Free The Pyramid by Henning Mankell Page B

sign on the roof. It was his private car.
    A crazy expedition in crazy weather, Wallander thought as he locked the front door. But rather this than pacing around the apartment waiting for Mona to call. And if she does it'll serve her right. That I don't answer.
    Lars Andersson immediately started to bring up old school memories.
Half of it Wallander no longer had any recollection of. He often thought Andersson tiring because he constantly returned to their school years, as if they represented the best time of his life so far. For
Wallander, school had been a grey drudge, where only geography and history enlivened him somewhat. But he still liked the man who sat behind the wheel. His parents had run a bakery out in Limhamn. For a while, the boys had been in frequent contact. And Lars Andersson was someone Wallander had always been able to count on. Someone who took their friendship seriously.
    They left Malmö behind and were soon in Arlöv.
    'Do you often get requests out here?' Wallander asked.
    'It happens. Mostly on the weekends. People who have been drinking in Malmö or Copenhagen and who are on their way home.'
    'Has anything bad ever happened to you?'
    Lars Andersson glanced over at him.
    'What do you mean?'
    'Muggings, threats. I don't know.'
    'Never. I've had a guy who tried to slip away without paying. But I caught up with him.'
    They were now in the centre of Arlöv. Lars Andersson drove straight to the address.
    'Here it is,' he said and pointed through the wet windscreen.
'Smedsgatan 9.'
    Wallander cranked down his window and squinted out into the rain.
Number 9 was the last of a row of six town houses. There was a light on in one window. Someone must be home.
    'Aren't you going to go in?' Lars Andersson asked with surprise.
    'It's a matter of surveillance,' Wallander answered vaguely. 'If you drive up a little I'll get out and take a look around.'
    'Do you want me to come along?'
    'That won't be necessary.'
    Wallander got out of the car and pulled up the hood of his raincoat.
    What do I do now? he wondered. Ring the doorbell and ask if it is possible that Mr Hålén was here last Wednesday between three in the afternoon and four in the morning? Is it a matter of adultery? What do I say if a man answers the door?
    Wallander felt silly. This is senseless and childish and a waste of time, he thought. The only thing that I have managed to prove is that
Smedsgatan 9 is actually an address in Arlöv.
    Nonetheless, he couldn't help crossing the street. There was a mailbox next to the gate. Wallander tried to read the name on it. He had cigarettes and a box of matches in his pocket. With some difficulty he was able to light one of the matches and read the name before his flame was extinguished by the rain.
    'Alexandra Batista,' he read. So Maria in the newsagent had been right, it was the first name that started with A. Hålén had called a woman named Alexandra. The question now was if she lived there alone or with family. He looked over the fence to see if there were any children's bicycles or other items that would indicate a family's presence.
But he saw nothing like that.
    He walked round the house. On the other side there was an undeveloped piece of property. Several old rusty drums had been placed behind a dilapidated fence. That was all. The house was dark from the back. Light was only coming from the kitchen window facing the street.
Despite a rising feeling of being involved in something absolutely unjustified and senseless, Wallander decided to complete his investigation.
    He stepped over the low fence and ran across the lawn to the house. If anyone sees me they will call the police, he thought. And I will get caught. And then the rest of my police career goes up in smoke.
    He decided to give up. He could find the telephone number for the
Batista family tomorrow. If it was a woman who answered he could ask a few questions. If it was a man he could hang up.
    The rain was letting up. Wallander dried off his