The Pyramid (13 page)

Wallander crouched down to try to see his face. At the same time he heard the crunch of steps on the gravel path behind him. When he turned round there were two girls standing there. He recognised one of them without being able to say from where.

'It's one of those damn cops,' the girl said. 'Who hit me at the demonstration.'

Then Wallander realised who it was: the girl who had verbally assaulted him at the cafe the week before.

Wallander rose to his feet. At that same moment he saw from the other girl's face that something was happening behind his back. He quickly turned round. The man who had been leaning against the tree had not been asleep. Now he was standing. And he had a knife in his hand.

After that everything happened very quickly. Later Wallander would only remember that the girls had screamed and run away. Wallander had lifted his arms to shield himself, but it was too late. He had not managed to block the thrust. The knife struck him in the middle of his chest. A warm darkness washed over him.

Even before he sank down onto the gravel path his memory had stopped registering what was happening.

After that everything had been a fog. Or perhaps a thickly flowing sea in
which everything was white and still.

Wallander lay sunken in deep unconsciousness for four days. He underwent two complicated operations. The knife had grazed his heart. But he survived. And slowly he returned from the fog. When at last, on the morning of the fifth day, he opened his eyes, he did not know what had happened or where he was.

But next to his bed there was a face he recognised.

A face that meant everything. Mona's face.

And she was smiling.

One day at the start of September, when Wallander received the goahead from his doctor that he could start work a week later, he called up Hemberg. Later that afternoon Hemberg came out to his apartment in Rosengård. They bumped into each other in the stairwell.
Wallander had just taken out the rubbish.

'It was here where it all started,' Hemberg said, nodding at Hålén's door.

'No one else has moved in yet,' Wallander said. 'The furniture is still there. The fire damage hasn't been repaired. Every time I walk in or out I still think it smells like smoke.'

They sat in Wallander's kitchen drinking coffee. The September day was unusually brisk. Hemberg was wearing a thick sweater under his coat.

'Autumn came early this year,' he said.

'I went out to visit my father yesterday,' Wallander said. 'He's moved from the city to Löderup. It's beautiful out there in the middle of the plains.'

'How one can voluntarily make one's home out there in the middle of all that mud exceeds my powers of comprehension,' Hemberg said dismissively. 'Then comes winter. And one is trapped by the snow.'

'He seems to like it,' Wallander said. 'And I don't think he cares very much about the weather. He just works on his paintings from morning till night.'

'I didn't know your father was an artist.'

'He paints the same motif again and again,' Wallander said. 'A landscape.
With or without a grouse.'

He stood up. Hemberg followed him to the main room, where the painting hung.

'One of my neighbours has one of those,' Hemberg said. 'They appear to be popular.'

They returned to the kitchen.

'You made all the mistakes you can make,' Hemberg said. 'But I've already told you that. You don't undertake investigative work alone, you don't intervene without backup. You were only a centimetre or so from death. I hope you've learned something. At least how
not
to act.'

Wallander did not answer. Hemberg was right, of course.

'But you were stubborn,' Hemberg continued. 'It was you who discovered that Hålén had changed his name. We would of course also have discovered this eventually. We would also have found Rune Blom.

But you thought logically, and you thought correctly.'

'I called you out of curiosity,' Wallander said. 'There's still a lot I don't know.'

Hemberg told him. Rune Blom had confessed, and he could also be tied to the murder of Alexandra Batista through the forensic evidence.

'The whole thing started in 1954,' Hemberg said. 'Blom has been very detailed. He and Hålén, or Hansson as he was called back then, had been on the same crew on a ship bound for Brazil. In São Luis they had come into possession of the precious stones. He claims that they bought them for a negligible price from a drunk Brazilian who didn't know their true worth. They probably didn't either. If they stole them or actually purchased them, we'll probably never know.

They had decided to split their bounty. But then it so happened that
Blom ended up in a Brazilian prison, for manslaughter. And then
Hålén took advantage of the situation, since he had the stones. He changed his name and quit sailing after a few years and hid out here in Malmö. Met Batista and counted on the fact that Blom would spend the rest of his life in a Brazilian prison. But Blom was later released and started to look for Hålén. Somehow Hålén found out that Blom had turned up in Malmö. He got scared and put an extra lock on the door. But continued seeing Batista. Blom was spying on him. Blom claims that Hålén committed suicide on the day that Blom found out where he lived. Apparently this was enough to frighten him so much that he went home and shot himself. You may wonder about that. Why didn't he give the stones to Blom? Why swallow them and then shoot himself? What's the point of being so greedy that you prefer dying instead of giving away something that has a little monetary value?'

