The Pyramid

by Henning Mankell

  'Do you remember what he wore?'

  'A blue coat,' she said immediately.

  Wallander recalled that almost every time he had seen Hålén he had been wearing a blue jacket with a zip.

  There was nothing wrong with her memory. Nor with her curiosity.

  'Had he done something?'

  'Not that we know.'

  'I heard it was suicide.'

  'Indeed it was. But the fire was arson.'

  I shouldn't have said that, Wallander thought. We don't know that for sure yet.

  'He always had exact change,' she said. 'Why do you want to know if he placed his bets here?'

  'Routine questioning,' Wallander answered. 'Can you remember anything else about him?'

  Her answer caught him by surprise.

  'He used to borrow the telephone,' she said.

  The telephone was on a little shelf next to the table where the betting forms were kept.

  'Was that a frequent occurrence?'

  'It happened every time. First he placed the bet and paid. Then he made his call, came back to the counter and paid for it.'

  She bit her lip.

  'There was something strange about those phone calls. I remember thinking about it one time.'

  'What was it?'

  'He always waited until another customer came into the shop before he dialled the number and started to talk. He never called when he and I were the only ones in the shop.'

  'He didn't want you to overhear.'

  She shrugged.

  'Maybe he just wanted his privacy. Isn't that normal?'

  'Did you ever hear what he talked about?'

  'You can listen even when you're attending a customer.'

  Her curiosity is a big help, Wallander thought.

  'What did he say?'

  'Not very much,' she answered. 'The conversations were always very brief. He gave times, I think. Not much more.'

  'Times?'

  'I had the feeling he was arranging a time with someone. He often looked at his watch while he was talking.'

  Wallander thought for a moment.

  'Did he usually come here on the same day of the week?'

  'Every Wednesday afternoon. Between two and three, I think. Or perhaps a little later.'

  'Did he buy anything else?'

  'No.'

  'How can you remember all this so precisely? You must have a large number of customers.'

  'I don't know,' she said. 'But I think you remember more than you realise. If someone starts to ask you it just comes back up.'

  Wallander looked at her hands. She wore no rings. He briefly considered asking her out but then dismissed the thought, horrified.

  It was as if Mona had overheard his thoughts.

  'Is there anything else you remember?'

  'No,' she said, 'but I'm sure he was talking to a woman.'

  That surprised Wallander.

  'How can you be sure of that?'

  'You can hear it,' she said firmly.

  'You mean that Hålén was calling to set up a time to meet with a woman?'

  'What would be strange about that? He was old, of course, but that doesn't matter.'

  Wallander nodded. Of course she was right. And if she was right he had found out something valuable. There had been a woman in Hålén's life after all.

  'Good,' he said. 'Do you remember anything else?'

  Before she answered, a customer walked in. Wallander waited. There were two little girls who took a great deal of care in selecting two bags of sweets, which they then paid for with an endless series of five-öre pieces.

  'That woman may have had a name that started with A,' she said. 'He always spoke very quietly. I said that earlier. But her name may have been Anna. Or a double name. Something with A.'

  'Are you sure of this?'

  'No,' she said. 'But I think so.'

  Wallander only had one more question.

  'Did he always come in alone?'

  'Yes, always.'

  'You've been a great help,' he said.

  'May I ask why you need this information?'

  'Unfortunately not,' Wallander said. 'We ask questions, but we can't always tell you why.'

  'Maybe I should join the police,' she said. 'I'm not planning to work in this shop for the rest of my life.'

  Wallander leaned over the counter and wrote down his telephone number on a small notepad next to the cash register.

  'Call me sometime,' he said. 'We can get together and I can tell you what it's like to be a police officer. Anyway, I live right round the corner.'

  'Wallander,' she said. 'Is that what it is?'

  'Kurt Wallander.'

  'My name is Maria. But don't get any ideas. I already have a boyfriend.'

  'I won't,' Wallander said and smiled.

  Then he left.

  A boyfriend can always be overcome, he thought as he stepped into the street. And stopped short. What would happen if she really called him? If she called while Mona was over? He asked himself what he had done. At the same time he couldn't help but feel a certain satisfaction.

  Mona deserved it. That he gave his phone number to someone named Maria who was very beautiful.

  As if Wallander was being punished for the mere thought of sinning, the rain started to pour down at that moment. He was drenched by the time he got home. He laid the wet cigarette packets on the kitchen table and stripped off all his clothes. Maria should have been here now to towel me off, he thought. And Mona can cut hair and take her damn coffee break.

  He put on his dressing gown and wrote down in his notepad what Maria had said. So Hålén had called a woman every Wednesday. A woman whose name started with the letter A. In all likelihood it was her first name. The question now was simply what this meant, other than that the image of the lonely old man had been shattered.

  Wallander sat at the kitchen table and read through what he had written the day before. Suddenly he was struck by a thought. There should be a sailors' register somewhere. Someone who could tell him about Hålén's many years at sea, which vessels he had worked on.

  I know someone who could help me, Wallander thought. Helena. She works for a shipping company. At the very least she can tell me where I can look. If she doesn't hang up on me when I call.

  It was not yet eleven. Wallander could see through the kitchen window that the downpour was over. Helena didn't normally take her lunch break until half past twelve. That meant that he would be able to get hold of her before she left.

  He got dressed and took the bus down to the Central Station. The shipping company that Helena worked for was in the harbour district. He walked in through the gates. The receptionist nodded at him in recognition.

  'Is Helena in?' he asked.

  'She's on the phone. But you can go on up. You know where her office is.'

  It was not without a feeling of dread that Wallander made his ascent to the first floor. Helena could get angry. But he tried to calm himself, thinking that at first she would simply be surprised. That could give him the time he needed to say that he was here purely on business. It was not her ex-boyfriend Kurt Wallander who was here, it was the police officer by the same name, the would-be criminal investigator.

