The Pyramid

by Henning Mankell

  He listened again. Nothing. He took his coat from the peg and put it on. The clock on the wall said nineteen minutes before midnight. Everything was normal. Now he was ready to lock up his cathedral and go home.

  He looked around one more time before he turned off the last light. Then he opened the door. The studio lay in darkness. He turned on the light. It was as he had thought. There was no one there. He turned the light off again and walked out towards the shop.

  Then everything happened very quickly.

  Suddenly someone came at him from the shadows. Someone who had been hiding behind one of the backdrops he used for his studio portraits. He could not see who it was. Since the shadow was blocking the exit there was only one thing left for him to do. Flee into the back room and lock the door. He also had a phone in there. He could call for help.

  He turned round. But he never made it to the door. The shadow was quicker. Something struck him in the back of the head, something that made the world explode in a white light, then become total darkness.

  He was dead before he hit the ground.

  The time was seventeen minutes to midnight.

  The cleaning woman's name was Hilda Waldén. She arrived at Simon Lamberg's studio shortly after five o'clock, when she began her morning round. She leaned her bike next to the entrance and locked it carefully with a chain. It was drizzling and had grown colder, and she shivered as she searched for the right key. Spring was taking its time. She opened the door and stepped inside. The floor was dirty after the latest rain shower. She put her handbag on the counter next to the cash register and put her coat on the chair next to the little newspaper table.

  There was a cupboard in the studio where she kept her cleaning coat as well as her equipment. Lamberg would have to buy her a new vacuum cleaner soon. This one was getting too weak.

  She saw him as soon as she walked into the studio. She immediately understood that he was dead. The blood had run out around his body.

  Then she ran out onto the street. A retired bank director who had been ordered to take regular walks by his doctor anxiously asked her what had happened, after he managed to calm her down somewhat.

  She was shaking all over, and he ran to a telephone booth on the nearest street corner and dialled emergency.

  It was twenty minutes past five.

  A drizzling rain, with a gusty wind from the south-west.

  It was Martinsson who called and woke up Wallander. It was three minutes past six. Wallander knew from long experience that when the phone rang this early something serious must have happened. Normally he was awake before six. But this morning he was sleeping and he woke up with a start when the telephone rang. The main reason he wasn't already awake was that he had bitten off part of his tooth the night before and had been in pain during the night. He had only fallen asleep around four after having been up several times to take pills for the pain. Before he picked up the receiver he noted that the pain was still there.

  'Did I wake you?' Martinsson asked.

  'Yes,' Wallander said and was surprised that he answered truthfully for once. 'You did, actually. What's happened?'

  'The night shift called me at home. Sometime around half past five they received an unclear emergency call about a supposed murder by St Gertrude's Square. A patrol unit was dispatched.'

  'And?'

  'And it turned out to be correct, unfortunately.'

  Wallander sat up in bed. The call must have come in half an hour ago.

  'Have you been down there?'

  'How would I have had time to do that? I was getting dressed when the phone rang. I thought it was best to call you myself immediately.'

  Wallander nodded mutely on the other end.

  'Do we know who it is?' he then asked.

  'It seems to be the photographer whose studio is at the square. But right now I've forgotten the name.'

  'Lamberg?' Wallander said, furrowing his brow.

  'Yes, that was his name. Simon Lamberg. If I've understood correctly, it was the cleaning lady who discovered him.'

  'Where?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Was he found dead inside the shop or outside?'

  'Inside.'

  Wallander thought about this while he looked at his alarm clock next to the bed. Seven minutes past six.

  'Should we say we'll meet in a quarter of an hour?' he then said.

  'Yes,' Martinsson replied. 'The patrol unit down there said it was very unpleasant.'

  'Murder scenes tend to be,' Wallander said. 'I think I have never in my life been at a crime scene that you would have been able to describe as pleasant.'

  They ended the conversation.

