The Pyramid

THE DEATH OF THE PHOTOGRAPHER

Every year, in early spring, he had a recurring dream. That he could fly. The dream always unfolded in the same way. He was walking up a dimly lit staircase. Suddenly the ceiling opened and he discovered that the stairs led him to a treetop. The landscape spread out under his feet. He lifted up his arms and let himself fall. He ruled the world.

At that moment he always woke up. The dream always left him right there. Although he had had the same dream for many years, he had not yet experienced actually floating away from the top of the tree.

The dream kept coming back. And it always cheated him.

He was thinking of this as he walked through central Ystad. The dream had come to him one night a week ago. And as always, it left him right as he was going to fly away. Now it would probably not return for a long time.

It was an evening in the middle of April, 1988. The warmth of spring had not yet manifested itself with any seriousness. As he walked through the town he regretted not having put on a warmer sweater. He also still had a lingering cold. It was shortly after eight o'clock. The streets were empty of people. Somewhere in the distance he heard a car drive off with a screech. Then the engine noise died away. He always followed the same route. From Lavendelvägen, where he lived, he followed Tennisgatan. At Margareta Park he turned left and then followed Skottegatan down to the centre. Then he took another left, crossed Kristianstad Road, and soon arrived at St Gertrude's Square, where he had his photography studio. If he had been a young photographer who was just in the process of establishing himself in Ystad, it would not have been the optimal location. But he had run his studio for more than twenty-five years. He had a stable list of clients. They knew where to find him. They came to him to be photographed for their weddings. Then they liked to return with the first child. Or for different occasions that they knew they would want to remember. The first time he had taken the wedding pictures for a client's child, he realised he was getting old. He had not thought so much about it before but suddenly he had turned fifty. And that was now six years ago.

He stopped at a shop window and studied his face in the reflection. Life was what it was. He couldn't really complain. If he were allowed his health for ten or fifteen years more, then…

He abandoned his thoughts about the passage of time and walked on. There was a gusty wind and he pulled his coat more tightly around him. He was walking neither quickly nor slowly. There was no urgency. Two evenings a week he went down to his studio after dinner. These were the holy moments of his life. Two evenings when he could be completely alone with his own pictures in the room at the back of the studio.

He reached his destination. Before unlocking the door to the shop he studied the display window with a mixture of disapproval and irritation. He should have changed the display a long time ago. Even if he didn't attract new clients, he should be able to follow the rule he made more than twenty years ago. Once a month he changed the photographs on display. Now almost two months had gone by. When he had employed an assistant, he had had more time to devote to the shop window. But he had let the last one go almost four years ago. It had become too expensive. And it wasn't more work than he could manage on his own.

He unlocked the door and walked in. The shop lay in darkness. He had a cleaning woman who came in three days a week. She had her own key and usually came in at around five in the morning. Since it had rained earlier that morning, the floor was dirty. He didn't like dirt. Therefore he did not turn on the light and instead walked straight through his studio and into the innermost room, where he developed his pictures. He closed the door and turned on the light. Hung up his coat. Turned on the radio that he kept on a little shelf. He always kept it tuned to a station he could expect to play classical music. Then he filled the coffee-maker and washed out a cup. A feeling of well-being started to spread through his body. The innermost room behind his studio was his cathedral. His holy room. He didn't let anyone other than his cleaning woman in here. Here he found himself in the centre of the world. Here he was alone. An absolute ruler.

While he waited for the coffee to brew, he thought about what awaited him. He always decided in advance what work he would do on a given evening. He was a methodical man who never left anything to chance.

This evening, it was the Swedish prime minister's turn. Actually it had surprised him that he had not spent an evening on him yet. But at least he had been able to prepare. For more than a week he had scoured the daily papers for the picture he was going to use. He had found it in one of the evening papers and known at once that it was the right one. It filled all of his requirements. He had photographed a copy of it a few days ago. Now it was locked in one of his desk drawers. He poured out the coffee and hummed along with the music. A piano sonata by Beethoven was playing. He preferred Bach to Beethoven. And Mozart best of all. But the piano sonata was beautiful. He could not deny it.

He sat down at the desk, adjusted the lamp and unlocked the drawers on the left. The photograph of the prime minister was inside. He had enlarged the image, as he usually did, to a size somewhat larger than a standard sheet of paper. He laid it out on the table, sipped his coffee and studied the face. Where should he start, where should he begin the distortion? The man in the picture was smiling and looking to the left. There was a touch of anxiety or uncertainty in his gaze. He decided to begin with the eyes. They could be made to look cross-eyed. And smaller. If he angled the enlarger, the face would also become thinner. He could try to place the paper in an arc in the enlarger and see what effect that had. Then he could cut and paste and excise the mouth. Or perhaps sew it up. Politicians talked too much.

He finished his coffee. The clock on the wall showed a quarter to nine. Some noisy teenagers walked by on the street outside and disturbed the music for a moment.

He put the coffee cup away. Then he started the painstaking but enjoyable work of retouching. He could slowly see the face changing.

It took him more than two hours. You could still see that it was the prime minister's face. But what had happened to it? He got up out of his chair and hung the picture on the wall. Directed the light on it. The music on the radio was different now. Stravinsky's Rite of Spring. The dramatic music was fitting as he regarded his work. The face was no longer the same.

Now the most important part remained. The most enjoyable. Now he would reduce the picture. Make it small and insignificant. He put it on the glass plate and focused the light. Made it smaller and smaller. The details pulled together. But remained sharp. Only when the face started to blur did he stop.

He was done.

It was almost half past eleven when he had the finished product in front of him on the desk. The prime minister's distorted face was no bigger than a passport picture. Once again he had shrunk a power-hungry individual down to more suitable proportions. Of large men he made small men. In his world there was no one who was bigger than himself. He remade their faces, made them smaller, more ridiculous, into small and unimportant insects.

He took out the album he kept in his desk and flipped through it until he got to the first empty page. There he pasted in the picture he had just manipulated. He wrote in the day's date with a fountain pen.

He leaned back in his chair. Yet another picture had been produced. It had been a successful evening. The result had been good. And nothing had disturbed him. No restless thoughts had flown around in his head. It had been an evening in the cathedral when everything breathed peace and quiet.

He put the album back and locked the cabinet. Stravinsky's Rite of Spring had been followed by Handel. Sometimes he was irritated by the programme director's inability to make softer transitions.

At that moment he had the feeling that something wasn't right. He stood still and listened. Everything was quiet. He thought that he had imagined it. He turned off the coffee-maker and started turning off the lights. Then he stopped again. Something wasn't right. He heard a sound from the studio. Suddenly he was afraid. Had someone broken into the store? He walked carefully over to the door and listened. Everything was quiet. I'm imagining things, he thought with irritation. Who would break into a photographer's studio where there are not even any cameras for sale? At least cameras can be stolen.

He listened again. Nothing. He took his coat from the peg and put it on. The clock on the wall said nineteen minutes before midnight. Everything was normal. Now he was ready to lock up his cathedral and go home.

He looked around one more time before he turned off the last light. Then he opened the door. The studio lay in darkness. He turned on the light. It was as he had thought. There was no one there. He turned the light off again and walked out towards the shop.

