The Pyramid

by Henning Mankell

  'The changed radio station is strange,' Svedberg said. 'Can there have been anything inside the radio itself?'

  'We've examined it,' Nyberg answered. 'In order to remove the cover you have to loosen eight screws. This has not been done. The radio has never been opened since it was assembled at the factory. The finish still covers the screw heads.'

  'There is a lot that's strange,' Wallander said. 'Something we shouldn't forget is the album with the distorted images. His widow tells us that Simon Lamberg was a man who had many secrets. Right now we should be concentrating on creating a better picture of who he really was. Clearly, the surface does not match up with what was underneath. The polite, quiet and fastidious photographer must in reality have been someone quite different.'

  'The question is just who would know more about him,' Martinsson said. 'If, as seems to be the case, he doesn't have any friends. No one seems to have known him.'

  'We have the amateur astronomers in Lund,' Wallander said. 'We have to get in touch with them, of course. Former assistants who worked for him. You can't live your whole life in a town like Ystad without anybody knowing you. And we've barely begun our conversations with Elisabeth Lamberg. In other words, we have a lot to dig into. Everything has to be pursued simultaneously.'

  'I spoke to Backman,' Svedberg said. 'You were right about him being up. When I arrived at his apartment his wife was also up and dressed. It felt like the middle of the day, even though it was only four in the morning. Unfortunately he could not give any kind of description of the man who knocked you down. Nothing apart from the man's coat being mid-length and most likely navy blue.'

  'Couldn't he even say anything about the man's height? Was he short or tall? What colour was his hair?'

  'It all happened very fast. Backman only wanted to say what he felt sure about.'

  'We know at least one thing about the man who attacked me,' Wallander said. 'That he ran much faster than I did. My impression was that he was of average height and fairly strong. He was also in much better shape than I am. My sense – even if it's somewhat vague – is that he may have been around my age. But this is really just a guess.'

  They were still waiting for the first preliminary report from the medical examiner in Lund. Nyberg and the forensic laboratory in Linköping were in contact. Many fingerprints needed to be run through the various databases.

  They all had a lot to do. Wallander therefore wanted to draw the meeting to a close as quickly as possible. It was eleven when they stood up. Wallander hadn't done more than walk into his office when the phone rang. It was Ebba from reception.

  'You have a visitor,' she said. 'A man named Gunnar Larsson. He wants to talk to you about Lamberg.'

  Wallander had just decided to make another trip out to see Elisabeth Lamberg.

  'Can't anyone else deal with him?'

  'He wanted to speak to you specifically.'

  'Who is he?'

  'He used to work for Lamberg.'

  Wallander immediately changed his mind. The conversation with the widow would have to wait.

  'I'll come out and get him,' Wallander said and got to his feet.

  Gunnar Larsson was in his thirties. They went back to Wallander's office. Larsson declined the offer of a cup of coffee.

  'I'm glad that you thought of coming in yourself,' Wallander began. 'Your name would have come up sooner or later. But this saves us some time.'

  Wallander had flipped open one of his notebooks.

  'I worked for Lamberg for six years,' Gunnar Larsson said. 'He let me go about four years ago. I don't think he's employed anyone else since then.'

  'Why did he let you go?'

  'He claimed that he could no longer afford to keep someone on. I think that was the truth. I think I had actually been expecting it. Lamberg didn't have more business than he could handle on his own. Since he didn't sell cameras or accessories, his profits were not great. And when times are bad people don't go and get their picture taken as often.'

  'But you worked there for six years. That means you must have got to know him pretty well?'

  'Both yes and no.'

  'Let's start with the former.'

  'He was always polite and friendly. To everyone: me and the customers alike. He had boundless patience with children. And he was very orderly.'

  Wallander was suddenly struck by a thought.

  'Would you say that Simon Lamberg was a good photographer?'

  'There wasn't anything original about him. The pictures he took were conventional, since that's what people want. Photos that look like any other. And he was good at that. He never cut corners. He wasn't original, since he didn't have to be. I doubt that he cherished any artistic ambitions. At least I never saw any hint of it.'