  Wallander remained sitting up in the bed. The news Martinsson had given him had disturbed him. If he was right, Wallander knew very well who had been murdered. Simon Lamberg had photographed Wallander on several occasions. Memories of various times he had visited the photo studio went through his head. When he and Mona had married at the end of May in 1970, it was Lamberg who had photographed them. That had not taken place in his studio, however, but down by the beach right next to the Saltsjöbadens Hotel. It was Mona who had insisted on this. Wallander remembered how he felt it was an unnecessary amount of trouble. That their wedding had even taken place in Ystad was due to the fact that Mona's old confirmation minister was now posted there. Wallander had thought they should get married in Malmö, in a civil service. But Mona had not agreed. That they should have to stand on a cold and blustery beach on top of all this trouble and let themselves be photographed had not amused him. For Wallander it was a wasted effort for a romantic product that was not particularly successful. Lamberg had also taken their daughter Linda's picture on more than one occasion.

  Wallander got up out of bed, decided he would have to skip the shower and put on his clothes. Then he walked into the bathroom and opened his mouth wide. How many times he had done this during the night he couldn't say. Each time he opened his mouth he hoped the tooth would have become whole again.

  The tooth he had bitten in half was on the left side of his lower jaw. When he pulled on the corner of his mouth with his finger he could clearly see that half of the tooth was gone. He gently brushed his teeth. When he reached the damaged tooth it hurt a great deal.

  He left the bathroom and walked into the kitchen. Dishes were piled up. He glanced out through the kitchen window. The wind was blowing hard and it was drizzling outside. The street light was swaying in the wind. The thermometer showed four degrees above zero. He made an irritated face. Spring was delayed. Just as he was about to leave the apartment he changed his mind and walked back into the living room. Their wedding picture was in the bookcase.

  Lamberg took no picture when we separated, Wallander thought. Nothing of that has been preserved, thankfully. In his thoughts he went back over what had happened. Suddenly one day about a month ago Mona had said she wanted them to separate for a while. She needed time to think about how she wanted things to be. Wallander had been caught off guard, even though deep down he had not been surprised. They had grown apart, had less and less to talk about, and less and less pleasure in their sex life, and in the end Linda had been the only unifying link.

  Wallander had fought it. He had pleaded and threatened but Mona had been firm. She was going to move back to Malmö. Linda wanted to move with her. The bigger city lured her. And that was what had happened. Wallander still hoped they would one day be able to start over again together. But he did not know if this hope would be worth anything.

  He shook off these thoughts, put the photograph back on the shelf, left the apartment and wondered what had happened. What kind of man was Lamberg? Even though he had been photographed by him four or five times, he had no real memory of him as a person. Right now this surprised him. Lamberg was essentially anonymous. Wallander even had trouble conjuring up his face.

  It took him only a few minutes to drive to St Gertrude's Square. Two patrol cars were parked outside the studio. A group of onl
ookers had gathered outside. Several police officers were in the process of cordoning off the area around the entrance. Martinsson arrived at the same time. Wallander observed that he was unshaven for once.

  They walked up to the restricted area. Nodded to the police officer from the night shift.

  'It's not a pleasant sight,' he said. 'The body is sprawled out on the floor. There's a lot of blood.'

  Wallander cut him short with a nod of his head.

  'And is it certain that this is the photographer, Lamberg?'

  'The cleaning lady was sure.'

  'She's probably not doing so well right now,' Wallander said. 'Drive her up to the station. Give her some coffee. We'll be there as soon as we can.'

  They walked up to the door, which was open.

  'I called Nyberg,' Martinsson said. 'The technicians are on their way.'

  They stepped into the shop and removed their shoes. Everything was very quiet. Wallander went in first, Martinsson right behind him. They walked past the counter and into the studio. Things looked terrible in there. The man lay face down on a large sheet of paper, the kind that photographers used as backdrops for taking their pictures. The paper was white. The blood formed a sharp contour around the dead man's head.

  Wallander approached him with care. Then he bent down.

  The cleaning lady had been right. It was indeed Simon Lamberg. Wallander recognised him. The face was twisted so that half was visible. The eyes were open.

  Wallander tried to interpret the facial expression. Was there something more than pain and surprise? He did not discover anything else that he could determine with any certainty.

  'There can hardly be any doubt about the cause of death,' he said and pointed.

  There was blunt trauma to the back of the head. Martinsson crouched down next to the body.

  'The whole back of the head has been crushed,' he said with evident discomfort.