Then everything happened very quickly.

Suddenly someone came at him from the shadows. Someone who had been hiding behind one of the backdrops he used for his studio portraits. He could not see who it was. Since the shadow was blocking the exit there was only one thing left for him to do. Flee into the back room and lock the door. He also had a phone in there. He could call for help.

He turned round. But he never made it to the door. The shadow was quicker. Something struck him in the back of the head, something that made the world explode in a white light, then become total darkness.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

The time was seventeen minutes to midnight.

The cleaning woman's name was Hilda Waldén. She arrived at Simon Lamberg's studio shortly after five o'clock, when she began her morning round. She leaned her bike next to the entrance and locked it carefully with a chain. It was drizzling and had grown colder, and she shivered as she searched for the right key. Spring was taking its time. She opened the door and stepped inside. The floor was dirty after the latest rain shower. She put her handbag on the counter next to the cash register and put her coat on the chair next to the little newspaper table.

There was a cupboard in the studio where she kept her cleaning coat as well as her equipment. Lamberg would have to buy her a new vacuum cleaner soon. This one was getting too weak.

She saw him as soon as she walked into the studio. She immediately understood that he was dead. The blood had run out around his body.

Then she ran out onto the street. A retired bank director who had been ordered to take regular walks by his doctor anxiously asked her what had happened, after he managed to calm her down somewhat.

She was shaking all over, and he ran to a telephone booth on the nearest street corner and dialled emergency.

It was twenty minutes past five.

A drizzling rain, with a gusty wind from the south-west.

It was Martinsson who called and woke up Wallander. It was three minutes past six. Wallander knew from long experience that when the phone rang this early something serious must have happened. Normally he was awake before six. But this morning he was sleeping and he woke up with a start when the telephone rang. The main reason he wasn't already awake was that he had bitten off part of his tooth the night before and had been in pain during the night. He had only fallen asleep around four after having been up several times to take pills for the pain. Before he picked up the receiver he noted that the pain was still there.

'Did I wake you?' Martinsson asked.

'Yes,' Wallander said and was surprised that he answered truthfully for once. 'You did, actually. What's happened?'

'The night shift called me at home. Sometime around half past five they received an unclear emergency call about a supposed murder by St Gertrude's Square. A patrol unit was dispatched.'

'And?'

'And it turned out to be correct, unfortunately.'

Wallander sat up in bed. The call must have come in half an hour ago.

'Have you been down there?'

'How would I have had time to do that? I was getting dressed when the phone rang. I thought it was best to call you myself immediately.'

Wallander nodded mutely on the other end.

'Do we know who it is?' he then asked.

'It seems to be the photographer whose studio is at the square. But right now I've forgotten the name.'

'Lamberg?' Wallander said, furrowing his brow.

'Yes, that was his name. Simon Lamberg. If I've understood correctly, it was the cleaning lady who discovered him.'

'Where?'

'What do you mean?'

'Was he found dead inside the shop or outside?'

'Inside.'

Wallander thought about this while he looked at his alarm clock next to the bed. Seven minutes past six.

'Should we say we'll meet in a quarter of an hour?' he then said.

'Yes,' Martinsson replied. 'The patrol unit down there said it was very unpleasant.'

'Murder scenes tend to be,' Wallander said. 'I think I have never in my life been at a crime scene that you would have been able to describe as pleasant.'

They ended the conversation.

Wallander remained sitting up in the bed. The news Martinsson had given him had disturbed him. If he was right, Wallander knew very well who had been murdered. Simon Lamberg had photographed Wallander on several occasions. Memories of various times he had visited the photo studio went through his head. When he and Mona had married at the end of May in 1970, it was Lamberg who had photographed them. That had not taken place in his studio, however, but down by the beach right next to the Saltsjöbadens Hotel. It was Mona who had insisted on this. Wallander remembered how he felt it was an unnecessary amount of trouble. That their wedding had even taken place in Ystad was due to the fact that Mona's old confirmation minister was now posted there. Wallander had thought they should get married in Malmö, in a civil service. But Mona had not agreed. That they should have to stand on a cold and blustery beach on top of all this trouble and let themselves be photographed had not amused him. For Wallander it was a wasted effort for a romantic product that was not particularly successful. Lamberg had also taken their daughter Linda's picture on more than one occasion.

Wallander got up out of bed, decided he would have to skip the shower and put on his clothes. Then he walked into the bathroom and opened his mouth wide. How many times he had done this during the night he couldn't say. Each time he opened his mouth he hoped the tooth would have become whole again.

The tooth he had bitten in half was on the left side of his lower jaw. When he pulled on the corner of his mouth with his finger he could clearly see that half of the tooth was gone. He gently brushed his teeth. When he reached the damaged tooth it hurt a great deal.

He left the bathroom and walked into the kitchen. Dishes were piled up. He glanced out through the kitchen window. The wind was blowing hard and it was drizzling outside. The street light was swaying in the wind. The thermometer showed four degrees above zero. He made an irritated face. Spring was delayed. Just as he was about to leave the apartment he changed his mind and walked back into the living room. Their wedding picture was in the bookcase.

Lamberg took no picture when we separated, Wallander thought. Nothing of that has been preserved, thankfully. In his thoughts he went back over what had happened. Suddenly one day about a month ago Mona had said she wanted them to separate for a while. She needed time to think about how she wanted things to be. Wallander had been caught off guard, even though deep down he had not been surprised. They had grown apart, had less and less to talk about, and less and less pleasure in their sex life, and in the end Linda had been the only unifying link.

Wallander had fought it. He had pleaded and threatened but Mona had been firm. She was going to move back to Malmö. Linda wanted to move with her. The bigger city lured her. And that was what had happened. Wallander still hoped they would one day be able to start over again together. But he did not know if this hope would be worth anything.

He shook off these thoughts, put the photograph back on the shelf, left the apartment and wondered what had happened. What kind of man was Lamberg? Even though he had been photographed by him four or five times, he had no real memory of him as a person. Right now this surprised him. Lamberg was essentially anonymous. Wallander even had trouble conjuring up his face.

It took him only a few minutes to drive to St Gertrude's Square. Two patrol cars were parked outside the studio. A group of onlookers had gathered outside. Several police officers were in the process of cordoning off the area around the entrance. Martinsson arrived at the same time. Wallander observed that he was unshaven for once.

They walked up to the restricted area. Nodded to the police officer from the night shift.

'It's not a pleasant sight,' he said. 'The body is sprawled out on the floor. There's a lot of blood.'

Wallander cut him short with a nod of his head.

'And is it certain that this is the photographer, Lamberg?'

'The cleaning lady was sure.'

'She's probably not doing so well right now,' Wallander said. 'Drive her up to the station. Give her some coffee. We'll be there as soon as we can.'

They walked up to the door, which was open.

'I called Nyberg,' Martinsson said. 'The technicians are on their way.'

They stepped into the shop and removed their shoes. Everything was very quiet. Wallander went in first, Martinsson right behind him. They walked past the counter and into the studio. Things looked terrible in there. The man lay face down on a large sheet of paper, the kind that photographers used as backdrops for taking their pictures. The paper was white. The blood formed a sharp contour around the dead man's head.