Hemberg sipped his coffee and looked thoughtfully out the window.
It was raining.

'You know the rest,' he continued. 'Blom did not find any stones.
He suspected that Batista must have them. Since he introduced himself as a friend of Hålén, she let him in without suspecting anything. And
Blom took her life. He had a violent nature. He had shown that before.
From time to time when he was drinking he proved himself capable of extreme brutality. There are a number of cases of assault in his past.
On top of the manslaughter charge in Brazil. This time Batista bore the brunt.'

'Why did he take the trouble to go back and set the apartment on fire? Wasn't he taking a risk?'

'He hasn't given any explanation other than the fact that he became enraged that the stones were missing. I think it's true. Blom is an unpleasant person. But perhaps he was afraid that his name was somewhere in the apartment on some piece of paper. He probably hadn't had time to check around exhaustively before you surprised him. But of course he was taking a risk. He could have been discovered.'

Wallander nodded. Now he had the whole picture.

'It's really just a case of a horrible little murder, and a greedy man who shoots himself,' Hemberg said. 'When you become a criminal investigator you'll come across this many times. Never in the same way.
But with more or less the same basic motive.'

'That was what I was going to ask you about,' Wallander said. 'I realise that I have made many mistakes.'

'Don't worry about that,' Hemberg said curtly. 'You'll start with us the first of October, but not before.'

Wallander had heard correctly. He exulted inside. But he didn't show it, only nodded.

Hemberg stayed a little while longer. Then he left and went off in the rain. Wallander stood at the window and watched him drive away in his car. He absently fingered the scar on his chest.

Suddenly he thought of something he had read. In what context, he did not know.

There is a time to live, and a time to die.

I made it, he thought. I was lucky.

Then he decided never to forget these words.

There is a time to live, and a time to die.

These words would become his personal incantation from now on.

The rain spattered against the windowpane.

Mona arrived shortly after eight.

That evening they talked for a long time about finally making the planned trip to Skagen next summer.

Wallander checked his watch. It was a quarter to five. He was sitting in his office at the Malmö police headquarters. It was Christmas Eve,
1975. The two other colleagues he shared the office with, Stefansson and Hörner, were off. He was leaving in less than an hour himself. He got up and walked to the window. It was raining. It would not be a white Christmas this year either. He stared absently out through the window, which had started to fog up. Then he yawned. His jaw popped.
He carefully closed his mouth. Sometimes when he yawned wide he got a cramp in a muscle under his chin.

He went back and sat down at his desk. There were some papers on it that he didn't need to worry about right now. He leaned back in his chair and thought with pleasure about the holiday time that awaited. Almost a whole week. He was not returning to duty until
New Year's Eve. He put his feet up on the desk, took out a cigarette and lit it. He started coughing immediately. He had decided to quit.
Not as a New Year's resolution. He knew himself too well to think he would be able to succeed. He needed a long time to prepare. But one day he would wake up and know that it was the last day he would light a cigarette.

He looked at the time again. He could really leave now. It had been an unusually calm December. The Malmö crime squad had no cases of violent crime under investigation at the moment. The family conflicts that normally took place during the holidays would happen on someone else's watch.

Wallander took his feet down from the desk and called home to
Mona. She answered at once.

'It's me.'

'Don't tell me you're going to be late.'

The irritation came out of nowhere. He didn't manage to conceal it.

'I'm actually just calling to say that I'm leaving now. But maybe that's a mistake?'

'Why are you so upset?'

'I sound upset?'

'You heard me.'

'I hear what you're saying. But can you hear me? That I was actually calling to tell you I was on my way home. If you don't have anything against that.'

'Just drive carefully.'

The call ended. Wallander sat there with the telephone receiver in his hand. Then he banged it hard onto the hook.

We can't even talk on the phone any more, he thought angrily. Mona starts to nag at the smallest provocation. And she probably says the same thing about me.

He sat back in the chair and watched the smoke rising towards the ceiling. He noticed that he was trying to avoid thinking about Mona and himself. And about the quarrels that were getting more frequent.
But he couldn't. Increasingly, he found himself thinking the thought he most wanted to avoid. That it was their daughter of five years, Linda, who held their relationship together. But he chased it away. The thought of living without Mona and Linda was unbearable.

