The Pyramid

by Henning Mankell

  'Why would he have done that?'

  'I don't know. But that's the question.'

  'We never talked much to each other. But I cannot think of an occasion when we talked about you.'

  Wallander proceeded to his next point.

  'We found an album in the studio. There were a great number of photographs of heads of state and other well-known people in it. For some reason my picture appeared among them. Do you know of this album?'

  'No.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Yes.'

  'The photographs were distorted. All of these people, including me, were made to look like monsters. Your husband must have spent many hours achieving these effects. But you claim to know nothing about this?'

  'No. It sounds very strange. Incredible.'

  Wallander saw that she was telling the truth. She really did not know much about her husband, since for twenty years she had not wished to know anything.

  Wallander got up out of his chair. He knew he would be back with more questions. But right now he had nothing more to say.

  She followed him to the front door.

  'My husband probably had many secrets,' she said out of the blue. 'But I didn't share them.'

  'If you didn't, then who would have?'

  'I don't know,' she said, almost pleading. 'But someone must have.'

  'What kind of secrets?'

  'I've already said that I don't know. But Simon was full of secret rooms. I neither wanted nor was able to look into them.'

  Wallander nodded.

  He ended up sitting in the car. It had started raining again.

  What had she meant by that? Simon was a man 'full of secret rooms'. As if the inner office in the shop was only one? As if there were more? That they had not yet found?

  He drove slowly back to the station. The anxiety that he had felt earlier became stronger.

  The rest of the afternoon and evening they continued to spend working on what little material they had. Wallander went home at around ten o'clock. The squad would be meeting up the following morning at eight.

  Back in his apartment, he heated up a can of beans, which was the only thing he could find in the way of food. He fell asleep a little after eleven.

  The telephone call came at four minutes to midnight. Wallander lifted the receiver while still half asleep. It was a man who claimed to be out for a late-night walk. He introduced himself as the man who had taken care of Hilda Waldén that morning.

  'I just saw someone slip into Lamberg's studio,' he whispered.

  Wallander sat up in bed.

  'Are you sure of that? And it was not a police officer?'

  'A shadow slipped in through the door,' he said. 'My heart is bad. But there is nothing wrong with my eyes.'

  The connection broke off, most likely due to a problem with the line. Wallander sat with the receiver in his hand. It was unusual for him to be called by someone other than the police, especially at night. His name was of course not printed in the telephone directory. But someone must have given the man Wallander's number during the morning chaos.

  Then he got out of bed and quickly put on his clothes.

  It was just past midnight.

  Wallander arrived at the square where the studio was located a few minutes later. He had walked, or half run, since it was only a short distance from Mariagatan, where he lived. Nonetheless he was out of breath. When he arrived, he spotted a man standing a little way off in the distance. He hurried over to him, greeted him and took him to a place where they still had a view of the entrance but would not be as visible. The man was in his seventies and introduced himself as Lars Backman. He was a retired director of Handels Bank. He still referred to it by its former name, Svenska Handelsbanken.

  'I live right next to here, on Ågatan,' he said. 'I am always out walking early in the morning and late at night. Doctor's orders.'

  'Tell me what happened.'

  'I saw a man slip in through the door to the studio.'

  'A man? On the phone you called him a shadow.'

  'I suppose I automatically thought it was a man. But of course it could have been a woman.'

  'And you haven't seen anyone leave the shop?'

  'I've been keeping my eye on it. No one has left.'

  Wallander nodded. He ran over to the telephone booth and called Nyberg, who answered after the third ring. Wallander had the feeling that he had been asleep. But he didn't ask, he simply explained quickly what had happened. He extracted the most important piece of information, which was that Nyberg had keys to the shop. In addition, he had not left them at the police station but had them with him at home. He had been planning to return to the studio early the next morning in order to wrap up the forensic investigation. Wallander asked him to come as quickly as possible, then ended the call. Deliberated over whether he should contact Hansson or any of the others. All too often Wallander violated the rule that a detective who finds himself in a situa tion beyond his immediate control should never be alone. But Wallander hesitated. Nyberg counted as backup. Once he arrived they would decide how to proceed. Lars Backman was still there. Wallander asked him kindly to leave the square. Another officer was on his way and they needed to be left alone. Backman did not appear to be displeased at this dismissal. He simply nodded and left.