Wallander approached him with care. Then he bent down.

The cleaning lady had been right. It was indeed Simon Lamberg. Wallander recognised him. The face was twisted so that half was visible. The eyes were open.

Wallander tried to interpret the facial expression. Was there something more than pain and surprise? He did not discover anything else that he could determine with any certainty.

'There can hardly be any doubt about the cause of death,' he said and pointed.

There was blunt trauma to the back of the head. Martinsson crouched down next to the body.

'The whole back of the head has been crushed,' he said with evident discomfort.

Wallander glanced at him. On some other occasions when they had inspected a crime scene, Martinsson had become violently ill, but right now he appeared to have any nausea under control.

They stood up. Wallander looked around. He could not discover any disarray. No signs that the murder had been preceded by a struggle. He did not see anything that could be the murder weapon. He walked past the dead man and opened a door at the far end of the room. Turned on a light. Lamberg must have had his office in here and it was also here that he apparently developed his negatives. Nothing had been touched in this room either, it seemed. The drawers of the desk were closed, the cabinet locked.

'It doesn't look like burglary,' Martinsson said.

'We don't know that yet,' Wallander said. 'Was Lamberg married?'

'The cleaning lady appeared to think so. Said they lived on Lavendelvägen.'

Wallander knew where that was.

'Has the wife been informed?'

'I doubt it.'

'Then we'll have to start with that. Svedberg can do it.'

Martinsson looked at Wallander in amazement.

'Shouldn't you do it?'

'Svedberg will do as good a job as me. Call him. Tell him not to forget to take a minister.'

It was a quarter to seven. Martinsson walked out into the shop area and called. Wallander stayed in the studio and looked around. He tried to imagine what had happened. This was made more difficult by not having a time frame. He thought that he must first speak to the cleaning lady. Before then he would not be able to draw any conclusions whatsoever.

Martinsson came back into the room.

'Svedberg is on his way to the station,' he said.

'So are we,' Wallander said. 'I want to talk to the cleaning lady. Is there no time frame?'

'It's been difficult to talk to her. She's only now beginning to get herself under control.'

Nyberg appeared behind Martinsson's back. They nodded to each other. Nyberg was an experienced and skilled, if bad-tempered, forensic technician. On many occasions Wallander had had only him to thank for being able to solve a complicated crime.

Nyberg made a face when he spotted the body.

'The photographer himself,' he said.

'Simon Lamberg,' Wallander said.

'I had some passport pictures taken here a few years ago,' Nyberg said. 'I certainly didn't imagine that anyone would end up bashing the guy's head in.'

'He ran this place for many years,' Wallander said. 'He's not someone who has always been here, but it's something close to that.'

Nyberg had taken off his coat.

'What do we know?' he asked.

'His cleaning lady discovered the body sometime after five. That is actually all we know.'

'So we know nothing,' Nyberg said.

Martinsson and Wallander left the studio. Nyberg should be able to work in peace with his colleagues. Wallander knew the work would be done thoroughly.

They went up to the station. Wallander paused in reception and asked Ebba, who had just arrived, to call and make an appointment for him at the dentist's. He gave her the name.

'Are you in pain?' she asked.

'Yes,' Wallander said. 'I'm going to talk to the cleaning lady who discovered the photographer Lamberg's body. That may take an hour. After that I would like to get to the dentist as quickly as possible.'

'Lamberg?' Ebba repeated in shock. 'What happened?'

'He's been murdered.'

Ebba sank down her chair.

'I've been to him many times,' she said sadly. 'He's taken pictures of all my grandchildren. One after the other.'

Wallander nodded but did not say anything.

Then he walked along the corridor to his office.

Everyone seems to have been to Lamberg, he thought. All of us have stood in front of his camera. I wonder if everyone's impression of him is as vague as mine.

It was now five minutes past seven.

A few minutes later Hilda Waldén was shown in. She had very little to say. Wallander realised at once that it was not simply because she was distraught. The reason was that she did not know Lamberg at all, even though she had been cleaning his studio for more than ten years.

When she walked into Wallander's office, followed by Hansson, he had shaken her hand and kindly asked her to sit down. She was in her sixties and had a thin face. Wallander had the impression that she had worked hard all her life. Hansson left the room and Wallander pulled out a pad of paper from the stacks in his drawers. He started by expressing his condolences over what had happened. He could understand her being upset. But his questions could not wait. A terrible crime had been committed. Now they had to identify the perpetrator and the motive as quickly as possible.

'Let's take this from the beginning,' he said. 'You cleaned Simon Lamberg's studio?'

She answered in a very low voice. Wallander had to lean over the table to hear her reply.

'I have been cleaning there for twelve years and seven months. Three mornings a week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday.'

'When did you get to the shop this morning?'

'At my usual time. A little after five. I clean four shops in the mornings.

I usually take Lamberg's first.'

'I assume you have your own key?'

She looked surprised at him.

'How else would I be able to get in? Lamberg did not open until ten.'

Wallander nodded and continued.

'Did you walk in from the street?'

'There is no other entrance.'

Wallander made a note.

'And the door was locked?'

'Yes.'

'The lock had not been tampered with in any way?'

'Not that I noticed.'

'What happened after that?'

'I went in. Put down my handbag and took off my coat.'

'Did you notice anything that was not as it should be?'

He saw that she was really trying to think and remember.

'Everything was normal. It rained yesterday morning. The floor was unusually muddy. I went to get my buckets and rags.'

She stopped abruptly.

'Was that when you saw him?'

She nodded mutely. For a second Wallander was afraid she was going to cry. But she drew a deep breath and collected herself.

'What time was it when you discovered him?'

'Nine minutes past five.'

He looked surprised at her.

'How can you know that so precisely?'

'There was a wall clock in the studio. I looked at it immediately. Perhaps in order not to have to look at him lying there dead. Perhaps in order to fix the exact time of the worst moment in my entire life.'

Wallander nodded. He thought he understood.

'What did you do next?'

'I ran out into the street. I may have screamed, I don't know. But there was a man. He called the police from a telephone booth nearby.'

Wallander put down his pen for a moment. Now he had a list of Hilda Waldén's actions and times. He had no doubt about its veracity.

'Can you tell me why Lamberg was in the shop so early in the morning?'

Her answer came quickly and firmly. Wallander realised she must have been thinking about it before he asked.

'Sometimes he went down to the studio at night. He stayed until midnight. It must have happened before then.'

'How do you know he went down there at night? If you clean in the morning?'

'A few years ago I left my purse in the pocket of the cleaning coat. I went down there at night to get it. He was there then. He told me he usually came in two evenings a week.'

'To work?'

'I think he mostly sat in that back office and shuffled papers. The radio was on.'

Wallander nodded thoughtfully. She was probably right. The murder had not happened that morning but the evening before.

He looked at her.

'Do you have any idea who could have done this?'

'No.'

'Did he have any enemies?'

'I didn't know him. I don't know if he had any friends or enemies. I just cleaned there.'

