The Pyramid

He finally grasped the thought that had nagged at him.

The plane that had sneaked in over the Swedish coast had dropped something. Lights had been observed beyond the woods. An area had been marked out in order for the plane to find it. Spotlights had been set up in the fields and then taken down again.

It was the spotlights that had nagged at him. Who had access to strong lights of this kind?

The idea was a long shot. Nonetheless he trusted his intuition. He thought about it for a while, sitting up in bed. Then he made up his mind, got up, put on his old dressing gown and called the police station. He wanted to talk to Martinsson. It took a couple of minutes for him to get to the phone.

'Do me a favour,' Wallander said. 'Call Rolf Nyman. The guy who shared that house with Holm outside Sjöbo. Call and make it sound like a routine inquiry. Some facts that need to be filled in. Nyman told me he worked as a DJ at various discos. Ask him in passing for the names of all the places where he's worked.'

'Why is this important?'

'I don't know,' Wallander said. 'But please do me this favour.'

Martinsson promised to get back to him. Wallander had already started to doubt himself. It was too much of a long shot. But it was as Rydberg always said: no stone should be left unturned.

The hours went by. It was already afternoon. Martinsson did not call. Wallander's fever was starting to go down. But he was still plagued by sneezing attacks. And a ru

'No one answered the phone until just now,' he said. 'But I don't think he suspected anything. I have a list here of the four discos. Two in Malmö, one in Lund, and one out in Råå, outside Helsingborg.'

Wallander wrote down the names.

'Good,' he said.

'I hope you realise that I'm curious.'

'It's just an idea I've had. We'll talk about it tomorrow.'

Wallander finished the conversation. He got dressed without a second thought, let a couple of painkillers dissolve in a glass of water, had a cup of coffee and took out a roll of toilet paper to bring along. At a quarter past five he was in his car and on his way.

The first disco was housed in an old warehouse in the Malmö Frihamn area. Wallander was in luck. Just as he stopped the car, a man walked out of the closed disco. Wallander introduced himself and learned that the person in front of him was called Juhanen, from Haparanda, and the owner of the disco Exodus.

'How does someone from Haparanda end up in Malmö?' Wallander asked.

The man smiled. He was around forty and had bad teeth.

'He meets a girl,' he said. 'Most people who move do so for one of two reasons. To find work. Or because they meet someone.'

'I actually want to ask you about Rolf Nyman,' Wallander said.

'Anything wrong?'

'No,' Wallander answered. 'Routine questions. He works for you sometimes?'

'He's good. Perhaps a little conservative in his music selection. But skilled.'

'A disco lives on the high volume of its music and its light effects,' Wallander said, 'if I'm not completely mistaken?'

'Correct,' Juhanen said. 'I always stuff my ears, or I would have lost my hearing a long time ago.'

'Rolf Nyman never borrowed any lighting equipment, did he?' Wallander asked. 'Some of the high-intensity spotlights?'

'Why would he do that?'

'It's just a question.'

Juhanen shook his head firmly.

'I keep an eye on both the staff and the equipment,' he said. 'Nothing disappears around here. Or gets borrowed.'

'That's all I needed to know,' Wallander said. 'Also, I would rather you didn't mention this to anyone for now.'

Juhanen smiled.

'You mean, I shouldn't tell Nyman?'

'Exactly.'

'What's he done?'

'Nothing. But we have to snoop around in secret sometimes.'

Juhanen shrugged.

'I won't say anything.'

Wallander drove on. The second disco was located in the i

Wallander got back in his car and blew his nose into some toilet paper. This is meaningless, he thought. What I am doing right now is just throwing away my efforts. The only result will be that I'll end up staying ill longer.

Then he drove to Lund. The sneezing attacks came and went in waves. He noticed that he was sweating. He was probably ru

Wallander showed him his police ID. The man let Wallander into the hall.

'If I'm not mistaken, it's Puccini,' Wallander said.

The man looked more closely at him.

'That's right,' he said. 'Tosca.'

'I'm actually here to talk about a different kind of music,' Wallander said. 'I'll keep this brief. I need to know who owns the disco next to you.'

'How on earth would I know that? I'm a genetic researcher. Not a disc jockey.'

'But you are neighbours, after all,' Wallander said.

'Why not ask your colleagues?' the man suggested. 'There are often fights outside. They would know.'

He's right, Wallander said.

The man pointed to a telephone on a table in the hall. Wallander had the number of the Lund police memorised. After being transferred several times he got the information that the disco was owned by a woman with the last name Boman. Wallander made a note of her address and telephone number.

'It's easy to find,' the officer he spoke to said. 'She lives in the building downtown that's across from the station.'

Wallander hung up.

'That is a very beautiful opera,' Wallander said. 'The music, I mean. I have unfortunately never seen it performed.'

'I never go to the opera,' the man said. 'The music is enough for me.'

Wallander thanked him and left. Then he drove around for a long time until he managed to find the station in Lund. The pedestrian streets and dead ends seemed i

'Why do the police in Ystad want to speak with me?' she asked. 'I have enough trouble with the cops in Lund.'

He could tell that she was not overly fond of the police. She had sat down in a chair and was wearing a very short skirt. Wallander searched around for a spot next to her face where he could direct his gaze.