The Pyramid (11 page)

'With any other police servant I would have told you to go to hell,'
Jespersen answered jovially. 'But with you it's different. What is it you want to know?'

Wallander filled him in on what had happened.

'A sailor, called both Anders Hansson and Artur Hålén,' he finished.
'Who also worked as an engineer.'

'Which line?'

'Sahlén.'

Jespersen slowly shook his head.

'I would have heard about someone who changed his name,' he said.
'That isn't an everyday occurrence.'

Wallander tried to describe Hålén's appearance. At the same time he was thinking of the photographs he had seen in the sailor's books.
A man who changed. Maybe Hålén also deliberately altered his appearance when he changed his name?

'Can you add anything else?' Jespersen said. 'He was a sailor and an engineer. Which in itself is an unusual combination. Which ports did he sail to? Which type of vessel?'

'I think he went to Brazil a number of times,' Wallander said hesitantly.
'Rio de Janeiro, of course. But also a place called São Luis.'

'Northern Brazil,' Jespersen said. 'I've been there once. Had shore leave there and stayed in an elegant hotel called Casa Grande.'

'I don't think I have anything more to tell,' Wallander said.

Jespersen studied him while he dropped a few more sugar cubes into his coffee.

'Someone who knew him? Is that what you want to know? Someone who knew Anders Hansson? Or Artur Hålén?'

Wallander nodded.

'Then we won't get any further right now,' Jespersen said. 'I'll check around. Both here and in Malmö. Now I think we should go have a bite to eat.'

Wallander looked at his watch. Half past five. There was no need to hurry. If he took the hydrofoil back to Malmö at half past eight he would still get home in time to call Mona. And he was hungry anyway.
The sausage slices had not been enough.

'Mussels,' Jespersen said and stood up. 'We're going to Anne-Birte's to have a bite.'

Wallander paid for his drinks. Since Jespersen had already gone out to the street, Wallander had to pay for him as well.

Anne-Birte's establishment was located in the lower part of Nyhavn.
Since it was early, they had no problems getting a table. Mussels were not really what Wallander most wanted to have, but that was Jespersen's choice and so mussels it was. Wallander kept drinking beer while
Jespersen had switched to an intensely yellow lemon drink, Citronvand.

'I'm not touching the drink right now,' he said. 'But I will in a few weeks.'

Wallander ate and listened to Jespersen's many well-told stories from his years at sea. Shortly before half past eight they were ready to leave.

For a while, Wallander worried that he wouldn't have enough money to pay the bill since Jespersen appeared to take for granted that
Wallander would pay. But in the end Wallander had enough to cover it.

They parted outside the restaurant.

'I'll look into this,' Jespersen said. 'I'll be in touch.'

Wallander walked down to the ferries and stood in line. They cast off at exactly nine o'clock. Wallander closed his eyes and dozed off almost immediately.

He was awakened by the fact that everything had grown very quiet around him. The roar of the ship's engines had stopped. He looked around in bewilderment. They were about halfway between Denmark and Sweden. Then an announcement from the captain came over the ship's PA system. The ship had sustained engine damage and would have to be towed back to Copenhagen. Wallander leaped up out of his seat and asked one of the stewardesses if there was a telephone aboard.
He received an answer in the negative.

'When will we get to Copenhagen?' he asked.

'That will unfortunately take several hours. But we will be offering a range of sandwiches and beverages in the meantime.'

'I don't want a sandwich,' Wallander said. 'I want a telephone.'

But no one could help him. He turned to a ship's mate who answered curtly that the radio phones could not be used for personal calls when the vessel was in a state of emergency.

Wallander sat back down in his seat.

She won't believe me, he thought. A hydrofoil that breaks down.
That will be the last straw for her. Then our relationship will break down as well, for good.

Wallander reached Malmö at half past two in the morning. They had not arrived in Copenhagen until shortly after midnight. At that point he had already abandoned all thoughts of calling her. When he landed in Malmö there was a downpour. Since he did not have enough money to take a taxi he had to walk all the way back to Rosengård. He had only just stepped inside the door when he suddenly became violently ill. After vomiting, he developed a fever.

