The Pyramid (9 page)

'I'm not going to apologise for trying to find your telephone number.'

'What did you want?'

'I've received some information from Captain Verke. Do you remember? I said that we had an old sea captain here.'

Wallander remembered.

'I have some paper copies in front of me. Lists of sailors and engin eers who have worked for Swedish shipping lines for the past ten years. As you can imagine, this includes quite a number of people. By the way, are you sure that the man you mentioned had only served on
Swedish-registered vessels?'

'I'm not sure of anything,' Wallander said.

'You can pick up the lists from here,' she said. 'When you have time.
But I'll be in meetings all afternoon.'

Wallander promised to come by in the morning. Then he hung up and thought that what he should do now was call Mona and explain the situation. But he let it be. He simply didn't dare.

It was ten minutes to eight. He started to put on his coat.

The thought of patrolling for a whole day increased his despondence.

He was just about to leave the apartment when the telephone rang again. Mona, he thought. Now she's calling to tell me to go to hell. He drew a deep breath and lifted the receiver.

It was Hemberg.

'How are you doing with that stomach flu?'

'I was just on my way in to the station.'

'Good. But come up and report to me. I have talked with Lohman.
You are after all a witness who we need to talk to more. That means no patrolling today. And to top it off, you won't have to participate in raids on drug-infested neighbourhoods.'

'I'm on my way,' Wallander said.

'Come by at ten o'clock. I thought you could sit in on a meeting we have scheduled about the murder in Arlöv.'

The conversation was over. Wallander checked his watch. He would have time to pick up the papers waiting for him at the shipping office.
On the kitchen wall he had a schedule for the buses to and from
Rosengård. If he hurried, he wouldn't have to wait.

When he walked out the front door, Mona was there. He had not expected that. As little as he expected what happened next. She walked right over to him and slapped him on the left cheek. Then she twirled round and walked away.

Wallander was so shocked he did not even manage to react. His cheek burned and a man who was unlocking his car door stared at him with curiosity.

Mona was already gone. Slowly he started walking to the bus stop.
He had a knot in his stomach now. It had never occurred to him that she would react so violently.

The bus arrived. Wallander made his way down towards the Central
Station. The fog had gone. But it was overcast. The morning drizzle continued unabated. He sat in the bus and his head was completely empty. The events of last night no longer existed. The woman who had been sitting dead in her chair was part of a dream. The only thing that was real was that Mona had hit him and then walked away. Without a word, without hesitation.

I have to talk to her, he thought. Not now, while she is still upset.
But later, tonight.

He got off the bus. His cheek still stung. The slap had been forceful.
He checked his reflection in a shop window. The redness on his cheek was noticeable.

He lingered, confused about his course of action. Thought that he should talk to Lars Andersson as soon as possible. Thank him for his help and explain what had happened.

Then he thought about a house in Löderup he had never seen. And his childhood home, which no longer belonged to his family.

He started to walk. Nothing was made better by his standing unmoving on a pavement in downtown Malmö.

Wallander picked up the large envelope that Helena had left with the office receptionist.

'I need to talk to her,' he said to the receptionist.

'She's busy' was the answer. 'She just asked me to give you this.'

Wallander realised Helena was probably angry about the morning's conversation and did not want to see him. He didn't have great difficulties relating to this.

It wasn't more than five minutes past nine when Wallander arrived at the police station. He walked to his office and to his relief found that no one was waiting for him. Once again he thought through everything that had happened this morning. If he called the hair salon where
Mona worked she would say she didn't have time to talk. He would have to wait until tonight.

He opened the envelope and was amazed at how long the lists of names from various shipping companies that Helena had managed to dig up were. He looked for Artur Hålén's name, but it wasn't there.
The closest names he saw were a seaman by the name of Håle who had mostly sailed for the Gränges shipping line, and a chief engineer on the Johnson line by the name of Hallén. Wallander pushed aside the pile of paper. If the records he had in front of him were complete that meant that Hålén had not worked on any ships registered in the
Swedish merchant fleet. Then it would be nearly impossible to find him. Wallander suddenly did not know any longer what he was hoping to find. An explanation of what?

