The Pyramid

'He took a cab out to Svarte three times in the four days he'd been here in Ystad,' Hansson said. 'He was dropped off on the edge of the village each time. He went out early in the morning, and he ordered a taxi to take him back in the afternoon.'

Wallander was miles away but nodded in acknowledgement.

'That's not against the law,' he said. 'Perhaps he had a mistress there?'

Wallander stood up and walked over to the window. The wind was building up.

'Let's search for him in the computer records,' he said after a few moments' thought. 'I get the impression we'll draw a blank. But let's do it anyway. Then we'll have a good look at the post-mortem report.'

'I bet it was a heart attack,' said Hansson, rising to leave.

'No doubt you're right,' said Wallander.

Wallander drove home and opened a can of sausages. Göran Alexandersson was already fading out of his consciousness. After eating his simple meal, he fell asleep in front of the television.

The following day, Wallander's colleague Martinsson searched through all available criminal registers for the name Göran Alexandersson. There was nothing. Martinsson was the youngest member of the investigation team, and the one most willing to embrace new technology.

Wallander devoted the day to the stolen luxury cars being driven around Poland. In the evening he went to see his father in Löderup and played cards for a few hours. They ended up arguing over who owed whom and how much. As Wallander drove home, he wondered if he would grow to be like his father as he got older. Or had he already started ageing that way? Argumentative, complaining and miserable? He should ask somebody. Perhaps somebody other than Mona.

On the morning of 28 April, Wallander's phone rang. It was the medicolegal department in Lund.

'I'm calling in co

'What was it?' Wallander asked. 'Cerebral haemorrhage or a heart attack?'

'Neither,' said the doctor. 'Either he committed suicide or he was murdered.'

Wallander pricked up his ears.

'Murdered? What do you mean by that?'

'Exactly what I say,' said Jörne.

'But that's impossible. He can't have been murdered in the back seat of a taxi. Stenberg, the driver of the cab, isn't the type who goes around killing people. But surely he can't have committed suicide either?'

'I can't tell you how it happened,' said Jörne dismissively. 'But what I can tell you with absolute certainty is that he died from a poison that got into his system somehow, either something he'd eaten or something he'd drunk. That seems to me to suggest murder. But of course, it's your business to establish that.'

Wallander made no comment.

'I'll fax the papers over to you,' said Jörne. 'Are you still there?'

'Yes,' Wallander said. 'I'm still here.'

He thanked Jörne, replaced the receiver and thought about what he'd just been told. Then he asked Hansson over the intercom to come to his office right away. Wallander took one of his notepads and wrote two words.

Göran Alexandersson. Outside the police station, the wind was getting stronger. Some gusts were already gale strength.

The squally wind continued blowing all over Skåne. Wallander sat in his office and contemplated the fact that he had no idea what had happened to the man who had died in the back seat of a taxi some days earlier. At 9.30 he went to one of the conference rooms and closed the door behind him. Hansson and Rydberg were already sitting at the table. Wallander was surprised to see Rydberg. He'd been off sick with back pains and given no indication that he was returning to work.

'How are you?' Wallander asked.

'I'm here,' said Rydberg evasively. 'What's all this nonsense about a man being murdered in the back seat of a taxi?'

'Let's start at the begi

He looked around. Somebody was missing.

'Where's Martinsson?'

'He called in to say he had tonsillitis,' said Rydberg. 'Maybe Svedberg can stand in for him?'

'We'll see if we need him,' said Wallander, picking up his papers. The fax had arrived from Lund.

Then he looked at his colleagues.

'What started off looking like a straightforward case could turn out to be much more problematic than I'd thought. A man died in the back seat of a taxi. The medico-legal people in Lund have established that he was poisoned. What we don't know yet is how long before his death the poison got into his system. Lund promises to let us know that in a few days.'

'Murder or suicide?' Rydberg wondered.

'Murder,' said Wallander without hesitation. 'I find it hard to imagine a suicide taking poison and then calling for a taxi.'

'Could he have taken the poison by mistake?' Hansson asked.

'Hardly likely,' said Wallander. 'According to the doctors it's a very unusual mixture of poisons.'

'What do they mean by that?' Hansson asked.

'It's something that can only be made by a specialist – a doctor, a chemist or a biologist, for instance.'

Silence.

'So, we need to regard this as a murder case,' Wallander said. 'What do we know about this man, Göran Alexandersson?'

Hansson leafed through his notebook.

'He was a businessman,' he said. 'He owned two electronics shops in Stockholm. One in Västberga, the other in Nortull. He lived alone in an apartment in Åsögatan. He doesn't seem to have had any family. His divorced wife lives in France. His son died seven years ago. The employees I've spoken to all describe him in exactly the same way.'

'How?' asked Wallander.

'They say he was nice.'

'Nice?'

'That was the word they all used. Nice.'

Wallander nodded.

'Anything else?'

'He appears to have led a pretty humdrum existence. His secretary guessed that he probably collected stamps. Catalogues kept arriving at the office. He doesn't seem to have had any close friends. At least, none that his colleagues knew about.'

Nobody said anything.

'We'd better ask Stockholm to help us with his apartment,' Wallander said when the silence had started to feel oppressive. 'And we must get in touch with his ex-wife. I'll concentrate on trying to find out what he was doing down here in Skåne, in Ystad and Svarte. Who did he meet? We can get together again this afternoon and see how far we've got.'

'One thing puzzles me,' said Rydberg. 'Can a person be murdered without knowing anything about it?'

Wallander nodded.

'That's an interesting idea,' he said. 'Somebody gives Göran Alexandersson some poison that doesn't have any effect until an hour later. I'll ask Jörne to answer that one.'

'If he can,' muttered Rydberg. 'I wouldn't count on it.'

The meeting was over. They went their different ways after dividing up the various tasks. Wallander stood at the window of his office, coffee cup in hand, and tried to make up his mind where to start.

Half an hour later he was in his car, on the way to Svarte. The wind was slowly dropping. The sun shone through the parting clouds. For the first time that year Wallander had the feeling that perhaps spring really was on the way at last. He stopped when he came to the edge of Svarte and got out of the car. Göran Alexandersson came here, he thought. He came in the morning and returned to Ystad in the afternoon. On the fourth occasion, he was poisoned and died in the back seat of a taxi.

Wallander started walking towards the village. Many of the houses on the beach side of the road were summer cottages and were boarded up for the winter.

He walked through the whole village and only saw two people. The desolation made him feel depressed. He turned round and walked quickly back to his car.