himself. Before his intestines and stomach stopped working. Why do you think that might be?'

'He was afraid.'

'Exactly.'

Hemberg pushed the packet of diamonds away and put his feet back up on the table. Wallander caught a whiff of foot odour.

'Summarise this for me.'

'I don't know if I can.'

'Try it!'

'Hålén swallowed the diamonds because he was afraid that someone was going to steal them. And then he shot himself. The person who was there that night was looking for them. But I can't explain the blaze.'

'Can't you explain it a different way?' Hemberg suggested. 'If you tweak Hålén's motive a little. Where does that put you?'

Wallander suddenly realised what Hemberg was getting at.

'Maybe he wasn't afraid,' Wallander said. 'He had maybe just decided never to be parted from his diamonds.'

Hemberg nodded.

'You can draw one more conclusion. That someone knew that Hålén had these diamonds.'

'And that Hålén knew that someone knew.'

Hemberg nodded, pleased.

'You're coming along,' he said. 'Even though it's going very slowly.'

'But this doesn't explain the fire.'

'You still have to ask yourself what is most important,' Hemberg said. 'Where is the centre? Where is the very kernel? The fire can be a distraction. Or the act of someone who is angry.'

'Who?'

Hemberg shrugged.

'It'll be hard for us to find that out. Hålén is dead. How he has managed to get a hold of these diamonds I don't know. If I go to the public prosecutor with this he'll laugh in my face.'