  The words 'Helena Aronsson, Assistant Clerk', were printed on the door. Wallander drew a deep breath and knocked. He heard her voice and walked in. She had finished her phone call and was sitting at the typewriter. He had been right. She was clearly surprised, not angry.

  'You,' she said. 'What are you doing here?'

  'I'm here on police business,' Wallander said. 'I thought you might be able to help me.'

  She had stood up and was already looking like she was going to ask him to leave.

  'I mean it,' Wallander said. 'It's nothing personal, not at all.'

  She was still on her guard.

  'What would I be able to help you with?'

  'May I sit down?'

  'Only if it won't take long.'

  The same power langua
ge as Hemberg, Wallander thought. You're supposed to stand there and feel subordinate, while the person with power remains seated. But he sat down and wondered how he could once have been so in love with the woman on the other side of the desk. Now he could not remember her being anything other than stiff and dismissive.

  'I'm fine,' she said. 'So there's no need for you to ask.'

  'I'm fine too.'

  'What do you want?'

  Wallander sighed internally over her rude tone but told her what had happened.

  'You work in the shipping industry,' he finished. 'You would know how I could find out what Hålén really did at sea. Which com panies he worked for, which ships.'

  'I work with freight,' Helena said. 'We rent vessels or cargo space for Kockums and Volvo. That's all.'

  'There must be someone who knows.'

  'Can't the police find this out some other way?'

  Wallander had anticipated this question and had thus prepared an answer.

  'This case is being handled a little on the side,' he said, 'for reasons that I can't go into.'

  He could see that she only partly believed him. But she seemed amused.

  'I could ask some of my colleagues,' she said. 'We have an old sea captain. But what do I get in return? If I help you?'

  'What would you like?' he asked in return, in as friendly a tone as he could muster.

  She shook her head.

  'Nothing.'

  Wallander stood up.

  'I have the same phone number as before,' he said.

  'Mine is different,' Helena said. 'And you're not getting it.'

  When Wallander was back out on the street he noticed that he was damp with sweat. The meeting with Helena had been more stressful than he had wanted to admit. He ended up standing still, wondering what to do next. If he had had more money he would have gone to Copenhagen. But he had to remember that he had taken a sick day. Someone could call him. He shouldn't stay away from home too long. And also he was finding it increasingly difficult to justify the fact that he was spending so much time on his dead neighbour. He went to a cafe across from the Denmark ferries and had the daily special. But before he ordered he checked to see how much money he had. He would have to go to the bank tomorrow. He still had a thousand kronor there. That would last him for the rest of the month. He ate stew and drank some water.

  By one o'clock he was back out on the pavement. New storms were moving in from the south-west. He decided to go home. But when he saw a bus that was going to his father's suburb he took that instead. If nothing else he could spend a few hours helping his father pack.

  There was indescribable chaos in the house. His father was reading an old newspaper, a torn straw hat on his head. He looked up at Wallander in surprise.

  'Have you finished?' he asked.

  'Finished with what?'

  'Have you come to your senses and finished being a cop?'

  'I'm off today,' Wallander said. 'And there's no use bringing up the subject again. We're never going to see eye to eye.'

  'I've found a paper from 1949,' he said. 'There's a great deal of interest in it.'

  'Do you really have time to read newspapers that are more than twenty years old?'

  'I never had time to read it at the time,' his father said. 'Among other things, because I had a two-year-old son who did nothing but scream all day. That's why I'm reading it now.'

  'I was planning to help you pack.'

  His father pointed to a table stacked with china.

  'That stuff needs to be packed in boxes,' he said. 'But it has to be done correctly. Nothing can break. If I find a broken plate you'll have to replace it.'

  His father returned to his paper. Wallander hung up his coat and started to pack the china. Plates that he remembered from his childhood. He found a cup with a chip in it that he could remember particularly clearly. His father turned a page in the background.

  'How does it feel?' Wallander asked.

  'How does what feel?'

  'To be moving.'

  'Good. Change is nice.'

  'And you still haven't seen the house?'

  'No, but I'm sure it'll be fine.'

  My father is either crazy or else he's becoming senile, Wallander thought. And there's nothing I can do about it.

  'I thought Kristina was coming,' he said.

  'She's out shopping.'

  'I'd like to see her. How is she doing?'

  'Fine. And she's met an excellent fellow.'

  'Did she bring him?'

  'No. But he sounds good in all respects. He'll probably see to it that I get grandchildren soon.'

  'What's his name? What does he do? Do I have to drag all this out of you?'

  'His name is Jens and he's a dialysis researcher.'

  'What's that?'

  'Kidneys. If you've heard of them. He's a researcher. And in addition he likes to hunt small game. Sounds like an excellent man.'

  At that precise moment Wallander dropped a plate. It cracked in two. His father did not look up from the paper.

  'That'll cost you,' he said.

  Wallander had had enough. He took his coat and left without a word. I will never go out to Österlen, he thought. I will never set foot in his home again. I don't understand how I have put up with that man all these years. But now I've had enough.

  Without realising it he had started to speak aloud. A cyclist, who was huddled up against the wind, stared at him.

  Wallander went home. The door to Hålén's apartment was open. He walked in. A lone technician was gathering up the remains of some ashes.

  'I thought you were done?' Wallander said, surprised.

  'Sjunnesson is thorough,' the technician answered.

  There was no continuation of the conversation. Wallander went back out onto the stairwell and unlocked his own door. At the same time Linnea Almquist walked into the building.

  'How terrible,' she said. 'The poor man. And so alone.'

  'Apparently he had a lady friend,' Wallander said.

  'I find that hard to believe,' Linnea Almquist said. 'I would have noticed that.'