Henning Mankell - The Pyramid

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.

'I have been cleaning there for twelve years and seven months. Three mornings a week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday.'

'When did you get to the shop this morning?'

'At my usual time. A little after five. I clean four shops in the mornings.

I usually take Lamberg's first.'

'I assume you have your own key?'

She looked surprised at him.

'How else would I be able to get in? Lamberg did not open until ten.'

Wallander nodded and continued.

'Did you walk in from the street?'

'There is no other entrance.'

Wallander made a note.

'And the door was locked?'

'Yes.'

'The lock had not been tampered with in any way?'

'Not that I noticed.'

'What happened after that?'

'I went in. Put down my handbag and took off my coat.'

'Did you notice anything that was not as it should be?'

He saw that she was really trying to think and remember.

'Everything was normal. It rained yesterday morning. The floor was unusually muddy. I went to get my buckets and rags.'

She stopped abruptly.

'Was that when you saw him?'

She nodded mutely. For a second Wallander was afraid she was going to cry. But she drew a deep breath and collected herself.

'What time was it when you discovered him?'

'Nine minutes past five.'

He looked surprised at her.

'How can you know that so precisely?'

'There was a wall clock in the studio. I looked at it immediately. Perhaps in order not to have to look at him lying there dead. Perhaps in order to fix the exact time of the worst moment in my entire life.'

Wallander nodded. He thought he understood.

'What did you do next?'

'I ran out into the street. I may have screamed, I don't know. But there was a man. He called the police from a telephone booth nearby.'

Wallander put down his pen for a moment. Now he had a list of Hilda Waldén's actions and times. He had no doubt about its veracity.

'Can you tell me why Lamberg was in the shop so early in the morning?'

Her answer came quickly and firmly. Wallander realised she must have been thinking about it before he asked.

'Sometimes he went down to the studio at night. He stayed until midnight. It must have happened before then.'

'How do you know he went down there at night? If you clean in the morning?'

'A few years ago I left my purse in the pocket of the cleaning coat. I went down there at night to get it. He was there then. He told me he usually came in two evenings a week.'

'To work?'

'I think he mostly sat in that back office and shuffled papers. The radio was on.'

Wallander nodded thoughtfully. She was probably right. The murder had not happened that morning but the evening before.

He looked at her.

'Do you have any idea who could have done this?'

'No.'

'Did he have any enemies?'

'I didn't know him. I don't know if he had any friends or enemies. I just cleaned there.'

Wallander held onto the thread.

'But you worked there for more than ten years. You must have learned about him? His habits. Or weaknesses.'

Her answer came just as firmly.

'I did not know him at all. He was extremely reserved.'

'You must be able to describe him in some way.'

His answer was unexpected.

'Can you describe a person who is so anonymous he blends into the wall?'

'No indeed,' Wallander said. 'I see your point.'

He pushed the notepad aside.

'Did you notice anything unusual recently?'

'I only met him once a month. When I picked up my pay cheque. But there was nothing unusual then.'

'When did you see him last?'

'Two weeks ago.'

'And he seemed the same as always?'

'Yes.'

'He wasn't anxious? Nervous?'

'No.'

'You didn't notice anything in the shop either? Something that had changed?'

'Nothing.'

She is an excellent witness, Wallander thought. Her answers are firm. She has good powers of observation. I have no need to doubt her memory.

He had nothing more to ask her. The conversation had taken less than twenty minutes. He called Hansson, who promised to make sure that Hilda Waldén was taken home.

When he was alone again he walked over to the window and stared out into the rain. He wondered absently when spring was going to come. And how it would feel to experience it without Mona. Then he noticed that his tooth had started to ache again. He checked the time. It was still too early. He did not think his dentist would be in his office yet. At the same time he wondered how things had gone for Svedberg. To convey the news of a death in the family was one of the most feared tasks. Especially when you had to report an unexpected and brutal killing. But he was sure Svedberg could manage it. He was a good officer. Perhaps without exceptional talent, but diligent and with a fastidiously organised desk. In some ways he was among the best officers Wallander had ever worked with. And Svedberg had always been extremely loyal to Wallander.

He left the window, went out to the break room, and got a cup of coffee. While he walked back down the corridor he tried to understand what could have happened.

Simon Lamberg was a photographer, approaching sixty. A man with regular habits whose way of conducting his business was beyond reproach, photographing confirmations, weddings and children of various ages. According to his cleaning lady he came into the studio two evenings a week. At these times he sat in his inner office and shuffled papers around, listened to music. If the cleaning lady's information was correct he usually left around midnight.

Wallander came back to his office. He took up his former position at the window with the cup of coffee in his hand and stared out into the rain.

Why did Lamberg spend those evenings sitting in the studio? Something about the situation stirred Wallander's curiosity.

He checked his watch. At that moment Ebba called. She had reached his dentist. Wallander could be seen at once.

He decided not to wait. If he was going to lead a murder investigation he couldn't walk around with a toothache. He went over to Martinsson's office.

'I broke a tooth yesterday,' he said. 'I'm going to the dentist. But I'm assuming I'll be back within the hour. Let's have a meeting then. Has Svedberg come back?'

'Not that I know.'

'Try Nyberg and see if he can make it in an hour or so. Then we'll be able to get his initial impression.'

Martinsson yawned and stretched.