It had taken him almost three-quarters of an hour to go through the lists. He got to his feet and walked up to the next floor. He bumped into his boss, Inspector Lohman, in the corridor.

'Weren't you supposed to be with Hemberg today?'

'I'm on my way.'

'What were you doing out in Arlöv, anyway?'

'It's a long story; that's what the meeting with Hemberg is about.'

Lohman shook his head and hurried on. Wallander felt relief at not having to go to the dreary and depressing drug-infested neighbourhoods that his colleagues were going to have to deal with that day.

Hemberg was sitting in his office, sorting through some papers. As usual he had his feet up on the desk. He looked up when Wallander appeared in the doorway.

'What happened to you?' Hemberg asked and pointed to his cheek.

'I bumped into a doorpost,' Wallander said.

'Just what abused wives say when they don't want to turn in their husbands,' Hemberg said breezily and sat up.

Wallander felt found out. It was getting harder and harder for him to determine what Hemberg was really thinking. Hemberg seemed to have a double-edged language, one that made the listener constantly search for the meaning behind the words.

'We're still waiting for definitive results from Jörne,' Hemberg said.
'That takes time. As long as we can't pinpoint exactly when the woman died we also cannot proceed with the theory that Hålén killed her and then went home and shot himself out of regret or fear.'

Hemberg stood with his papers tucked under his arm. Wallander followed him to a conference room further down the corridor. There were already several detectives there, among them Stefansson, who regarded Wallander with animosity. Sjunnesson was picking his teeth and did not look at anyone. There were also two other men who
Wallander recognised. One was called Hörner and the other Mattsson.
Hemberg sat down at the short end of the table and pointed out a chair to Wallander.

'Is the patrol squad helping us out now?' Stefansson said. 'Don't they have enough to do with all those damn protestors?'

'The patrol squad has nothing to do with this,' Hemberg said. 'But
Wallander found that lady out in Arlöv. It's as simple as that.'

Only Stefansson seemed to object to Wallander's presence. The others nodded kindly. Wallander imagined that more than anything they were happy to have an additional hand. Sjunnesson put down the toothpick with which he had been picking his teeth. Apparently this was the sign that Hemberg could begin. Wallander noted the methodical care that characterised the investigative unit's proceedings. They worked from the existing facts, but they also took time – Hemberg, above all – to feel their way in exploring various directions. Why had
Alexandra Batista been murdered? What could the connection to Hålén be? Were there any other leads?

'The precious stones in Hålén's stomach,' Hemberg said towards the end of the meeting. 'I have received an evaluation from a jeweller of about 150,000 kronor. A lot of money, in other words. People in this country have been murdered for much less.'

'Someone hit a taxi driver on the head with an iron pipe a couple of years ago,' Sjunnesson said. 'He had twenty-two kronor in his wallet.'

Hemberg looked around the table.

'The neighbours?' he asked. 'Have they seen anything? Heard anything?'

Mattsson glanced through his notes.

'No observations,' he said. 'Batista lived an isolated life. Rarely went out except to buy groceries. Had no visitors.'

'Someone must have seen Hålén come by?' Hemberg objected.

'Apparently not. And the nearest neighbours gave the impression of being regular Swedish citizens. That is to say, extremely nosy.'

'When did someone see her last?'

'There were differing opinions on this. But of what I have been able to document, one can draw the conclusion that it was several days ago.
What's not clear is if it was two or three days ago.'

'Do we know what she lived on?'

Then it was Hörner's turn.

'She seems to have had a small annuity,' he said. 'In part with unclear origins. A bank in Portugal that in turn has affiliated branches in Brazil.
It always takes a damn long time with banks. But she didn't work. If you look at the contents of her cupboards, fridge and pantry, her life did not cost much.'

'But the house?'

'No loans. Paid for in cash by her former husband.'

'Where is he?'