  Wallander started to feel cold. He was only wearing a shirt under his coat. The wind had intensified. The cloud cover was breaking up. It was probably only a couple of degrees above freezing. He watched the entrance to the shop. Could Backman have been mistaken? He didn't think so. He tried to figure out if there was a light on inside. But it was impossible to tell. A car went by, then another. Then he spotted Nyberg on the other side of the square and went to meet him. They leaned against the side of a house in order to escape the wind. Wallander kept an eye on the shop entrance the entire time. He quickly told Nyberg what had happened. Nyberg stared back at him in amazement.

  'Did you think we were going to go in alone?'

  'First I just wanted you to come down here, since you have the keys. And apparently there's no back door.'

  'No.'

  'So the only way to get in or out is through this door to the street?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then we'll alert one of the night patrol squads,' Wallander said. 'Then we'll open the door and order him to come out.'

  Wallander went and called the station, while maintaining continuous surveillance of the door. He was assured that a night squad would arrive in a couple of minutes. They walked over to the shop. It was now twentyfive minutes to one. The streets were deserted.

  Then the door to the studio was opened. A man came out. His face was concealed by the shadows. The three of them caught sight of each other at the same time and came to a halt. Wallander was just about to call out to the man to stay where he was when the man turned round and started to run down North Änggatan at breakneck speed. Wallander shouted to Nyberg to wait for the night squad. Then he followed the suspect, who was moving very quickly. Wallander was unable to gain on him, even though he was running as fast as he could.

  The man turned right on Vassgatan and continued on towards Folk Park. Wallander wondered why the night squad hadn't shown up. There was now a great chance that he would lose sight of the fleeing suspect.

  The man turned right again and disappeared up Aulingatan. Wallander tripped on some loose flagstones on the pavement and fell. He hit one knee hard on the ground and ripped a hole in his trousers. There was a shooting pain in his knee as he continued running. The distance between himself and the man kept growing. Where were Nyberg and the night squad? He cursed silently. His heart was thumping like a hammer in his chest. The man reached Giödde's Alley and turned out of sight. When Wallander reached the corner he thought he should probably stop and wait for Nyberg. But he kept going. The man was waiting round the corner. A violent blow struck Wallander right in the face. Everything grew dark.

  When Wallander came to he did not know where he was. He stared strai
ght up at the stars. The ground underneath him was cold. When he reached out around him, his hands groped asphalt. Then he remembered what had happened. He sat up. His left cheek was aching where he had been struck. With his tongue he could feel that a tooth had been broken. The same tooth he had just had fixed. He got to his feet with some effort. His knee was sore, his head throbbed. Then he looked around. As he expected, the suspect was nowhere to be seen. He limped over to Aulingatan, back towards Surbrunn Road. Everything had happened so fast that he had not had time to register what the man's face looked like. He had turned that corner and then the world had exploded.

  The patrol car came from Ågatan. Wallander walked out into the middle of the street in order to be seen. Wallander knew the officer who was driving. His name was Peters and he had been in Ystad as long as Wallander himself. Nyberg jumped out of the car.

  'What happened?'

  'He ran down Giödde's Alley and knocked me down. I don't think we'll find him. But we could always try.'

  'You're going to the hospital,' Nyberg said. 'First things first.'

  Wallander felt his cheek. His hand grew wet with blood. He was suddenly overcome with dizziness. Nyberg took his arm and helped him into the car.

  Wallander was allowed to leave the hospital at four in the morning. By then Svedberg and Hansson had arrived. Various night squads had criss-crossed the city in the hunt for the man who had knocked him down. But since there was only a vague description, a mid-length coat that could have been black or navy blue, the effort had predictably been in vain. Wallander was patched up. The broken tooth would have to be attended to later in the day. Wallander's cheek had swollen up. The blood had come from a wound near his hairline.

  When they left the hospital, Wallander insisted on going directly to the studio. Both Hansson and Svedberg protested and said he needed to rest first. But Wallander ignored their objections. Nyberg was already on the scene when they arrived. They turned on all of the available lights and gathered in the studio.

  'I haven't been able to identify anything as missing or altered,' Nyberg said.

  Wallander knew that Nyberg had a tremendous memory for details. But he realised at the same time that the man could have been searching for something that might not have been particularly noticeable. Above all, they had no way of knowing why the man had sought out the studio in the middle of the night.