Wallander held onto the thread.

'But you worked there for more than ten years. You must have learned about him? His habits. Or weaknesses.'

Her answer came just as firmly.

'I did not know him at all. He was extremely reserved.'

'You must be able to describe him in some way.'

His answer was unexpected.

'Can you describe a person who is so anonymous he blends into the wall?'

'No indeed,' Wallander said. 'I see your point.'

He pushed the notepad aside.

'Did you notice anything unusual recently?'

'I only met him once a month. When I picked up my pay cheque. But there was nothing unusual then.'

'When did you see him last?'

'Two weeks ago.'

'And he seemed the same as always?'

'Yes.'

'He wasn't anxious? Nervous?'

'No.'

'You didn't notice anything in the shop either? Something that had changed?'

'Nothing.'

She is an excellent witness, Wallander thought. Her answers are firm. She has good powers of observation. I have no need to doubt her memory.

He had nothing more to ask her. The conversation had taken less than twenty minutes. He called Hansson, who promised to make sure that Hilda Waldén was taken home.

When he was alone again he walked over to the window and stared out into the rain. He wondered absently when spring was going to come. And how it would feel to experience it without Mona. Then he noticed that his tooth had started to ache again. He checked the time. It was still too early. He did not think his dentist would be in his office yet. At the same time he wondered how things had gone for Svedberg. To convey the news of a death in the family was one of the most feared tasks. Especially when you had to report an unexpected and brutal killing. But he was sure Svedberg could manage it. He was a good officer. Perhaps without exceptional talent, but diligent and with a fastidiously organised desk. In some ways he was among the best officers Wallander had ever worked with. And Svedberg had always been extremely loyal to Wallander.

He left the window, went out to the break room, and got a cup of coffee. While he walked back down the corridor he tried to understand what could have happened.

Simon Lamberg was a photographer, approaching sixty. A man with regular habits whose way of conducting his business was beyond reproach, photographing confirmations, weddings and children of various ages. According to his cleaning lady he came into the studio two evenings a week. At these times he sat in his inner office and shuffled papers around, listened to music. If the cleaning lady's information was correct he usually left around midnight.

Wallander came back to his office. He took up his former position at the window with the cup of coffee in his hand and stared out into the rain.

Why did Lamberg spend those evenings sitting in the studio? Something about the situation stirred Wallander's curiosity.

He checked his watch. At that moment Ebba called. She had reached his dentist. Wallander could be seen at once.

He decided not to wait. If he was going to lead a murder investigation he couldn't walk around with a toothache. He went over to Martinsson's office.

'I broke a tooth yesterday,' he said. 'I'm going to the dentist. But I'm assuming I'll be back within the hour. Let's have a meeting then. Has Svedberg come back?'

'Not that I know.'

'Try Nyberg and see if he can make it in an hour or so. Then we'll be able to get his initial impression.'

Martinsson yawned and stretched.

'Who can possibly have had anything to gain by killing an old photographer?' he said. 'There doesn't appear to have been any burglary.'

'Old?' Wallander objected. 'He was fifty-six. But other than that I agree with you.'

'He was attacked inside the shop. How did the perpetrator enter?'

'Either with a key or else Lamberg let him in.'

'Lamberg was struck from behind.'

'Which can have many different explanations. And we have none of them.'

Wallander left the station and walked down to the dentist, who had his practice by the Main Square, right next to the electronics shop. As a child, Wallander had always been afraid of the dentist visits he had been dragged to. As an adult the fear had suddenly left him. Now he simply wanted to be free from the pain as quickly as possible. But he realised the broken tooth was a sign of ageing. He was only forty years old. But the deterioration had already started to set in.

Wallander was shown in at once and took his place in the dentist's chair. The dentist was young and worked quickly, with ease. He was done in about half an hour. The pain changed into a dull throbbing.

'It will soon be gone,' the dentist said. 'But you should come back here so that we can remove that tartar. I don't think you brush as well as you should.'

'Probably not,' Wallander said.

He made an appointment to come back in two weeks and returned to the station. At ten o'clock he gathered his colleagues in the conference room. Svedberg had returned, and Nyberg was also present. Wallander sat at his usual place at the head of the table. Then he looked around. He wondered briefly how many times he had sat here, gathering himself to launch into yet another criminal investigation. He had noticed that it took more effort over the years. But he also knew that there was nothing else to do but throw oneself into it. They had a brutal murder to solve. It could not wait.

'Does anyone know where Rydberg is?' he asked.

'Backache,' Martinsson replied.

'Too bad,' Wallander said. 'We could have used him here now.'

He turned to Nyberg, and nodded at him to start.

'It is of course too early to say,' Nyberg said, 'but there are no indications of burglary. No marks on any doors, nothing that appears to have been stolen, at least not at first glance. The whole thing is very strange.'

Wallander had not expected Nyberg to have made any decisive observations at this stage. But he had still wanted him to be present.

He turned to Svedberg.

'As expected, Elisabeth Lamberg got a terrible shock. Apparently they have separate bedrooms. She doesn't normally notice when he comes home if he's out at night. They had dinner at about half past six that night. Shortly before eight he left for the studio. She went to bed a little after eleven and fell asleep at once. She doesn't understand who could have murdered him. She dismissed the idea that he had any enemies.'

Wallander nodded.

'Then this is what we know,' he said. 'We have a dead photographer. But that is also all that we know.'

Everyone knew what this meant. Now the laborious investigations would proceed.

Where this would lead them they had no idea.

The case review that morning, the first in the hunt for the single or multiple perpetrators who for unknown reasons were responsible for the murder of the photographer Simon Lamberg, was of short duration. There were countless routine methods for proceeding that they always followed. They had to wait for the report from the medical examiner's office in Lund, as well as the results of the forensic investigation of the crime scene that Nyberg and his men were conducting. They would now make a study of Simon Lamberg and chart out the life that he had lived. They would also question neighbours and look for others who might have witnessed something. There was naturally also hope that even in these early stages information would come in that would make it possible to clear up the murder in the course of a few days. But Wallander already had an instinctive feeling that they stood on the brink of a complicated case. They had very little – or rather, nothing – to go on.

He noticed as he sat in the conference room that he was anxious. The ache in his tooth was now gone. But instead he had this new worry in his stomach.

Björk came into the room and sat down to listen to Wallander's attempt to make a preliminary review of the events and timeline. No one had any questions when it was over. They assigned the most import ant tasks and then broke up the meeting. Wallander would speak with Lamberg's widow later in the day. First he wanted to do a more thorough inspection of the crime scene. Nyberg said he could let Wallander into the studio and the inner room in a couple of hours.

Björk and Wallander lingered in the conference room after the others had filed out.

'You don't believe this was a burglar who was caught red-handed and got out of control?' Björk asked.

'No,' Wallander answered. 'But I could very well be wrong. We cannot rule out any possibilities. But I wonder what a burglar thought he would be able to get in Lamberg's studio.'

'Cameras?'

'He didn't sell any photographic equipment. He only took pictures. The only items he had for sale were frames and albums. I think a burglar hardly makes an effort for that.'

'What does that leave? A private motive?'