He also thought about the fact that he had not yet turned thirty.
He knew he had the necessary qualifications to become a good policeman. If he wanted, he would be able to make a noteworthy career within the force. The six years he had spent in the crime squad and his quick advancement to criminal investigator had convinced him of this, even if he also often felt inadequate. But was this really what he wanted? Mona had often tried to convince him to apply to one of the private security firms that were becoming more common in Sweden.
She clipped out job announcements and told him he would make considerably more money in the private sector. His work schedule would become more predictable. But he knew that deep inside she was pleading with him to switch professions because she was afraid. Afraid that something would happen to him again.

He walked back over to the window. Looked out over Malmö through the fogged-up glass.

It was his last year in this city. This summer he would start a job in
Ystad. They had already moved there and had lived in a centrally located apartment since September. Mariagatan. They had actually never hesitated over the decision, despite the fact that it would hardly advance his career to move to a small town. Mona wanted Linda to grow up in a smaller city than Malmö. Wallander felt a desire for change. And the fact that his father lived in Österlen as of a few years back was yet another reason for them to move to Ystad. But even more important was the fact that Mona had been able to buy a hair salon for a good price.

He had visited the police headquarters in Ystad on several occasions and had got to know the people who would soon be his co-workers.
Above all, he had developed an appreciation for a middle-aged policeman by the name of Rydberg.

Before meeting him Wallander had heard persistent rumours about
Rydberg, that he was abrupt and dismissive. But from the first moment his impression had been different. It could not be disputed that Rydberg was a man who did things his own way. But Wallander had been impressed with his ability to accurately describe and analyse a crime under investigation with just a few words.

He walked back to the desk and put out his cigarette. It was a quarter past five. He could go now. He took his coat, which was hanging on the wall. He would drive home slowly and carefully.

Maybe he had sounded upset and unfriendly on the phone without knowing it? He was tired. He needed this time off. Mona would probably understand when he got the opportunity to explain himself.

He put on his coat and felt in his pocket for the keys to his Peugeot.

On the wall next to the door was a little shaving mirror. Wallander looked at his face. He felt satisfied with what he saw. He would soon turn twenty-seven, but in the mirror he saw a face that could have been five years younger.

At that moment, the door opened. It was Hemberg, his immediate supervisor since he'd joined the squad. Wallander often found it easy to work with him. The few times there were any problems were almost always due to Hemberg's violent temper.

Wallander knew that Hemberg was going to be on duty over both the Christmas and New Year holidays. As a bachelor, Hemberg was giving up his holiday to fill in for another supervising officer who had a family with many children.

'I was just wondering if you were still here,' Hemberg said.

'I was about to leave,' Wallander answered. 'I was thinking of slipping away half an hour early.'

'That's fine by me,' Hemberg said.

But Wallander had immediately understood that Hemberg had come into his office with a specific purpose.

'You want something,' he said.

Hemberg shrugged his shoulders.

'You've just moved to Ystad,' he began. 'It hit me that you might be able to make a little stop on the way. I don't have much manpower right now. And this is probably nothing anyway.'

Wallander waited impatiently for the continuation.

'A woman has called here several times this afternoon. She has a little grocery shop by the furniture warehouse right before the last roundabout to Jägersro. Next to the OK gas station.'

Wallander knew where that was. Hemberg glanced down at a piece of paper in his hand.

'Her name is Elma Hagman and she is most likely fairly old. She says that a strange individual has been hanging around outside the shop all afternoon.'

Wallander waited in vain for more.

'Is that it?'

Hemberg made a wide gesture with his arms.

'It appears so. She called again quite recently. That was when I thought of you.'

'So you want me to stop and talk to her?'

Hemberg cast an eye at the clock.

'She was going to close up at six. You'll just make it. But I expect she's imagining things. If nothing else, you can reassure her. And wish her a merry Christmas.'

Wallander thought quickly. It would take him at most ten minutes to stop by the shop and make sure that everything was as it should be.

'I'll talk to her,' he said. 'I am still on duty, after all.'

Hemberg nodded.

'Merry Christmas,' he added. 'I'll see you New Year's Eve.'

'I hope things are calm tonight,' Wallander replied.

'The conflicts start at night,' Hemberg said gloomily. 'We can only hope they don't turn too violent. And that not too many excited children are disappointed.'

They parted in the hallway. Wallander hurried down to his car, which he had parked in front of the building today. It was raining hard now.
He pushed a cassette into the car stereo and turned up the volume.
The city around him glittered with illuminated signs and street decorations.
Jussi Björling's voice filled the car. He relished the thought of all the time off that awaited him.

