Henning Mankell - The Pyramid

He was unable to straighten the plane. The twisting continued. Now he knew the situation was serious. He increased his speed even more and tried to compensate with the rudder. The man in the back shouted and asked what was wrong. The pilot didn't reply. He had no answer. If he didn't manage to steady the plane they would crash in a few minutes. Right before they reached the sea. He was working with a pounding heart now. But nothing helped. Then came a brief moment of rage and hopelessness. Then he continued to pull on the levers and push the foot pedals until everything was over.

The aeroplane struck the ground with vehement force at nineteen minutes past five on the morning of the eleventh of December, 1989. It immediately burst into flame. But the two men on board did not notice their bodies catching fire. They had died – torn into pieces – at the moment of impact.

The fog had come rolling in from the sea. It was four degrees above zero and there was almost no breeze.

Wallander woke up shortly after six o'clock on the morning of the eleventh of December. At the same moment that he opened his eyes, his alarm clock went off. He turned it off and lay staring out into the dark. Stretched his arms and legs, spread his fingers and toes. That had become a habit, to feel if the night had left him with any aches. He swallowed in order to check if any infection had sneaked into his respiratory system. He wondered sometimes if he was slowly becoming a hypochondriac. But this morning everything seemed in order, and for once he was completely rested. He had gone to bed early the night before, at ten o'clock, and had fallen asleep immediately. And once he fell asleep, he slept. But if he ended up lying there awake it could take many hours for him to eventually find some rest.

He got out of bed and walked into the kitchen. The thermometer read six degrees above zero. Since he knew it showed the wrong tempera ture, he was able to calculate that he would greet the world at four degrees this day. He looked up at the sky. Ribbons of fog wafted by above the rooftops. No snow had fallen in Skåne yet this winter. But it is coming, he thought. Sooner or later, the snowstorms arrive.

He made coffee and some sandwiches. As usual, his fridge was basically empty. Prior to going to bed he had written a shopping list that now lay on the kitchen table. While he was waiting for the coffee, he went to the bathroom. When he returned to the kitchen, he added toilet paper to the list. And a new brush for the toilet. He skimmed the Ystad Allehanda that he had picked up from the hall while he ate breakfast. He only paused when he reached the back page with the advertisements. Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a vague longing for a house in the country. Where he could walk straight outside in the morning and piss on the grass. Where he could have a dog, and maybe – this dream was the most remote – a dovecote. There were several houses for sale, but none that interested him. Then he saw that some Labrador puppies were for sale in Rydsgård. I can't start at the wrong end, he thought. First a house, then a dog. Not the other way round. Otherwise I'll have nothing but problems, the work hours that I keep, as long as I don't live with anyone who could help out. It was now two months since Mona had definitively left him. Deep inside he still refused to accept what had happened. At the same time he didn't know what to do to get her to come back.

He was ready to leave at seven o'clock. He selected the sweater he usually wore when it was zero to eight degrees Celsius. He had sweaters for various temperatures and was very selective about what he wore. He hated being cold in the damp Skåne winter and he was annoyed the minute he started to sweat. He thought it affected his ability to think. Then he decided to walk to the station. He needed to move. When he stepped outside he felt a faint breeze from the sea. The walk from Mariagatan took him ten minutes.

While he walked he thought about the day ahead. If nothing in particular had occurred during the day, which was his constant prayer, he would question a suspected drug dealer who had been brought in yesterday. There were also constant piles on his desk with current investigations that he should do something about. Looking into the export to Poland of stolen luxury cars was one of the most thankless of his ongoing assignments.

He walked in through the glass doors of the station and nodded at Ebba sitting at the reception desk. He saw that she had permed her hair.

'Beautiful as always,' he said.

'I do what I can,' she replied. 'But you should watch out so you don't start putting on weight. Divorced men often do.'

Wallander nodded. He knew she was right. After the divorce from Mona he had started to eat more irregularly and poorly. Every day he told himself he would break his bad habits, without any success so far. He walked to his office, hung up his coat and sat down at his desk.

The telephone rang at that moment. He lifted the receiver. It was Martinsson. Wallander was not surprised. The two of them were the homicide division's earliest risers.

'I think we have to drive out to Mossby,' Martinsson said.

'What's happened?'

'A plane has crashed.'

Wallander felt a pang in his chest. His first thought was that it must be a commercial airliner coming in for landing or taking off from Sturup. Then it meant a catastrophe, perhaps with many fatalities.

'A small sport plane,' Martinsson went on.

Wallander exhaled, while cursing Martinsson for not being able to provide him with a clear sense of the situation from the start.

'The call came in a while ago,' Martinsson said. 'The fire brigade is already on the scene. Apparently the plane was in flames.'

Wallander nodded into the receiver.

'I'm on my way,' he said. 'Who else do we have in the field?'

'No one, as far as I know. But the patrol units are there, of course.'

'Then you and I will go first.'

They met in the reception area. Just as they were about to leave, Rydberg walked in. He had rheumatism and looked pale. Wallander quickly told him what had happened.

'You two go on ahead,' Rydberg replied. 'I have to go to the toilet before I do anything else.'

Martinsson and Wallander left the station and walked over to Martinsson's car.

'He looked ill,' Martinsson said.

'He is ill,' Wallander said. 'Rheumatism. And then there's something else. Something with his urinary system, I think.'

They took the coastal road going west.

'Give me the details,' Wallander said while he stared out at the sea. Ragged clouds were still drifting across the water.

'There are no details,' Martinsson said. 'The plane crashed some time around half past five. It was a farmer who called. Apparently the crash site is just north of Mossby, out in a field.'

'Do we know how many were in the plane?'

'No.'

'Sturup must have issued a dispatch about a missing plane. If the plane crashed in Mossby, the pilot must have had radio contact with the control tower in Sturup.'

'That was my thought too,' Martinsson said. 'That's why I contacted the control tower just before I called you.'

'What did they say?'

'They aren't missing any planes.'

Wallander looked at Martinsson.

'What does that mean?'

'I don't know,' Martinsson said. 'It should be an impossibility, to fly in Swedish airspace without an assigned flight path and continuous radio contact with various towers.'

'Sturup received no emergency transmission? The pilot must have radioed if he ran into problems. Doesn't it usually take at least a couple of seconds before a plane hits the ground?'

'I don't know,' Martinsson answered. 'I don't know more than what I've told you.'

Wallander shook his head. Then he wondered what lay in store for him. He had seen a plane accident before, also a small plane. The pilot had been alone. The plane had crashed north of Ystad and the pilot had literally been torn to pieces, but the plane had not burned.