The Pyramid

by Henning Mankell

  'Of course.'

  Wallander followed Hemberg down onto the street.

  'Since you are the neighbour I thought perhaps you could take care of the key,' he said. 'When the others are done they will leave it with you. Make sure no one who is not supposed to enter goes in there until we are completely sure it is a suicide.'

  Wallander went back into the building. In the stairwell he bumped into Linnea Almquist, who was on her way out with a bag of rubbish.

  'What is all this commotion?' she asked irritably.

  'Unfortunately there has been a death,' Wallander said politely. 'Hålén has passed away.'

  She was clearly shaken by the news.

  'He must have been very lonely,' she said slowly. 'I tried to get him to come in for a cup of coffee a few times. He excused himself with the fact that he didn't have time. But surely time was the only thing he had?'

  'I hardly knew him,' Wallander said.

  'Was it his heart?'

  Wallander nodded.

  'Yes,' he said. 'It was probably his heart.'

  'We'll have to hope no noisy young people move in,' she said, and left.

  Wallander returned to Hålén's apartment. It was easier now that the body had been removed. A technician was packing up his bag. The pool of blood had darkened on the linoleum floor. The Thorn was picking at his cuticles.

  'Hemberg said that I should take the keys,' Wallander said.

  The Thorn pointed to a key ring on the chest of drawers.

  'I wonder who owns the building,' he said. 'I have a girlfriend who's looking for a place to live.'

  'The walls are very thin,' Wallander said. 'Just so you know.'

  'Haven't you heard about those new exotic waterbeds?' the Thorn asked. 'They don't creak.'

  It was already a quarter past six when Wallander could finally lock the door to Hålén's apartment. There were still several hours left before he was supposed to meet Mona. He went back to his place and put on some coffee. The wind had picked up. He closed the window and sat down in the kitchen. He had not had any time to buy groceries and now the shop was closed. There was no shop that was open late nearby. It occurred to him that he would have to take Mona out for dinner. His wallet was on the table. There was enough money. Mona liked going out to dinner, but Wallander thought it was throwing away money for no reason.

  The coffee pot started to whistle. He poured himself a cup and added three lumps of sugar. Waited for it to cool.

  Something was nagging at him.

  Where it came from, he didn't know.

  But all at once the feeling was very strong.

  He did not know what it was, other than that it had to do with Hålén. In his mind he went over what had happened. The bang that woke him, the door that was ajar, the dead body on the floor inside the room. A man who had committed suicide, a man who had been his neighbour.

  Nonetheless something didn't add up. Wallander walked into the main room and lay down on the bed. Listened in his memory to the bang. Had he heard anything else? Before or after? Had any sounds penetrated his dreams? He searched but found nothing. Still, he was sure. There was something he had overlooked. He continued to go through his memories. But he remembered only silence. He got up from his bed and walked back out into the kitchen. The coffee had cooled.

  I'm imagining things, he thought. I saw it, Hemberg saw it, everyone saw it. An old, lonely man who had had enough.

  And yet it was as if he had seen something without realising what he was seeing.

  At the same time he had to admit that there was something inherently attractive about this idea. That he may have noticed something that had escaped Hemberg. That would increase his chances of advancing to criminal investigator sooner rather than later.

  He checked his watch. He still had time before he had to leave and meet Mona at the Denmark ferry. He put the coffee cup in the sink, grabbed the keys and entered Hålén's apartment. When he reached the main room everything was as it had been when he discovered the body, except that the body itself was now missing. But the room was unchanged. Wallander looked around slowly. How do you do this? he wondered. How do you discover what you see but aren't seeing?

  It was something, he was sure of it.

  But he couldn't put his finger on it.

  He walked into the kitchen and sat down on the chair that Hemberg had used. The betting form lay in front of him. Wallander did not know very much about English football. Actually, he didn't know very much about football, period. If he felt like gambling, he bought a lottery ticket. Nothing else.

  The betting form was made out for this coming Saturday, he could see. Hålén had even written out his name and address.

  Wallander returned to the room and walked over to the window in order to look at it from another angle. His gaze stopped by the bed. Hålén had been dressed when he took his life. But the bed was unmade. Even though the rest of the apartment was characterised by a meticulous order. Why hadn't he made the bed? Wallander thought. He could hardly have slept with his clothes on, woken up and then shot himself without making his bed. And why leave a completed betting form on the kitchen table?