'I don't know. But according to Svedberg, the widow, Elisabeth Lamberg, was apparently adamant that he had no enemies.'

'But there is also no indication that it was a crazed madman?'

Wallander shook his head.

'There are no indications of anything,' he said, 'but we can make three reflections even at this stage. How did the perpetrator enter the studio? There are no marks on the door or windows. Lamberg had most likely not left the door unlocked. According to Elisabeth Lamberg he was always careful about locking.'

'That leaves two possibilities. Either he had a key. Or else Simon Lamberg let him in.'

Wallander nodded. Björk had understood. He went on.

'The second observation is that the blow that killed Lamberg was delivered with violent force to the back of the head. That can be a sign of determination. Or rage. Or both. And a great capacity for strength. At the moment of his death, Simon Lamberg had turned his back on the killer. Which in turn could mean two things. That he had not expected anything bad. Or he had tried to flee.'

'If he had let in the person who killed him, that would explain why he turned his back.'

'We can probably take yet another step,' Wallander said. 'Would he have let someone in that late at night who he didn't have a good relationship with?'

'Anything else?'

'According to the cleaning lady, Lamberg was in the habit of going to his studio two evenings a week. The days could vary. But there is a possibility that the perpetrator was aware of this. It is conceivable that we are looking for someone who knew Lamberg's habits, at least in part.'

They left the conference room and ended up standing in the hallway.

'That means that there are at least some possible avenues for investigation,' Björk said. 'It's not a complete void.'

Wallander made a face.

'Almost,' he said. 'It's as close to a void as it can be. We could have used Rydberg.'

'I'm worried about his back problems,' Björk said. 'Sometimes I have the feeling it's something else.'

Wallander stared at him with surprise.

'What would that be?'

'He may have another illness. Back pain doesn't have to come from just muscles or bone.'

Wallander knew that Björk had a brother-in-law who was a doctor. And since Björk from time to time considered himself to be suffering from any number of severe illnesses, Wallander assumed he was now transferring his concerns onto Rydberg.

'Rydberg always gets better after a week or so,' Wallander said.

They parted ways. Wallander returned to his room. Since the news of the murder had now spread, Ebba was able to give him the message that several reporters had called and asked when they would be able to get information. Without consulting anyone, Wallander announced that he would be available to answer questions at three o'clock.

Afterwards he devoted an hour to writing a summary of the case for himself. He had just finished when Nyberg called to say that Wallander could now start investigating the back room. Nyberg had still not made any noteworthy discoveries. Nor could the medical examiner state anything other than that Lamberg had been killed by a violent blow to the back of the head. Wallander asked if they could say something about the kind of weapon that had been used at this stage. But it was too early for an answer. Wallander ended the conversation and his thoughts returned to Rydberg. His teacher and mentor, the most skilled detective he had ever met. He had taught Wallander how impor t ant it was to turn and twist one's arguments and approach a problem from an unexpected angle.

I could have used him right now, Wallander thought. Maybe I should call him at home tonight.

He walked to the break room and drank yet another cup of coffee. Carefully munched on a rusk. The pain in his tooth did not return.

Since he felt tired from his interrupted sleep the night before, he took a walk down to St Gertrude's Square. The drizzling rain continued. He wondered when spring was coming. Our collective Swedish impatience in April is very high, he thought. Spring never seems to come at the right time. Winter always comes too early and spring too late.

Several people were gathered outside Lamberg's shop. Wallander knew some of them or at least had seen their faces before. He nodded and said hello. But he did not answer any questions. He stepped over the police tape and walked into the shop. Nyberg was standing with a Thermos mug in his hand, arguing with one of his technicians. He did not stop when Wallander walked in. Only when he had finished saying his piece did he turn to Wallander. He pointed towards the studio. The body had been removed. There was only the large bloodstain on the white background paper. An artificial trail of plastic had been laid out.

'Walk there,' Nyberg instructed. 'We found a lot of footprints in the studio.'

Wallander pulled plastic booties over his shoes, slipped some rubber gloves into his pocket, and carefully walked into the room that had served as a combination office and developing room.

Wallander remembered how he, when he was very young, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, had nourished a passionate dream of becoming a photographer. But he did not aspire to have his own studio; he was going to be a press photographer. At all great events he would be there on the front lines and he would take his pictures while others took pictures of him.

As he stepped into the inner room he wondered where that dream had gone. It had suddenly just left him. Today he owned a simple Instamatic that he rarely used. Several years later he wanted to become an opera singer. Nothing had come of that either.

He removed his coat and looked around the room. From the studio he could hear that Nyberg had started arguing again. Wallander heard vaguely that it was about a sloppy measurement of the distance between two footprints. He walked over to the radio and turned it on. Classical music. Lamberg walked down to the studio sometimes in the evenings, Hilda Waldén had said. To work and to listen to music. Classical music. So far so good. He sat down at the desk. Everything was carefully arranged. He lifted the green writing pad. Nothing. Then he stood up and walked out to see Nyberg and ask if they had found any keys. They had. Wallander put on his rubber gloves and walked back. He searched for the right key to open the desk cabinet. In the top drawer there were various tax documents and other correspondence with Lamberg's accountant. Wallander gingerly leafed through the papers. He was not looking for anything in particular. Therefore anything could turn out to be important.

He went drawer by drawer methodically. Nothing caught his eye. So far Simon Lamberg's life was a well-organised one, without secrets, without surprises. But he was still only scraping the surface. He bent down and and pulled out the lowest drawer. There was just a photo album inside. The cover and binding were made of a luxurious leather. Wallander put it on the desk in front of him and turned to the front page. He studied the single snapshot with a furrowed brow. It was no larger than a passport photograph. Wallander had noticed a magnifying glass in one of the other drawers he had searched. Now he located it again, turned on one of the two desk lamps, and studied the image more closely.

It was a picture of the American president, Ronald Reagan. But it was deformed, the face had been distorted. It was still Ronald Reagan. And yet not. The wrinkled old man had been turned into a horrifying monster. Right next to the picture there was a date written in ink: 10 August 1984.

Wallander turned the page hesitantly. The same thing. A single snapshot glued onto the middle of the page. This time it featured one of Sweden's former prime ministers. The same deformed, misshapen face. A date written in ink.

Without studying each picture in detail, Wallander slowly made his way through the album. On every page a single shot. Misshapen, deformed. Men – they were exclusively men – remade into revolting monsters. Swedish as well as foreign. Mainly politicians but also some businessmen, an author and a few others that Wallander did not recognise.

He tried to understand what the images communicated. Why did Simon Lamberg have this uncommon photo album? Why had he distorted the pictures? Was it in order to work on this album that he had spent his evenings at the studio alone? Wallander had increased his concentration. Behind Simon Lamberg's well-ordered facade there was obviously something else. At least a man who deliberately destroyed the faces of well-known people.

He turned another page. Winced. An acute discomfort radiated through his body.

He had difficulty believing it was true.

At that moment Svedberg came into the room.

'Look at this,' Wallander said slowly.

Then he pointed at the picture. Svedberg bent over his shoulder.

'That's you,' he said with amazement.