  Wallander nodded.

  'I get the impression of a kindly but relatively colourless person. Is that right?'

  'Yes.'

  'Let us then proceed to why you feel you didn't know him.'

  'He was probably the most reserved person I've ever known in my life.'

  'In what way?'

  'He never talked about himself. Or his feelings. I cannot recall a single instance where he described his own experience of anything. But in the beginning I tried to have regular conversations with him.'

  'About what?'

  'About anything. But I soon stopped.'

  'Didn't he ever comment on current events?'

  'I think he was very conservative.'

  'Why do you think that?'

  Gunnar Larsson shrugged.

  'I just do. But on the other hand I doubt that he ever read the papers.'

  I think you're wrong there, Wallander thought. He did read newspapers. And he probably knew a great deal about international affairs. He kept his opinions in a photo album of a kind that the world has probably never seen before.

  'There was another thing I found strange,' Gunnar Larsson went on. 'During the six years that I worked for him, I never met his wife. Not that I was ever invited to their house, of course. To get a sense of where they lived, I walked past their house one Sunday.'

  'So you never met their daughter?'

  Perplexed, Gunnar Larsson looked at Wallander.

  'They had children?'

  'You didn't know this?'

  'No.'

  'They had a daughter. Matilda.'

  Wallander chose not to add that she was severely handicapped. But evidently Gunnar Larsson had no idea that she even existed.

  Wallander put his pen down.

  'What did you think when you heard what had happened?'

  'That it was utterly incomprehensible.'

  'Do you think you could ever have imagined anything happening to him?'

  'I still can't imagine it. Who could have had a reason to kill him?'

  'That's what we're trying to ascertain.'

  Wallander noticed that Gunnar Larsson appeared uncomfortable. It was as if he was unable to decide what to say next.

  'You're thinking about something,' Wallander guessed. 'Am I right?'

  'There were some rumours,' Gunnar Larsson said hesitantly. 'Rumours that Simon Lamberg gambled.'

  'Gambled how?'

  'Gambled to win money. Someone had seen him at the Jägersro racetrack.'

  'Why would that start rumours? It's not unusual to go to Jägersro on occasion.'

  'People also said he turned up regularly at illegal gambling clubs. Both in Malmö and Copenhagen.'

  Wallander frowned.

  'How did you hear this?'

  'There are a lot of rumours floating around a small town like Ystad.'

  Wallander knew all too well how true this was.

  'There were rumours that he had heavy debts.'

  'Did he?'

  'Not during the time that I worked there. I could see that from his bookkeeping.'

  'He may of course have taken out private loans. He could have ended up in the hands of a loan shark.'

  'In that case I wouldn't know about it.'

>   Wallander thought for a moment.

  'Rumours always start somewhere,' he said.

  'It was a long time ago,' Gunnar Larsson said. 'Where or when I heard those rumours I really can't remember.'

  'Did you know about the photo album he kept locked in his desk?'

  'I never saw what he had in his desk.'

  Wallander felt sure that the man sitting across from him was telling the truth.

  'Did you have your own keys when you worked for Lamberg?'

  'Yes.'

  'What happened to those when you were let go?'

  'I gave them back.'

  Wallander nodded. He wasn't going to get any further. The more people he talked to, the more mysterious Simon Lamberg in all his colourlessness appeared. He made a note of Gunnar Larsson's phone number and address. The conversation came to a close and Wallander walked him out to the reception area. Then he went and got a cup of coffee and returned to his office. He unplugged the phone. He could not recall when he had last felt at such a loss. In which direction should they turn for their solution? Everything seemed to consist of loose threads. Even though he tried to avoid it, the image of his own face, distorted and pasted in a photo album, returned again and again.

  The loose threads did not connect anywhere.

  He checked the time. Almost twelve. He was hungry. The wind outside the window appeared to be blowing stronger. He plugged his phone back in. It rang immediately. It was Nyberg, who wanted to let him know that the forensic investigation was complete and that they had not found anything out of the ordinary. Now Wallander was free to look through the other rooms as well.