  It did not make sense, but on the other hand it did not necessarily mean anything. Hålén could have very quickly decided to kill himself. Perhaps he had realised the senselessness of making his bed one last time.

  Wallander sat down in the room's only armchair. It was old and worn. I'm imagining things, he thought again. The medical examiner will establish that it was a suicide, the forensic investigation will confirm that the weapon and bullet match up and that the shot was fired by Hålén's own hand.

  Wallander decided to leave the apartment. It was time to freshen up and change his clothes before leaving to meet Mona. But something kept him there. He walked over to the chest and started pulling open the drawers. He immediately found the two sea logs. Artur Hålén had been a handsome man in his youth. Blond hair, a big wide smile. Wallander had trouble connecting this image with the same man who had lived out his days in Rosengård in peace and quiet. Least of all he felt that these were pictures of someone who would one day come to take his own life. But he knew how wrong his thinking was. People who ended up committing suicide could never be characterised from a given model.

  He found the colourful beetle and took it over to the window. On the bottom of the jar he thought he could make out the stamped word 'Brazil'. A souvenir that Hålén had bought on some trip. Wallander continued to go through the drawers. Keys, coins from various countries, nothing that caught his attention. Halfway under the worn and torn drawer liner he found a brown envelope. Inside was an old photograph, a wedding picture. On the back was the name of the studio and a date: 15 May 1894. The studio was located in Härnösand. There was also the note: Manda and I the day we got married. His parents, Wallander thought. Four years later their son was born.

  When he was done with the chest of drawers he walked over to the bookcase. To his surprise he found several books in German. They were well thumbed. There were also some books by Vilhelm Moberg, a Spanish cookbook and a few issues of a magazine for people interested in model aeroplanes. Wallander shook his head in bewilderment. Hålén was considerably more complex than he could have imagined. He walked away from the bookcase and checked under the bed. Nothing. He then went on to the cupboard. The clothes were neatly hung; three pairs of shoes, well polished. It is only the unmade bed, Wallander thought again. It doesn't fit.

  He was about to shut the cupboard door when the doorbell rang. Wallander flinched. Waited. There was another ring. Wallander had the feeling that he was trespassing on forbidden territory. He kept waiting, but when it rang the third time he went over and opened the door.

  Outside there was a man in a grey coat. He looked enquiringly at Wallander.

  'Am I mistaken?' he asked. 'I am looking for Mr Hålén.'

  Wallander tried to adopt a formal tone that would sound appropriate.

  'May I ask who you are?' he said with unnecess
ary brusqueness.

  The man frowned.

  'And if I could ask the same of you?' he asked.

  'I am from the police,' Wallander said. 'Detective Sergeant Kurt Wallander. Would you now be so kind as to answer my question: who are you and what do you want?'

  'I sell encyclopedias,' the man said meekly. 'I was here last week and made a presentation of my books. Artur Hålén asked me to come back today. He has already sent in the contract and the first payment. I was to deliver the first volume and then the gift book that all new clients receive as a welcome bonus.'

  He took two books out of his briefcase as if to assure Wallander that he was telling the truth.

  Wallander had been listening with increasing amazement. The feeling that something didn't add up was strengthened. He stepped aside and nodded for the salesman to come in.

  'Has anything happened?' the man asked.

  Wallander ushered him into the kitchen without answering and indicated that he should sit down at the table.

  Then Wallander realised that he was now going to deliver the news of a death. Something he had always dreaded. But he reminded himself that he was not talking to a relative, only to an encyclopedia salesman.

  'Artur Hålén is dead,' he said.

  The man on the other side of the table did not seem to understand this.

  'But I spoke to him earlier today.'

  'I thought you said you had spoken to him last week?'

  'I called him this morning and asked if it would be all right for me to come by this evening.'

  'What did he say?'

  'That it would be fine. Why else would I have come? I am not an intrusive person. People have such bizarre preconceptions about doorto- door salesmen.'

  It was likely that the man was lying.

  'Let's take the whole thing from the top,' Wallander said.

  'What is it that's happened?' the man interrupted.

  'Artur Hålén is dead,' Wallander answered. 'And that is as much as I can say at this point.'