  Wallander glanced at him. On some other occasions when they had inspected a crime scene, Martinsson had become violently ill, but right now he appeared to have any nausea under control.

  They stood up. Wallander looked around. He could not discover any disarray. No signs that the murder had been preceded by a struggle. He did not see anything that could be the murder weapon. He walked past the dead man and opened a door at the far end of the room. Turned on a light. Lamberg must have had his office in here and it was also here that he apparently developed his negatives. Nothing had been touched in this room either, it seemed. The drawers of the desk were closed, the cabinet locked.

  'It doesn't look like burglary,' Martinsson said.

  'We don't know that yet,' Wallander said. 'Was Lamberg married?'

  'The cleaning lady appeared to think so. Said they lived on Lavendelvägen.'

  Wallander knew where that was.

  'Has the wife been informed?'

  'I doubt it.'

  'Then we'll have to start with that. Svedberg can do it.'

  Martinsson looked at Wallander in amazement.

  'Shouldn't you do it?'

  'Svedberg will do as good a job as me. Call him. Tell him not to forget to take a minister.'

  It was a quarter to seven. Martinsson walked out into the shop area and called. Wallander stayed in the studio and looked around. He tried to imagine what had happened. This was made more difficult by not having a time frame. He thought that he must first speak to the cleaning lady. Before then he would not be able to draw any conclusions whatsoever.

  Martinsson came back into the room.

  'Svedberg is on his way to the station,' he said.

  'So are we,' Wallander said. 'I want to talk to the cleaning lady. Is there no time frame?'

  'It's been difficult to talk to her. She's only now beginning to get herself under control.'

  Nyberg appeared behind Martinsson's back. They nodded to each other. Nyberg was an experienced and skilled, if bad-tempered, forensic technician. On many occasions Wallander had had only him to thank for being able to solve a complicated crime.

  Nyberg made a face when he spotted the body.

  'The photographer himself,' he said.

  'Simon Lamberg,' Wallander said.

  'I had some passport pictures taken here a few years ago,' Nyberg said. 'I certainly didn't imagine that anyone would end up bashing the guy's head in.'

  'He ran this place for many years,' Wallander said. 'He's not someone who has always been here, but it's something close to that.'

  Nyberg had taken off his coat.

  'What do we know?' he asked.

  'His cleaning lady discovered the body sometime after five. That is actually all we know.'

  'So we know nothing,' Nyberg said.

  Martinsson and Wallander left the studio. Nyberg should be able to work in peace with his colleagues. Wallander knew the work would be done thoroughly.

  They went up to the station. Wallander paused in reception and asked Ebba, who had just arrived, to call and make an appointment for him at the dentist's. He gave her the name.

  'Are you in pain?' she asked.

  'Yes,' Wallander said. 'I'm going to talk to the cleaning lady who discovered the photographer Lamberg's body. That may take an hour. After that I would like to get to the dentist as quickly as possible.'

  'Lamberg?' Ebba repeated in shock. 'What happened?'

  'He's been murdered.'

  Ebba sank down her chair.

  'I've been to him many times,' she said sadly. 'He's taken pictures of all my grandchildren. One after the other.'

  Wallander nodded but did not say anything.

  Then he walked along the corridor to his office.

  Everyone seems to have been to Lamberg, he thought. All of us have stood in front of his camera. I wonder if everyone's impression of him is as vague as mine.

  It was now five minutes past seven.

  A few minutes later Hilda Waldén was shown in. She had very little to say. Wallander realised at once that it was not simply because she was distraught. The reason was that she did not know Lamberg at all, even though she had been cleaning his studio for more than ten years.

  When she walked into Wallander's office, followed by Hansson, he had shaken her hand and kindly asked her to sit down. She was in her sixties and had a thin face. Wallander had the impression that she had worked hard all her life. Hansson left the room and Wallander pulled out a pad of paper from the stacks in his drawers. He started by expressing his condolences over what had happened. He could understand her being upset. But his questions could not wait. A terrible crime had been committed. Now they had to identify the perpetrator and the motive as quickly as possible.

  'Let's take this from the beginning,' he said. 'You cleaned Simon Lamberg's studio?'

  She answered in a very low voice. Wallander had to lean over the table to hear her reply.