  Wallander sat at his desk and tried to come up with a review of the events. In his mind he was conducting a conversation with Rydberg, and he cursed the fact that his colleague was absent. What do I do now? How do I go further? We're grasping at nothing, as if we were stumbling around in a circle.

  He read through what he had written. Tried to coax a secret out of the brief account. But there was nothing. Irritated, he tossed the notepad aside.

  It was now a quarter to one. The best thing he could do would be to go and get a bite to eat. Later in the afternoon he would need to have another conversation with Elisabeth Lamberg.

  He realised he was too impatient. Despite everything that had happened, only one day had gone by since Simon Lamberg was murdered.

  In his mind, Rydberg agreed with him. Wallander knew that he didn't have enough patience.

  He put on his coat and got ready to leave.

  The door opened. It was Martinsson.

  He could tell from his face that something important had happened.

  Martinsson paused in the doorway. Wallander regarded him with anticipation.

  'We never found the man who attacked you last night,' Martinsson said. 'But someone saw him.'

  Martinsson pointed to a map of Ystad that hung on Wallander's wall.

  'He knocked you down at the corner of Aulingatan and Giödde's Alley. Then he most likely fled along Herrestadsgatan and turned north.

  Shortly after you were attacked, he was observed in a garden close by, on Timmermansgatan.'

  'What do you mean, "observed"?'

  Martinsson took out his little notebook from his pocket and turned the pages.

  'It was a young family by the name of Simovic. The wife was awake, since she was nursing her three-month-old baby. At some point she looked out into the garden and caught sight of a person lurking in the shadows. She immediately woke her husband. But when he got to the window, the person was gone. He said she was just imagining things. She was apparently convinced by this, and when her child fell asleep she went back to bed. It was only today, when she was out in the garden, that she remembered what had happened. She went over to the spot where she thought she had seen someone that night. I should also mention that she had heard that Lamberg had been murdered. Ystad is small enough that even the Simovics had a family portrait taken in his studio.'

  'But she can't possibly have heard about our night-time chase,' Wallander objected. 'We haven't gone public with that.'

  'Yes, that's right,' Martinsson said. 'That's why we should be thankful she even contacted us.'

  'Was she able to offer a useful description?'

  'She only saw a shadow at best.'

  Wallander looked curiously at Martinsson.

  'Then these observations aren't really of much use to us, are they?'

  'No,' Martinsson said, 'if it weren't for the fact that she found something on the ground. Which she came by and dropped off a little while ago. And that is lying on my desk at this very moment.'

  Wallander followed Martinsson to the latter's office.

  'This? Was this what she found?'

  'A hymn book. From the Church of Sweden.'

  Wallander tried to think it through.

  'What compelled Mrs Simovic to bring it in?'

  'A murder had been committed. She had observed someone moving around in a suspicious manner in her garden at night. At first she had allowed herself to be convinced by her husband that it was only her imagination. But then she found the hymn book.'

  Wallander slowly shook his head.

  'This isn't necessarily the same man,' he said.

  'And yet I would claim that there's a lot that says it is. How many people sneak around in other people's gardens at night in Ystad? In addition, the night patrol units were out and looking. I've talked with one officer who was out last night. They were out on Timmermansgatan several times. A garden was therefore a good place to hide.'

  Wallander knew that Martinsson was right.

  'A hymn book,' he said. 'Who the hell carries around a hymn book in the middle of the night?'

  'And drops it in someone's garden after having attacked a police officer,' Martinsson added.

  'Let Nyberg take care of the book,' Wallander said. 'And make sure to thank the Simovics for their help.'

  He thought of something else as he was on his way out of Martinsson's office.

  'Who is in charge of the office pool?'

  'Hansson. But it doesn't seem to have gained any serious momentum yet.'

  'It may never,' Wallander replied doubtfully.

  Wallander walked down to the bakery-cafe by the bus terminal and had a couple of sandwiches. The hymn book was as mysterious a discovery as anything else that had so far been associated with the ongoing investigation of the photographer's death. Wallander realised how lost he really was. They were searching blindly for anything concrete to go on.