  'What about fingerprints?' Wallander asked. 'Footprints?'

  Nyberg pointed to the floor where several areas had been taped and marked as restricted.

  'I have checked the door handles. But I suspect the man was wearing gloves.'

  'And the front door?'

  'No marks. We can safely assume he had access to keys. I was the one who locked up last night.'

  Wallander looked at his colleagues.

  'Shouldn't there have been surveillance posted here?'

  'It was my call,' Hansson said. 'I didn't see any reason for it, particularly given our current staffing issues.'

  Wallander knew that Hansson was right. He wouldn't have ordered surveillance either if he had been in charge.

  'We can only speculate as to who the man was,' he went on. 'And what he was after in here. Even if there was no visible police presence, he must have realised that it was possible we were keeping the place under surveillance. But I want someone to talk to Lars Backman, who not only called me at midnight but also took care of Hilda Waldén yesterday morning. He seems like a good resource. He may have noticed something that he didn't think of at once.'

  'It's four o'clock in the morning,' Svedberg pointed out. 'Do you want me to call him right now?'

  'He is probably awake,' Wallander said. 'Yesterday morning he was out already at five a.m. He is both an early riser and a night owl.'

  Svedberg nodded and left. There was no reason for Wallander to keep the others.

  'We'll have to review the case thoroughly tomorrow,' he said when Svedberg had walked out the front door. 'The best thing you can do is get a few hours of sleep. For my part, I'm going to stay here for a while.'

  'Do you think that's wise?' Hansson asked. 'After what you've been through?'

  'I don't know if it's wise or not. But that's what I'm doing.'

  Nyberg handed him the keys. When Hansson and Nyberg had left, Wallander locked the door. Even though he was exhausted and his cheek ached, his attention was sharp. He listened to the silence. Nothing appeared changed. He went into the inner room, did the same thing, scrutinising it. Nothing jumped out at him. But the man had come here for a reason. And he had been in a hurry. He could not wait. There could only be one explanation. There was something in the studio that he needed to get. Wallander sat down at the desk. There were no marks on the lock. He opened the cabinet, pulled out drawer after drawer. The album was the same as when he had last seen it. Nothing appeared to be missing. Wallander tried to calculate how long the man had been in the shop. The telephone call from Backman had come at four minutes to midnight. Wallander had arrived here at ten past twelve. His conversation with Backman and his call to Nyberg had not been longer than a couple of minutes apiece. At that point it was a quarter past twelve. Nyberg arrived at half past twelve. The unknown man was in the studio for forty minutes. When he left, he had been taken by surprise. That meant he had not been fleeing. He had left the studio because he was done.

  Done with what?

  Wallander looked around the room again, this time even more methodically. Somewhere something must have changed. He simply wasn't seeing it. Something was gone. Or added, returned? He walked out into the studio and repeated his initial examination, finally even in the shop portion.

  Nothing. He returned to the inner room again. Something told him that was where he should search. In Simon Lamberg's secret room. He sat in the chair, allowing his gaze to wander around the walls, over the desk and bookcases. Then he stood up and walked over to the developing equipment. Turned on the red light. Everything was as he remembered. The faint smell of chemicals. The empty plastic tubs, the enlarger.

  He walked back to the desk, pensive. Remained standing. Where the impulse came from he wasn't sure. But he walked over to the shelf where the radio was and turned it on.

  The music was deafening.

  He stared at the radio. The volume was at the same level as before.

  But the music was not classical. It was loud rock music.

  Wallander was convinced that neither Nyberg nor any of the other technicians would have switched the radio station. They did not alter anything unless it was absolutely necessary for their work.

  Wallander took a handkerchief out of his pocket and turned off the radio. There was only one possibility.

  The unknown man had turned the dial to a different frequency.

  He had changed stations.

  The question was simply: why?

  *

  The squad was finally able to start the meeting at ten o'clock in the morning. The delay was due to the fact that Wallander had not been able to get back from the dentist's before then. Now he was hurrying back for the meeting, his tooth provisionally repaired, with a swollen cheek and a large bandage at his hairline. He was seriously beginning to feel the effects of his lack of sleep. But more serious was the anxiety gnawing at him.

  It had now been one day since Hilda Waldén had discovered the dead photographer. Wallander began the meeting by summing up the state of their investigation. He then told them in detail what had happened during the night.