The Pyramid

After lunch Wallander drove to Lavendelvägen. Again it was Karin Fahlman who opened the door. But this time Elisabeth Lamberg was not resting. She was sitting in the living room when Wallander came in. Again he was struck by her pallor. He had the feeling it came from somewhere inside and also had roots far back in time and was not simply a reaction to her husband's murder.

Wallander sat down across from her. She scrutinised him.

'We are no closer to solving this case,' Wallander began.

'I know you're doing the best you can,' she said.

Wallander briefly wondered what she really meant. Was it a disguised criticism of their work? Or did she mean it honestly?

'This is the second time that I've come to see you,' he said, 'but I think we can safely assume it will not be the last. New questions turn up all the time.'

'I'll try to answer to the best of my ability.'

'This time I haven't simply come to ask questions,' Wallander continued. 'I also need to be able to look through your husband's belongings.'

She nodded but said nothing.

Wallander decided to take the bull by the horns.

'Did your husband have any debts?'

'Not as far as I know. The house is paid for. He never made any new investments in the studio without knowing that he could pay off the loans quickly.'

'Could he have taken out any loans that you would not have known about?'

'Of course he could have. I've already explained this to you. We lived under the same roof, but we had separate lives. And he was very secretive.'

Wallander grabbed hold of the last thing she said.

'In what way was he secretive? I still haven't fully understood this.'

Her eyes bored into him.

'What is a secretive person? Perhaps it would be more precise to say that he was a closed person. One never knew if he really meant what he said. Or was thinking something completely different. I could be standing right next to him and have the feeling that he was somewhere far, far away. I could never determine if he really meant it when he smiled. I could never be sure of who he really was.'

'It must have been a trying situation,' Wallander said. 'But it could hardly always have been like that?'

'He changed a great deal. It started back when Matilda was born.'

'Twenty-four years ago?'

'Perhaps not immediately. Let me say twenty years ago. At first I thought it was grief. Over Matilda's fate. Then I didn't know any more. Before it grew worse.'

'Worse?'

'About seven years ago.'

'What happened then?'

'I honestly don't know.'

Wallander stopped and backed up a little.

'So if I understand this correctly, something happened seven years ago? Something that changed him dramatically?'

'Yes.'

'And you don't have any idea what this might have been?'

'Maybe. Every spring he would let his assistant take care of his business for about fourteen days. Then he would go on a bus trip somewhere down on the Continent.'

'But you didn't accompany him?'

'He wanted to go on his own. And I had no particular desire to go. If I wanted to get away, I would travel with my friends. To different places.'

'So what happened?'

'That time the destination was Austria. And when he came home he was completely changed. Seemed both upbeat and sad at the same time. When I tried to ask him about it he had one of the few outbursts of temper I ever experienced from him.'

Wallander had started making notes.

'When exactly did this happen?'

'Nineteen eighty-one. In February or March. The bus trip was arranged from Stockholm, but Simon got on in Malmö.'

'You don't happen to recall the name of the travel agency?'

'I think it was Markresor. He almost always went with them.'

After writing down this name, Wallander tucked the notebook into his pocket.

'Now I'd like to have a look around,' he said. 'Above all, I'd like to see his room.'

'He had two. A bedroom and an office.'

Both were located on the basement level. Wallander only cast a cursory glance at the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. She was standing behind him, watching what he did. Then they continued on to Lamberg's expansive office. The walls were covered with bookcases.

There was an extensive record collection, a well-used armchair and a large desk.

Wallander suddenly thought of something.

'Was your husband religious?' he asked.

'No,' she said, surprised. 'I can't imagine that he was.'

Wallander's gaze wandered along the spines of the books. There were literary works in many languages but also non-fiction on various subjects. Several rows of books were devoted to astronomy. Wallander sat down at the desk. Nyberg had given him the keys. He unlocked the first drawer. Lamberg's wife sat down in the reading chair.

'If you don't want to be disturbed, I'm happy to leave,' she said.

'That's not necessary,' Wallander answered.

It took him a couple of hours to comb through the office. She sat in the armchair the whole time and followed him with her eyes. He did not find anything that brought him or the investigation forward.

Something had happened on a trip to Austria about seven years ago, he thought. The question is simply: what?

It was close to five thirty when he gave up. Simon Lamberg's life appeared to have been hermetically sealed. No matter how hard he looked he could not find an entrance. They walked up to the ground floor again. Karin Fahlman was moving around in the background. Everything was quiet, just as before.

'Did you find what you were looking for?' Elisabeth Lamberg asked.

'I don't know what I'm looking for, other than a clue that could give us an idea about a motive and about who may have killed your husband. I have not found such a thing yet.'

Wallander said goodbye and drove back to the police station. The wind was still gusty. He was cold and wondered, for what seemed like the hundredth time, when spring was going to arrive.

He met up with the public prosecutor, Per Åkeson, outside the station. They walked into reception together. He gave Åkeson a quick overview of the case.

'So you have no direct leads to go on right now?' he said when Wallander was done.

'No,' Wallander answered. 'There is nothing yet that points in a particular direction. The needle of the compass is spinning wildly.'

Åkeson walked back out through the front doors. Wallander bumped into Svedberg in the corridor. He was just the person Wallander wanted to see. They went into Wallander's office and Svedberg sat down in the rickety visitor's chair. One of the armrests was threatening to come off.

'You should get a new chair,' he said.

'Do you think there's money for that?'

Wallander had his notebook out in front of him.

'There are two things I want to ask you,' he said. 'First, that you try to find out if there's a travel agency in Stockholm by the name of Markresor. Simon Lamberg went on a two-week trip with them to Austria in February or March of 1981. Find out what you can about this bus trip. And if you could dig up a passenger list after all these years that would be ideal.'

'Why is this important?'

'Something happened on that trip. His widow was very sure of that. Simon Lamberg was not the same when he returned.'

Svedberg made a note of this request.

'One more thing,' Wallander said. 'We should find out where this daughter, Matilda, is. She lives in an institution for the severely handicapped. But we don't know where.'

'You didn't ask about this?'

'I didn't think of it, actually. That blow last night might have been harder than I thought.'