The mussels, he thought. Don't tell me I'm really getting the stomach flu now.

Wallander spent the rest of the night in a constant series of trips between the bedroom and the bathroom. He had the energy to remind himself that he had actually never called in to say he was over his illness. Therefore he was still on sick leave. At dawn he finally managed to catch a few hours of sleep. But at nine he started running to the toilet again. The thought of calling Mona while shitting and vomiting was beyond him. In the best-case scenario she would realise that something had happened to him, that he was sick. But the telephone didn't ring. No one tried to reach him all day.

Late that evening he started to feel somewhat better. But he was so weak that he didn't manage to make himself anything except a cup of tea. Before he fell asleep again he wondered how Jespersen was feeling.
He hoped he was as sick since he was the one who had suggested the mussels.

The next morning he tried to have a boiled egg. But this only resulted in him having to rush to the toilet again. He spent the rest of the day in bed and felt that his stomach was slowly starting to get back to normal.

Shortly before five, the phone rang. It was Hemberg.

'I've been looking for you,' he said.

'I'm sick in bed,' Wallander said.

'The stomach flu?'

'More precisely, mussels.'

'Surely no sensible person eats mussels?'

'I did, unfortunately. And was duly punished.'

Hemberg changed the subject.

'I'm calling to tell you that Jörne is finished,' he said. 'It wasn't what we thought. Hålén killed himself before Alexandra Batista was strangled.

This means, in other words, that we have to turn this investigation in another direction. There is an unknown perpetrator.'

'Maybe it's a coincidence,' Wallander said.

'That Batista dies and Hålén shoots himself? With precious stones in his stomach? You can try to convince someone else of that. What is missing is the link in this chain of events. For the sake of simplicity we can say that a drama of two people has suddenly been changed into a triangle.'

Wallander wanted to tell Hemberg about Hålén's change of name but felt another urge to vomit coming on. He excused himself.

'If you feel better tomorrow, then come up and see me,' Hemberg said. 'Remember to drink a lot. Liquids are the only thing that help.'

After very hastily concluding the conversation and making yet another trip to the bathroom, Wallander returned to his bed. He spent that evening and night somewhere in the no-man's-land between sleep, wakefulness and half-sleep. His stomach had calmed itself now, but he was still very tired. He dreamed about Mona and thought about what
Hemberg had said. But he did not have the energy to get worked up, could not bring himself to think in earnest.

He felt better in the morning. He toasted some bread and brewed a weak cup of coffee. His stomach did not react. He let fresh air into the apartment, which had started to smell bad. The rain clouds had gone away and it was warm. At lunchtime Wallander called the hair salon. Again it was Karin who answered.

'Could you tell Mona I'll call her tonight?' he said. 'I've been sick.'

'I'll let her know.'

Wallander could not determine if there was a tinge of sarcasm in her voice. He didn't think Mona talked much about her personal life.
At least he hoped she didn't.

Around one o'clock Wallander got ready to go down to the police station. But to make sure, he called and asked if Hemberg was in. After several fruitless attempts to get hold of him or at least information about where he might be, Wallander gave up. He decided to go grocery shopping and then spend the rest of the afternoon preparing for the conversation with Mona, which was not going to be an easy matter.

He made soup for dinner and then lay down on the couch and watched TV. A little after seven the door rang. Mona, he thought. She has realised that something is wrong and she's come over.

But when he opened the door, Jespersen was standing there.

'You and your damn mussels,' Wallander said angrily. 'I've been ill for two days.'

Jespersen looked enquiringly at him.

'I didn't notice anything,' he said. 'I'm sure there was nothing wrong with the mussels.'

Wallander decided it was meaningless to keep talking about the dinner. He let Jespersen in. They sat down in the kitchen.

'Something smells funny in here.'

'It usually does when someone has spent almost forty hours on the toilet.'

Jespersen shook his head.

'It must have been something else,' he said. 'Not Anne-Birte's mussels.'

'You're here,' Wallander said. 'That means you have something to tell me.'

'A little coffee would be nice,' Jespersen said.

