The Pyramid

I'll make it back in time, he thought. I can't really afford a taxi but that can't be helped. He tore off a piece of paper from a bag and scribbled that he would be back at seven. Then he called for a cab. This time he was able to get through immediately. He attached the note to the door with a drawing pin and left for the police headquarters. Hemberg was sitting in his office with his feet on the table.

He gestured for Wallander to sit down.

'We were wrong,' he said. 'There was an alternative that we didn't think of. Sjunnesson didn't make a mistake. He told the truth: there wasn't anything in Hålén's apartment. And he was right. But there had been something there.'

Wallander did not know what Hemberg was talking about.

'I also admit that I was tricked,' Hemberg said. 'But Hålén had removed what was in the apartment.'

'But he was dead.'

Hemberg nodded.

'The medical examiner called,' he said. 'The autopsy is complete. And he found something very interesting in Hålén's stomach.'

Hemberg swung his feet off the desk. Then he took out a little folded piece of cloth from one of the drawers and carefully unwrapped it in front of Wallander.

There were stones inside. Precious stones. Of which type, Wallander was unable to determine.

'I had a jeweller here just before you arrived,' Hemberg said. 'He made a preliminary examination. These are diamonds. Probably from South African mines. He said they were worth a minor fortune. Hålén had swallowed them.'

'He had these in his stomach?'

Hemberg nodded.

'No wonder we didn't find them.'

'But why did he swallow them? And when did he do this?'

'The last question is perhaps the most important. The doctor said that he swallowed them only a few hours before he shot himself. Before his intestines and stomach stopped working. Why do you think that might be?'

'He was afraid.'

'Exactly.'

Hemberg pushed the packet of diamonds away and put his feet back up on the table. Wallander caught a whiff of foot odour.

'Summarise this for me.'

'I don't know if I can.'

'Try it!'

'Hålén swallowed the diamonds because he was afraid that someone was going to steal them. And then he shot himself. The person who was there that night was looking for them. But I can't explain the blaze.'

'Can't you explain it a different way?' Hemberg suggested. 'If you tweak Hålén's motive a little. Where does that put you?'

Wallander suddenly realised what Hemberg was getting at.

'Maybe he wasn't afraid,' Wallander said. 'He had maybe just decided never to be parted from his diamonds.'

Hemberg nodded.

'You can draw one more conclusion. That someone knew that Hålén had these diamonds.'

'And that Hålén knew that someone knew.'

Hemberg nodded, pleased.

'You're coming along,' he said. 'Even though it's going very slowly.'

'But this doesn't explain the fire.'

'You still have to ask yourself what is most important,' Hemberg said. 'Where is the centre? Where is the very kernel? The fire can be a distraction. Or the act of someone who is angry.'

'Who?'

Hemberg shrugged.

'It'll be hard for us to find that out. Hålén is dead. How he has managed to get a hold of these diamonds I don't know. If I go to the public prosecutor with this he'll laugh in my face.'

'What happens to the diamonds?'

'They go to the General Inheritance Fund. And we can stamp our papers and send in our report about Hålén's death to go as deep in the basement as possible.'

'Does this mean that the fire won't be investigated?'

'Not very thoroughly, I suspect,' Hemberg said. 'There is no reason to.'

Hemberg walked over to a cabinet that stood against one wall. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Then he nodded at Wallander to join him. He pointed at some folders with a ribbon around them that were lying to one side.

'These are my constant companions,' Hemberg said. 'Three murder cases that are still neither solved nor old enough to have lapsed. I am not the one who is in charge of them. We review these cases once a year. Or if we receive additional information. These are not originals. They are copies. Sometimes I look at them. On occasion I dream about them. Most policemen aren't like this. They do their job and when they go home they forget what they are working on. But then there is another type, like me. Who can never let go of an unsolved case. I even take these folders along with me on holiday. Three cases of murder. A nineteen-year-old girl. 1963. Ann-Louise Franzén. She was found strangled behind some bushes by the highway leading north out of town. Leonard Johansson, also 1963. Only seventeen years old. Someone had crushed his skull with a rock. We found him on the beach south of the city.'

'I remember him,' Wallander said. 'Didn't they suspect that it was a fight over a girl that had spiralled out of control?'

'There was a fight over a girl,' Hemberg said. 'We interviewed the rival for many years. But we didn't get him. And I don't even think it was him.'

Hemberg pointed to the file on the bottom.

'One more girl. Lena Moscho. Twenty years old. 1959. The same year that I came here to Malmö. Her hands had been cut off and buried along a road out to Svedala. It was a dog that found her. She had been raped. She lived with her parents out in Jägersro. An upright sort who was studying to become a physician, of all things. It was in April. She was heading out to buy a newspaper but never returned. It took us five months to find her.'

Hemberg shook his head.

'You will discover what type you belong to,' he said and closed the cabinet. 'The ones who forget or the ones who don't.'

'I don't even know if I measure up,' Wallander said.

'You want to, at least,' Hemberg answered. 'And that's a good start.'

Hemberg had started to put on his coat. Wallander checked his watch and saw that it was five minutes to seven.

'I have to go,' he said.

'I can give you a lift home,' Hemberg said, 'if you can hold your horses.'

'I'm in a bit of a hurry,' Wallander said.

Hemberg shrugged.

'Now you know,' he said. 'Now you know what Hålén had in his stomach.'

Wallander was lucky and managed to catch a taxi right outside. When he got to Rosengård it was nine minutes past seven. He hoped that Mona was running late. But when he read the note he had posted on the door he realised that this was not the case.

Is this how it's going to be? she had written.

Wallander took down the note. The drawing pin fell onto the stairs.

He didn't bother to retrieve it. In the best-case scenario it would get stuck in Linnea Almquist's shoe.

Is this how it's going to be? Wallander understood Mona's impatience. She did not have the same expectations for her professional life as he did. Her dreams about her own salon were not going to come true for a long time.

When he had gone into the apartment and sat down on the sofa he felt guilty. He should spend more time with Mona. Not simply expect her to be patient every time he was late. To try to call her was pointless. Right now she was driving that borrowed car to Helsingborg.

Suddenly there was an anxiety in him that everything was wrong. Had he really thought about what it would mean to live with Mona? To have a child with her?

He pushed the thoughts away. We'll talk to each other in Skagen, he thought. Then we'll have time. You can't be too late on a beach.

He looked at the clock. Half past seven. He turned on the television. As usual a plane had crashed somewhere. Or was it just a train that had run off the rails? He walked into the kitchen and only half listened to the news. Looked in the fridge for a beer, but only found an opened soda. The desire for something stronger was suddenly very intense. The thought of going into town again and sitting in a bar seemed attractive. But he waved it away since he hardly had any money. Even though it was only the beginning of the month.