'Yes,' Wallander answered. 'It's me. Or at least maybe.'

He looked at it again. It was a photograph from a newspaper. It was him, and yet it wasn't. He looked like an unusually abominable individual.

Wallander could not think of a time when he had been so shaken. The distorted and grotesque depiction of his face nauseated him. He had certainly been the object of verbal assaults from criminals he had arrested, but the thought that someone had spent hours producing this hate-picture of him was frightening. Svedberg registered his reaction and went to get Nyberg. Together they went through the album. The last picture was from the day before, when the Swedish prime minister had had his face destroyed. The date was written in next to it.

'The person who did this has to be sick,' Nyberg said.

'There's no doubt that it is Simon Lamberg who has spent his evenings on these photographs,' Wallander said. 'What I am naturally wondering is why I've been included in this macabre collection. The only person from Ystad, no less. Among men of state and presidents. I won't deny that I find it very disturbing.'

'And what is the purpose?' Svedberg asked.

No one had any reasonable answer to offer.

Wallander felt he had to leave the studio. He asked Svedberg to take over an examination of the room. For his part, he would soon have to give the press the information they were waiting for. By the time he was back out on the street, his nausea was clearing up. He stepped over the police tape and went straight to the police station. It was still drizzling. Even though the nausea had passed, he felt ill at ease.

Simon Lamberg spends his evenings in his studio, listening to music. At the same time he distorts the faces of various prominent heads of state. And a detective inspector from Ystad. Wallander tried furiously to find an explanation, without success. That a man could lead a double life, concealing insanity under a surface appearance of complete normality, was nothing unique. You could find many examples of this in the annals of criminal history. But why was Wallander himself in the album? What did he have in common with the other individuals represented there? Why was he the exception?

He walked straight into his office and closed the door. When he sat down in his chair, he realised that he was concerned. Simon Lamberg was dead. Someone had crushed the back of his head with violent force. They did not know why. And in his desk they had found a secret photo album with grotesque contents.

He was wrenched out of his thoughts by a knock on the door. It was Hansson.

'Lamberg is dead,' he said, as if delivering a piece of news. 'He took pictures of me when I was confirmed, many years ago.'

'You've been confirmed?' Wallander asked, surprised. 'I thought you would be the person least likely to care about the higher powers.'

'And I don't,' he answered happily, while carefully picking at his ear. 'But I very much wanted to get a watch and my first real suit.'

He pointed over his shoulder back out into the corridor.

'Reporters,' he said. 'I thought I'd better tag along and listen and learn what's happened.'

'I can tell you that now,' Wallander said. 'Someone bashed in the back of Lamberg's head last night, between eight and midnight. It doesn't seem to be a case of burglary. That's about all we know.'

'Not much,' Hansson said.

'No,' Wallander answered, and stood up. 'It could hardly be any less.'

The meeting with the press was largely improvised, and short. Wallander gave a sketch of what was known and brief answers to individual questions. The whole thing was over in half an hour. The time had become half past three. Wallander noticed that he was hungry. But the picture in Simon Lamberg's album remained on his mind the whole time, worrying him. The question gnawed at him: why had he been chosen to have his face shrunken and deformed? He sensed that this was the work of an insane person. But still, why him?

At a quarter to four he decided that it was time to go to Lavendelvägen, where the Lambergs lived. When he left the station, the rain had stopped. The wind, however, had picked up. He wondered if he should try to get hold of Svedberg and bring him along. But he let this stay as a thought. What he most of all wanted was to meet with Elisabeth Lamberg alone. There was a great deal that he wanted to talk to her about. But one of the questions was more important than the others.

He found his way up to Lavendelvägen and got out of the car. The house lay within a garden that he could see was well tended, despite the empty flower beds. He rang the doorbell. It was opened almost immediately by a woman in her fifties. Wallander stretched out his hand and said hello. The woman seemed guarded.

'I'm not Elisabeth Lamberg,' she said. 'I'm a friend. My name is Karin Fahlman.'

She let him into the hall.

'Elisabeth is resting in the bedroom,' she said. 'I take it this conversation can't wait?'

'No, unfortunately. When it comes to apprehending whoever committed this crime, it's important not to lose any time.'

Karin Fahlman nodded and showed him into the living room. Then she left without a sound.

Wallander looked around the room. The first thing that struck him was how quiet it was. No clocks. No sounds from the street penetrated inside. Through a window he saw some children playing, but he could not hear them even though it was obvious they were shouting and screaming. He walked over and inspected the window. It was doubleglazed and appeared to be a particular model that was extremely soundproof.

He walked around the room. It was tastefully furnished, neither tacky nor overdone. A mixture of old and new. Copies of old woodcuts.

A whole wall covered with books.

He did not hear her enter the room. But suddenly she was there, right behind him. He gave an involuntary start. She was very pale, almost as if her face bore a thin layer of white make-up. She had dark and straight short hair. Wallander thought she had probably been very beautiful at one time.

'I'm sorry to have to disturb you,' he said and stretched out his hand.

'I know who you are,' she said. 'And I do understand that you have to come here.'

'I can start by expressing my condolences.'

'Thank you.'

Wallander could see that she was doing her utmost to remain collected. He wondered how long she would be able to do this before she lost control.

They sat down. Wallander caught sight of Karin Fahlman in a nearby room. He assumed she was sitting there in order to listen to their conversation. For a moment he thought about how to begin. But he was interrupted in his thinking by Elisabeth Lamberg posing the first question.

'Do you know anything about who killed my husband?'

'We have no direct leads to follow. But there isn't much to support it being a burglary. This means either your husband must have let the person in or the person had keys.'

She shook her head energetically, as if she violently opposed what Wallander had just said.

'Simon was always very careful. He would not have let in an unknown person, least of all at night.'

'But for someone he knew?'

'Who would that have been?'

'I don't know. Everyone has friends.'

'Simon went to Lund once a month. There was an association for amateur astronomers there. He was on the board. That was the only social outlet he had, as far as I know.'

Wallander realised that Svedberg had missed a very important question.

'Do you have any children?'

'A daughter. Matilda.'

Something in the way she answered put Wallander on his guard. The faint change in tone had not escaped him. As if the question bothered her. He went on hesitantly.

'How old is she?'

'Twenty-four.'

'She no longer lives at home?'

Elisabeth Lamberg looked him straight in the eye as she answered.

'When Matilda was born she was seriously handicapped. We had her home for four years. Then it didn't work any more. Now she lives in an institution. She needs help with absolutely everything.'

Wallander was taken aback. Exactly what he had been expecting, he couldn't say, but it was hardly the answer he had received.

She continued to look him right in the eye.

'It was not my decision. It was Simon who wanted it. Not me. He made the decision.'

For one moment Wallander felt as if he were staring straight down into a bottomless pit. Her pain was that strong.

Wallander sat quietly for a long time before he went on.

'Can you think of anyone who would have had any reason to kill your husband?'

Her answers continued to astonish him.

'After that happened, I didn't know him any more.'

'Even though it was twenty years ago?'

'Some things never heal.'

'But you were still married?'

'We lived under the same roof. That was all.'

