Henning Mankell - The Pyramid

I have to talk to her, he thought. Not now, while she is still upset. But later, tonight.

He got off the bus. His cheek still stung. The slap had been forceful. He checked his reflection in a shop window. The redness on his cheek was noticeable.

He lingered, confused about his course of action. Thought that he should talk to Lars Andersson as soon as possible. Thank him for his help and explain what had happened.

Then he thought about a house in Löderup he had never seen. And his childhood home, which no longer belonged to his family.

He started to walk. Nothing was made better by his standing unmoving on a pavement in downtown Malmö.

Wallander picked up the large envelope that Helena had left with the office receptionist.

'I need to talk to her,' he said to the receptionist.

'She's busy' was the answer. 'She just asked me to give you this.'

Wallander realised Helena was probably angry about the morning's conversation and did not want to see him. He didn't have great difficulties relating to this.

It wasn't more than five minutes past nine when Wallander arrived at the police station. He walked to his office and to his relief found that no one was waiting for him. Once again he thought through everything that had happened this morning. If he called the hair salon where Mona worked she would say she didn't have time to talk. He would have to wait until tonight.

He opened the envelope and was amazed at how long the lists of names from various shipping companies that Helena had managed to dig up were. He looked for Artur Hålén's name, but it wasn't there. The closest names he saw were a seaman by the name of Håle who had mostly sailed for the Gränges shipping line, and a chief engineer on the Johnson line by the name of Hallén. Wallander pushed aside the pile of paper. If the records he had in front of him were complete that meant that Hålén had not worked on any ships registered in the Swedish merchant fleet. Then it would be nearly impossible to find him. Wallander suddenly did not know any longer what he was hoping to find. An explanation of what?

It had taken him almost three-quarters of an hour to go through the lists. He got to his feet and walked up to the next floor. He bumped into his boss, Inspector Lohman, in the corridor.

'Weren't you supposed to be with Hemberg today?'

'I'm on my way.'

'What were you doing out in Arlöv, anyway?'

'It's a long story; that's what the meeting with Hemberg is about.'

Lohman shook his head and hurried on. Wallander felt relief at not having to go to the dreary and depressing drug-infested neighbourhoods that his colleagues were going to have to deal with that day.

Hemberg was sitting in his office, sorting through some papers. As usual he had his feet up on the desk. He looked up when Wallander appeared in the doorway.

'What happened to you?' Hemberg asked and pointed to his cheek.

'I bumped into a doorpost,' Wallander said.

'Just what abused wives say when they don't want to turn in their husbands,' Hemberg said breezily and sat up.

Wallander felt found out. It was getting harder and harder for him to determine what Hemberg was really thinking. Hemberg seemed to have a double-edged language, one that made the listener constantly search for the meaning behind the words.

'We're still waiting for definitive results from Jörne,' Hemberg said. 'That takes time. As long as we can't pinpoint exactly when the woman died we also cannot proceed with the theory that Hålén killed her and then went home and shot himself out of regret or fear.'

Hemberg stood with his papers tucked under his arm. Wallander followed him to a conference room further down the corridor. There were already several detectives there, among them Stefansson, who regarded Wallander with animosity. Sjunnesson was picking his teeth and did not look at anyone. There were also two other men who Wallander recognised. One was called Hörner and the other Mattsson. Hemberg sat down at the short end of the table and pointed out a chair to Wallander.

'Is the patrol squad helping us out now?' Stefansson said. 'Don't they have enough to do with all those damn protestors?'

'The patrol squad has nothing to do with this,' Hemberg said. 'But Wallander found that lady out in Arlöv. It's as simple as that.'

Only Stefansson seemed to object to Wallander's presence. The others nodded kindly. Wallander imagined that more than anything they were happy to have an additional hand. Sjunnesson put down the toothpick with which he had been picking his teeth. Apparently this was the sign that Hemberg could begin. Wallander noted the methodical care that characterised the investigative unit's proceedings. They worked from the existing facts, but they also took time – Hemberg, above all – to feel their way in exploring various directions. Why had Alexandra Batista been murdered? What could the connection to Hålén be? Were there any other leads?

'The precious stones in Hålén's stomach,' Hemberg said towards the end of the meeting. 'I have received an evaluation from a jeweller of about 150,000 kronor. A lot of money, in other words. People in this country have been murdered for much less.'

'Someone hit a taxi driver on the head with an iron pipe a couple of years ago,' Sjunnesson said. 'He had twenty-two kronor in his wallet.'

Hemberg looked around the table.

'The neighbours?' he asked. 'Have they seen anything? Heard anything?'

Mattsson glanced through his notes.

'No observations,' he said. 'Batista lived an isolated life. Rarely went out except to buy groceries. Had no visitors.'

'Someone must have seen Hålén come by?' Hemberg objected.

'Apparently not. And the nearest neighbours gave the impression of being regular Swedish citizens. That is to say, extremely nosy.'

'When did someone see her last?'

'There were differing opinions on this. But of what I have been able to document, one can draw the conclusion that it was several days ago. What's not clear is if it was two or three days ago.'

'Do we know what she lived on?'

Then it was Hörner's turn.

'She seems to have had a small annuity,' he said. 'In part with unclear origins. A bank in Portugal that in turn has affiliated branches in Brazil. It always takes a damn long time with banks. But she didn't work. If you look at the contents of her cupboards, fridge and pantry, her life did not cost much.'

'But the house?'

'No loans. Paid for in cash by her former husband.'

'Where is he?'

'In a grave,' Stefansson said. 'He died a couple of years ago. Was buried in Karlskoga. I spoke to his widow. He had remarried. That was unfortunately somewhat embarrassing. I realised too late that she had no idea that there had once been an Alexandra Batista in his life. But he did not appear to have had any children with Batista.'

'That's how it can be,' Hemberg said, and turned to Sjunnesson.

'We're in the process,' he said. 'Different fingerprints on the glasses. Seems to have been red wine in them. Spanish, I think. We're trying to match this to an empty bottle that was in the kitchen. We're checking to see if we have the prints in the register. Then of course we'll also compare them to Hålén's.'

'He may also be in Interpol's registers,' Hemberg pointed out. 'It can take a while until we hear back from them.'

'We can assume she let him in,' Sjunnesson continued. 'There were no signs of forced entry on the windows or doors. He can also have had his own key, for that matter. But there were none that fitted. The balcony door was open, as our friend Wallander has informed us. Since Batista had neither a dog nor a cat, one could imagine that it was open to let in the night air. Which in turn should mean that Batista did not fear or expect that anything would happen. Or else the perpetrator exited that way. The back of the house is more protected from prying eyes.'