He had almost forgotten what Hemberg had asked of him when he approached the last roundabout before the exit towards Ystad. He was abruptly forced to brake and change lanes. Then he turned by the furniture warehouse, which was closed. But the lights were on in the grocery shop just past the workshop. Wallander pulled up and got out. He left the keys in the car. He closed the door so carelessly that the interior light stayed on. But he let it be. His business here would be over and done with in a couple of minutes.

The rain was still very intense. He looked around quickly. No one could be seen. The roar of traffic that reached him was faint. He wondered briefly how a grocery shop of the old kind could survive in an area that consisted almost exclusively of warehouses and small industry. Without finding an answer he hurried through the rain and opened the door.

As soon as he came into the shop he knew that something was not as it should be.

Something was wrong, seriously wrong.

What it was that caused this immediate reaction, he could not say.
He remained standing just inside the door. The shop was empty. Not a single person. And it was quiet.

Too quiet, he thought.

Too quiet and peaceful. And where was Elma Hagman?

He walked carefully towards the counter. Leaned over it and checked the floor. Nothing. The cash register was closed. The silence around him was deafening. It occurred to him that he really should leave the shop. Since he didn't have a radio in the car, he needed a telephone.
He should call for reinforcements. There should be at least two policemen here: one was not enough for an emergency response.

But he dismissed the idea that something was wrong. He could not be controlled forever by his feelings.

'Is anyone here?' he called out. 'Mrs Hagman?'

No answer.

He walked round the counter. There was a door behind it that was closed. He knocked. Still no answer. He slowly depressed the handle.
It was unlocked. He gently pushed the door open.

Then everything happened at once, very quickly. A woman was lying face down in the inner room. He registered that a chair was knocked over and that blood had run out from her face, which was turned away.
He winced, although he had been prepared for something. The silence had been too substantial.

Even as he turned round he also knew there was someone behind him. As he completed his turn, he steeled himself, catching sight of a shadow that was coming towards his face at great speed. Then everything went dark.

When he opened his eyes he knew at once where he was. His head ached and he felt nauseous. He was sitting on the floor, behind the counter. He could not have been unconscious for long. Something dark had come towards him, a shadow that had struck him hard in the head.
That was the last image in his memory. And it was very clear. He tried to get up but realised that he was tied up. A rope around his legs and arms bound him to something behind him that he couldn't see.

There was also something familiar about the rope. Then he realised that it was his own tow rope, which he always kept in the boot of his car.

At once his memory flooded back. He had discovered a dead woman in the office. A woman who could hardly be anyone other than Elma
Hagman. Someone had subsequently hit him on the back of the head.
And now he was bound with his own rope. He looked around, listening.
There had to be someone nearby. Someone he had every reason to fear.
The nausea came in waves. He tried to stretch the rope. Could he free himself? He strained his ears the whole time. It was still as quiet as before, but the silence had a different quality. It was not the one he had encountered when he entered the shop. He pulled on the rope.
His arms and legs were not bound so tightly, but they were twisted in a way that did not allow him to make full use of his strength.

Now he also realised how afraid he was. Someone had murdered
Elma Hagman and then struck him over the head and bound him.
What was it Hemberg had said?
An Elma Hagman has called and
reported that a strange individual has been hanging around outside the
shop
. It turned out she had been right. Wallander tried to think calmly.
Mona knew that he was on his way home. When he did not show up she would get worried and call the Malmö office. Hemberg would then immediately think of the fact that he had been on his way to Elma
Hagman's shop. Then it would not take many minutes for the patrol cars to show up.

Wallander listened. Everything was quiet. He stretched to see if the cash register had now been opened. This could hardly be anything other than a robbery-homicide. If the cash register was open there would be every likelihood that the robber had taken off. He stretched as much as he could, but it was still impossible to see if the drawer was pulled out or not. Nonetheless, he was growing convinced of the fact that he was now alone in the shop with the dead owner.

The man who had murdered her and struck Wallander must have fled. The chances were also great that his car was gone, since he had left the keys in the ignition.

Wallander continued to struggle with the rope. After stretching out his arms and legs as far as they would go, he started to sense that he should concentrate on his left leg. If he kept pushing with his leg, he could stretch out the line and perhaps free himself. This would in turn mean that he would be able to twist his body and examine the manner in which he was attached to the wall.

He had broken out in a sweat. If it was due to his exertions or the crawling fear, he did not know. Six years earlier, when he had still been a very young and gullible police officer, he had been stabbed. Everything had happened so fast that he had not had time to react, to protect himself. The blade of the knife had entered his chest right next to his heart. That time the fear had come afterwards. But now it was here from the beginning. He tried to convince himself that nothing more would happen. Sooner or later he would be able to free himself. Sooner or later they would start looking for him.