Wallander thought about it before continuing.

'So you have no idea who the murderer could be?'

'No.'

'Nor can you think of a motive?'

'No.'

Wallander now tackled the most important question head-on.

'When I arrived you said you knew me. Can you remember if your husband ever talked about me?'

She raised her eyebrows.

'Why would he have done that?'

'I don't know. But that's the question.'

'We never talked much to each other. But I cannot think of an occasion when we talked about you.'

Wallander proceeded to his next point.

'We found an album in the studio. There were a great number of photographs of heads of state and other well-known people in it. For some reason my picture appeared among them. Do you know of this album?'

'No.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'The photographs were distorted. All of these people, including me, were made to look like monsters. Your husband must have spent many hours achieving these effects. But you claim to know nothing about this?'

'No. It sounds very strange. Incredible.'

Wallander saw that she was telling the truth. She really did not know much about her husband, since for twenty years she had not wished to know anything.

Wallander got up out of his chair. He knew he would be back with more questions. But right now he had nothing more to say.

She followed him to the front door.

'My husband probably had many secrets,' she said out of the blue. 'But I didn't share them.'

'If you didn't, then who would have?'

'I don't know,' she said, almost pleading. 'But someone must have.'

'What kind of secrets?'

'I've already said that I don't know. But Simon was full of secret rooms. I neither wanted nor was able to look into them.'

Wallander nodded.

He ended up sitting in the car. It had started raining again.

What had she meant by that? Simon was a man 'full of secret rooms'. As if the inner office in the shop was only one? As if there were more? That they had not yet found?

He drove slowly back to the station. The anxiety that he had felt earlier became stronger.

The rest of the afternoon and evening they continued to spend working on what little material they had. Wallander went home at around ten o'clock. The squad would be meeting up the following morning at eight.

Back in his apartment, he heated up a can of beans, which was the only thing he could find in the way of food. He fell asleep a little after eleven.

The telephone call came at four minutes to midnight. Wallander lifted the receiver while still half asleep. It was a man who claimed to be out for a late-night walk. He introduced himself as the man who had taken care of Hilda Waldén that morning.

'I just saw someone slip into Lamberg's studio,' he whispered.

Wallander sat up in bed.

'Are you sure of that? And it was not a police officer?'

'A shadow slipped in through the door,' he said. 'My heart is bad. But there is nothing wrong with my eyes.'

The connection broke off, most likely due to a problem with the line. Wallander sat with the receiver in his hand. It was unusual for him to be called by someone other than the police, especially at night. His name was of course not printed in the telephone directory. But someone must have given the man Wallander's number during the morning chaos.

Then he got out of bed and quickly put on his clothes.

It was just past midnight.

Wallander arrived at the square where the studio was located a few minutes later. He had walked, or half run, since it was only a short distance from Mariagatan, where he lived. Nonetheless he was out of breath. When he arrived, he spotted a man standing a little way off in the distance. He hurried over to him, greeted him and took him to a place where they still had a view of the entrance but would not be as visible. The man was in his seventies and introduced himself as Lars Backman. He was a retired director of Handels Bank. He still referred to it by its former name, Svenska Handelsbanken.

'I live right next to here, on Ågatan,' he said. 'I am always out walking early in the morning and late at night. Doctor's orders.'

'Tell me what happened.'

'I saw a man slip in through the door to the studio.'

'A man? On the phone you called him a shadow.'

'I suppose I automatically thought it was a man. But of course it could have been a woman.'

'And you haven't seen anyone leave the shop?'

'I've been keeping my eye on it. No one has left.'

Wallander nodded. He ran over to the telephone booth and called Nyberg, who answered after the third ring. Wallander had the feeling that he had been asleep. But he didn't ask, he simply explained quickly what had happened. He extracted the most important piece of information, which was that Nyberg had keys to the shop. In addition, he had not left them at the police station but had them with him at home. He had been planning to return to the studio early the next morning in order to wrap up the forensic investigation. Wallander asked him to come as quickly as possible, then ended the call. Deliberated over whether he should contact Hansson or any of the others. All too often Wallander violated the rule that a detective who finds himself in a situa tion beyond his immediate control should never be alone. But Wallander hesitated. Nyberg counted as backup. Once he arrived they would decide how to proceed. Lars Backman was still there. Wallander asked him kindly to leave the square. Another officer was on his way and they needed to be left alone. Backman did not appear to be displeased at this dismissal. He simply nodded and left.

Wallander started to feel cold. He was only wearing a shirt under his coat. The wind had intensified. The cloud cover was breaking up. It was probably only a couple of degrees above freezing. He watched the entrance to the shop. Could Backman have been mistaken? He didn't think so. He tried to figure out if there was a light on inside. But it was impossible to tell. A car went by, then another. Then he spotted Nyberg on the other side of the square and went to meet him. They leaned against the side of a house in order to escape the wind. Wallander kept an eye on the shop entrance the entire time. He quickly told Nyberg what had happened. Nyberg stared back at him in amazement.

'Did you think we were going to go in alone?'

'First I just wanted you to come down here, since you have the keys. And apparently there's no back door.'

'No.'

'So the only way to get in or out is through this door to the street?'

'Yes.'

'Then we'll alert one of the night patrol squads,' Wallander said. 'Then we'll open the door and order him to come out.'

Wallander went and called the station, while maintaining continuous surveillance of the door. He was assured that a night squad would arrive in a couple of minutes. They walked over to the shop. It was now twentyfive minutes to one. The streets were deserted.

Then the door to the studio was opened. A man came out. His face was concealed by the shadows. The three of them caught sight of each other at the same time and came to a halt. Wallander was just about to call out to the man to stay where he was when the man turned round and started to run down North Änggatan at breakneck speed. Wallander shouted to Nyberg to wait for the night squad. Then he followed the suspect, who was moving very quickly. Wallander was unable to gain on him, even though he was running as fast as he could.

The man turned right on Vassgatan and continued on towards Folk Park. Wallander wondered why the night squad hadn't shown up. There was now a great chance that he would lose sight of the fleeing suspect.

The man turned right again and disappeared up Aulingatan. Wallander tripped on some loose flagstones on the pavement and fell. He hit one knee hard on the ground and ripped a hole in his trousers. There was a shooting pain in his knee as he continued running. The distance between himself and the man kept growing. Where were Nyberg and the night squad? He cursed silently. His heart was thumping like a hammer in his chest. The man reached Giödde's Alley and turned out of sight. When Wallander reached the corner he thought he should probably stop and wait for Nyberg. But he kept going. The man was waiting round the corner. A violent blow struck Wallander right in the face. Everything grew dark.

When Wallander came to he did not know where he was. He stared straight up at the stars. The ground underneath him was cold. When he reached out around him, his hands groped asphalt. Then he remembered what had happened. He sat up. His left cheek was aching where he had been struck. With his tongue he could feel that a tooth had been broken. The same tooth he had just had fixed. He got to his feet with some effort. His knee was sore, his head throbbed. Then he looked around. As he expected, the suspect was nowhere to be seen. He limped over to Aulingatan, back towards Surbrunn Road. Everything had happened so fast that he had not had time to register what the man's face looked like. He had turned that corner and then the world had exploded.