  'But if the police are involved then something must have happened. Was he hit by a car?'

  'For now that is as much as I can say,' Wallander repeated and wondered why he had to overdramatise the situation.

  Then he asked the man to tell him the whole story.

  'I am Emil Holmberg,' the man began. 'I am actually a school biology teacher. But I'm trying to sell encyclopedias to save up for a trip to Borneo.'

  'Borneo?'

  'I'm interested in tropical plants.'

  Wallander nodded for him to continue.

  'I walked around the neighbourhood here last week and knocked on people's doors. Artur Hålén showed some interest and asked me to come in. We sat here in the kitchen. I told him about the encyclopedia, what it cost, and showed him a copy of one of the volumes. After about half an hour he signed the contract. Then I called him today and he said that it would be all right for me to come by this evening.'

  'Which day were you here last week?'

  'Tuesday. Between around four and half past five.'

  Wallander recalled that he had been on duty at that time. But he saw no reason to tell the man that he lived in the building. Especially since he had claimed to be a detective.

  'Hålén was the only one who showed any interest,' Holmberg continued. 'A lady on one of the upper floors started to tell me off for disturbing people. These things happen, but not too often. Next door to here there was no one home, I remember.'

  'You said that Hålén made his first payment?'

  The man opened his briefcase where he kept the books and showed Wallander a receipt. It was dated the Friday from the week before.

  Wallander thought it over.

  'How long was he supposed to make payments for this encyclopedia?'

  'For two years. Until all twenty instalments were paid for.'

  This makes no sense, Wallander thought, no sense at all. A man who was planning to commit suicide doesn't agree to sign a two-year contract.

  'What was your impression of Hålén?' Wallander asked.

  'I don't think I know what you mean.'

  'How was he? Calm? Happy? Did he appear worried?'

  'He didn't say very much. But he was genuinely interested in the encyclopedia. I am sure of that much.'

  Wallander did not have anything else to ask. There was a pencil on the kitchen windowsill. He searched for a piece of paper in his pocket. The only thing he found was his grocery list. He turned it over and asked Holmberg to write down his number.

  'We will most likely not be in touch again,' he said. 'But I'd like to have your telephone number as a precaution.'

  'Hålén seemed perfectly healthy,' Holmberg said. 'What is it really that has happened? And what will now happen with the contract?'

  'Unless he has relatives that can take it over, I don't think you'll get paid. I can assure you that he is dead.'

  'But you can't tell me what has happened?'

  'I'm afraid not.'

  'It sounds sinister to me.'

  Wallander stood up to indicate that their talk was over. Holmberg stood rooted to the spot with his briefcase.

  'Would I be able to interest you, Detective Inspector, in an encyclopedia?'

  'Detective Sergeant,' Wallander said, 'and I don't need an encyclopedia right now. At least not at the moment.'

  Wallander showed Holmberg out to the street. Only when the man had turned the corner on his bike did Wallander go back in and return to Hålén's apartment. Then he sat down at the kitchen table and in his mind walked back over everything that Holmberg had said. The only reasonable explanation he could come up with was that Hålén had arrived at his decision to kill himself very suddenly. If you could rule out the idea of him being so crazy that he wanted to play a mean trick on an innocent salesman.

  Somewhere in the distance a telephone rang. Far too late he realised it was his own. He ran into the apartment. It was Mona.

  'I thought you were going to meet me,' she said angrily.

  Wallander looked at his watch and swore quietly. He should have been down by the boat at least a quarter of an hour ago.

  'I got caught up in a criminal investigation,' he said apologetically.

  'I thought you were off today?'

  'Unfortunately they needed me.'

  'Are there really no other policemen except you? Is this how it's going to be?'

  'It was an exception.'

  'Did you go grocery shopping?'

  'No, I ran out of time.'

  He heard how disappointed she was.

  'I'll come get you now,' he said, 'I'll try to hail a cab. Then we can go to a restaurant somewhere.'

  'How can I be sure? Maybe you'll get called away again.'

  'I'll be down there as soon as I can, I promise.'

  'I'll be on a bench outside. But I'm only waiting for twenty minutes. Then I'm going home.'

  Wallander hung up and called the cab company. It was busy. It took almost ten minutes for him to get a cab. Between tries, he managed to lock up Hålén's apartment and change his shirt.