'In a grave,' Stefansson said. 'He died a couple of years ago. Was buried in Karlskoga. I spoke to his widow. He had remarried. That was unfortunately somewhat embarrassing. I realised too late that she had no idea that there had once been an Alexandra Batista in his life. But he did not appear to have had any children with Batista.'

'That's how it can be,' Hemberg said, and turned to Sjunnesson.

'We're in the process,' he said. 'Different fingerprints on the glasses.
Seems to have been red wine in them. Spanish, I think. We're trying to match this to an empty bottle that was in the kitchen. We're checking to see if we have the prints in the register. Then of course we'll also compare them to Hålén's.'

'He may also be in Interpol's registers,' Hemberg pointed out. 'It can take a while until we hear back from them.'

'We can assume she let him in,' Sjunnesson continued. 'There were no signs of forced entry on the windows or doors. He can also have had his own key, for that matter. But there were none that fitted. The balcony door was open, as our friend Wallander has informed us. Since
Batista had neither a dog nor a cat, one could imagine that it was open to let in the night air. Which in turn should mean that Batista did not fear or expect that anything would happen. Or else the perpetrator exited that way. The back of the house is more protected from prying eyes.'

'Any other evidence?' Hemberg said.

'Nothing out of the ordinary.'

Hemberg pushed away the papers that were spread out in front of him.

'Then all we can do is keep going,' he said. 'The medical examiner will have to hurry up. The best possible outcome is if Hålén can be bound to the crime. Personally, that is what I believe. But we will have to keep talking to neighbours and digging around in background material.'

Then Hemberg turned to Wallander.

'Do you have anything to add? You found her, after all.'

Wallander shook his head and noticed that his mouth was dry.

'Nothing?'

'I didn't notice anything that you haven't already commented on.'

Hemberg drummed his fingers against the tabletop.

'Then we have no need to sit here any longer,' he said. 'Does anyone know what the lunch is today?'

'Herring,' Hörner said. 'It's usually good.'

Hemberg asked Wallander to join him for lunch. But he declined.
His appetite was gone. He felt that he needed to be alone to think. He went to his office to get his coat. He could see through the window that it had stopped raining. Just as he was about to leave his office, one of his colleagues from the patrol squad came in and threw his police cap on a table.

'Shit,' he said, and sat down heavily in a chair.

His name was Jörgen Berglund and he came from a farm outside
Landskrona. Wallander sometimes had trouble understanding his dialect.

'We've cleaned up two blocks,' he said. 'In one of them we found some runaway thirteen-year-old girls who had been missing for weeks.
One of them smelled so bad we had to hold our noses. Another one bit Persson on the leg when we were going to lift them out. What is happening in this country, anyway? And why weren't you there?'

'I was called in by Hemberg,' Wallander said. As to the other question, about what was happening in Sweden, he had no answer.

He took his coat and left. In the reception area he was stopped by one of the girls who worked in the call centre.

'You have a message,' she said and she handed him a note through the window. There was a phone number on it.

'What is this?' he asked.

'Someone called and said he was a distant relative to you. He wasn't sure you would even remember him.'

'Didn't he say what his name was?'

'No, but he seemed old.'

Wallander studied the telephone number. There was an area code:
0411. This can't be true, he thought. My father calls and introduces himself as a distant relative. One I may not even remember.

'Where is Löderup?' he asked.

'I think that's the Ystad police district.'

'I'm not asking about the police district. Which area code is it?'

'It's Ystad.'

Wallander tucked the note in his pocket and left. If he had had a car he would have driven straight out to Löderup and asked his father what he had meant by calling like that. When he had got an answer, he would let him have it. Say that from this point on all contact between them would be severed. No more poker evenings, no phone calls.
Wallander would promise to come to the funeral, which he hoped was not too far off. But that was all.

Wallander walked along Fiskehamnsgatan. Then he swung onto
Slottsgatan and continued into Kungsparken. I have two problems, he thought. The biggest and most important one is Mona. The other is my father. I have to solve both problems as soon as possible.