'I'm all out, sorry. And anyway, I didn't know you were coming.'

Jespersen nodded. He didn't take offence.

'Mussels can certainly give you a stomach ache,' he said, 'but if I'm not completely mistaken, it's something else that's worrying you.'

Wallander was amazed. Jespersen saw right into him, right into the centre of pain that was Mona.

'You may be right,' he said. 'But that's not something I want to talk about.'

Jespersen held up his hands.

'You're here. That means you have something to tell me,' Wallander repeated.

'Have I ever told you what respect I have for your president, Mr
Palme?'

'He's not a president, he's not even prime minister yet. But you hardly came all the way here to tell me that.'

'Nonetheless, it should be said,' Jespersen insisted. 'But you are right that other reasons have brought me here. If you live in Copenhagen, only an errand will bring you to Malmö. If you know what I mean.'

Wallander nodded impatiently. Jespersen could be very long-winded.
Except when he was telling his tales from his life at sea. Then he was a master.

'I talked a little with some friends in Copenhagen,' Jespersen said.
'That gave me nothing. Then I went over to Malmö and things went better. I spoke with an old electrician who sailed the seven seas for a thousand years. Ljungström is his name. Lives in a retirement home nowadays. Except I've forgotten the name of the place. He could hardly stand on his two legs. But his memory is clear.'

'What did he say?'

'Nothing. But he suggested that I chat a little with a man out in
Frihamnen. And when I found him and asked him about Hansson and
Hålén he said, "Those two are in constant demand."'

'What did he mean by that?'

'What do you think? You're a policeman and should be able to understand what regular folks don't.'

'What did he say again, exactly?'

'That "those two are in constant demand".'

Wallander understood.

'There must have been someone else who had been asking about them, or him, to be precise.'

'Yes.'

'Who?'

'He didn't know the name. But he claimed it was a man who seemed a little unstable. How can I put this? Unshaven and badly dressed. And drunk.'

'When did this happen?'

'About a month ago.'

About the same time that Hålén had the extra lock put in, Wallander thought.

'He didn't know the man's name? Can I speak with this fellow in
Frihamnen myself? He must have had a name?'

'He didn't want to talk to a cop.'

'Why not?'

Jespersen shrugged.

'You know how things can be at the docks. Crates of alcohol that break open, some bags of coffee that go missing.'

Wallander had heard about such things.

'But I kept asking around,' Jespersen said. 'And if I'm not mistaken
I think there are some slightly scruffy individuals who have a habit of meeting up to share a bottle or two in that park in the middle of town that I've forgotten the name of. Something that starts with P?'

'Pildamms Park?'

'That's the one. And the man who asked about Hålén, or maybe it was Hansson, had a sagging eyelid.'

'Which eye?'

'I don't think it'll be hard to see if you find him.'

'And he asked about Hålén or Hansson about a month ago? And he hangs out in Pildamms Park?'

'I thought maybe we could look him up before I head back,' Jespersen said. 'And maybe we'll find a cafe on the way?'

Wallander checked his watch. It was half past seven.

'I can't do it tonight. I'm busy.'

'Then I'm going back to Copenhagen. I'm going to have a word with
Anne-Birte about her mussels.'

'It could have been something else,' Wallander said.

'Just what I'll say to Anne-Birte.'

They had walked out into the hall.

'Thanks for coming,' Wallander said. 'And thanks for your help.'

'Thank you,' Jespersen said. 'If you hadn't been there I would have got nothing but trouble and fines that time the guys started to fight.'

'I'll see you around,' Wallander said. 'But no more mussels next time.'

'No more mussels,' Jespersen said and left.

Wallander went back into the kitchen and wrote down everything he had just heard. Someone had been asking about Hålén or Hansson.
This had taken place about a month ago. At around the same time that
Hålén had an extra lock put in. The man looking for Hålén had a sagging eyelid. Seemed in one way or another to be drifting along. And was possibly hanging out in Pildamms Park.

Wallander put the pen down. I'm going to talk to Hemberg about this too, he thought. Right now this is actually a real lead.