The patrol car came from Ågatan. Wallander walked out into the middle of the street in order to be seen. Wallander knew the officer who was driving. His name was Peters and he had been in Ystad as long as Wallander himself. Nyberg jumped out of the car.

'What happened?'

'He ran down Giödde's Alley and knocked me down. I don't think we'll find him. But we could always try.'

'You're going to the hospital,' Nyberg said. 'First things first.'

Wallander felt his cheek. His hand grew wet with blood. He was suddenly overcome with dizziness. Nyberg took his arm and helped him into the car.

Wallander was allowed to leave the hospital at four in the morning. By then Svedberg and Hansson had arrived. Various night squads had criss-crossed the city in the hunt for the man who had knocked him down. But since there was only a vague description, a mid-length coat that could have been black or navy blue, the effort had predictably been in vain. Wallander was patched up. The broken tooth would have to be attended to later in the day. Wallander's cheek had swollen up. The blood had come from a wound near his hairline.

When they left the hospital, Wallander insisted on going directly to the studio. Both Hansson and Svedberg protested and said he needed to rest first. But Wallander ignored their objections. Nyberg was already on the scene when they arrived. They turned on all of the available lights and gathered in the studio.

'I haven't been able to identify anything as missing or altered,' Nyberg said.

Wallander knew that Nyberg had a tremendous memory for details. But he realised at the same time that the man could have been searching for something that might not have been particularly noticeable. Above all, they had no way of knowing why the man had sought out the studio in the middle of the night.

'What about fingerprints?' Wallander asked. 'Footprints?'

Nyberg pointed to the floor where several areas had been taped and marked as restricted.

'I have checked the door handles. But I suspect the man was wearing gloves.'

'And the front door?'

'No marks. We can safely assume he had access to keys. I was the one who locked up last night.'

Wallander looked at his colleagues.

'Shouldn't there have been surveillance posted here?'

'It was my call,' Hansson said. 'I didn't see any reason for it, particularly given our current staffing issues.'

Wallander knew that Hansson was right. He wouldn't have ordered surveillance either if he had been in charge.

'We can only speculate as to who the man was,' he went on. 'And what he was after in here. Even if there was no visible police presence, he must have realised that it was possible we were keeping the place under surveillance. But I want someone to talk to Lars Backman, who not only called me at midnight but also took care of Hilda Waldén yesterday morning. He seems like a good resource. He may have noticed something that he didn't think of at once.'

'It's four o'clock in the morning,' Svedberg pointed out. 'Do you want me to call him right now?'

'He is probably awake,' Wallander said. 'Yesterday morning he was out already at five a.m. He is both an early riser and a night owl.'

Svedberg nodded and left. There was no reason for Wallander to keep the others.

'We'll have to review the case thoroughly tomorrow,' he said when Svedberg had walked out the front door. 'The best thing you can do is get a few hours of sleep. For my part, I'm going to stay here for a while.'

'Do you think that's wise?' Hansson asked. 'After what you've been through?'

'I don't know if it's wise or not. But that's what I'm doing.'

Nyberg handed him the keys. When Hansson and Nyberg had left, Wallander locked the door. Even though he was exhausted and his cheek ached, his attention was sharp. He listened to the silence. Nothing appeared changed. He went into the inner room, did the same thing, scrutinising it. Nothing jumped out at him. But the man had come here for a reason. And he had been in a hurry. He could not wait. There could only be one explanation. There was something in the studio that he needed to get. Wallander sat down at the desk. There were no marks on the lock. He opened the cabinet, pulled out drawer after drawer. The album was the same as when he had last seen it. Nothing appeared to be missing. Wallander tried to calculate how long the man had been in the shop. The telephone call from Backman had come at four minutes to midnight. Wallander had arrived here at ten past twelve. His conversation with Backman and his call to Nyberg had not been longer than a couple of minutes apiece. At that point it was a quarter past twelve. Nyberg arrived at half past twelve. The unknown man was in the studio for forty minutes. When he left, he had been taken by surprise. That meant he had not been fleeing. He had left the studio because he was done.

Done with what?

Wallander looked around the room again, this time even more methodically. Somewhere something must have changed. He simply wasn't seeing it. Something was gone. Or added, returned? He walked out into the studio and repeated his initial examination, finally even in the shop portion.

Nothing. He returned to the inner room again. Something told him that was where he should search. In Simon Lamberg's secret room. He sat in the chair, allowing his gaze to wander around the walls, over the desk and bookcases. Then he stood up and walked over to the developing equipment. Turned on the red light. Everything was as he remembered. The faint smell of chemicals. The empty plastic tubs, the enlarger.

He walked back to the desk, pensive. Remained standing. Where the impulse came from he wasn't sure. But he walked over to the shelf where the radio was and turned it on.

The music was deafening.

He stared at the radio. The volume was at the same level as before.

But the music was not classical. It was loud rock music.

Wallander was convinced that neither Nyberg nor any of the other technicians would have switched the radio station. They did not alter anything unless it was absolutely necessary for their work.

Wallander took a handkerchief out of his pocket and turned off the radio. There was only one possibility.

The unknown man had turned the dial to a different frequency.

He had changed stations.

The question was simply: why?

The squad was finally able to start the meeting at ten o'clock in the morning. The delay was due to the fact that Wallander had not been able to get back from the dentist's before then. Now he was hurrying back for the meeting, his tooth provisionally repaired, with a swollen cheek and a large bandage at his hairline. He was seriously beginning to feel the effects of his lack of sleep. But more serious was the anxiety gnawing at him.

It had now been one day since Hilda Waldén had discovered the dead photographer. Wallander began the meeting by summing up the state of their investigation. He then told them in detail what had happened during the night.

'The changed radio station is strange,' Svedberg said. 'Can there have been anything inside the radio itself?'

'We've examined it,' Nyberg answered. 'In order to remove the cover you have to loosen eight screws. This has not been done. The radio has never been opened since it was assembled at the factory. The finish still covers the screw heads.'

'There is a lot that's strange,' Wallander said. 'Something we shouldn't forget is the album with the distorted images. His widow tells us that Simon Lamberg was a man who had many secrets. Right now we should be concentrating on creating a better picture of who he really was. Clearly, the surface does not match up with what was underneath. The polite, quiet and fastidious photographer must in reality have been someone quite different.'

'The question is just who would know more about him,' Martinsson said. 'If, as seems to be the case, he doesn't have any friends. No one seems to have known him.'

'We have the amateur astronomers in Lund,' Wallander said. 'We have to get in touch with them, of course. Former assistants who worked for him. You can't live your whole life in a town like Ystad without anybody knowing you. And we've barely begun our conversations with Elisabeth Lamberg. In other words, we have a lot to dig into. Everything has to be pursued simultaneously.'

'I spoke to Backman,' Svedberg said. 'You were right about him being up. When I arrived at his apartment his wife was also up and dressed. It felt like the middle of the day, even though it was only four in the morning. Unfortunately he could not give any kind of description of the man who knocked you down. Nothing apart from the man's coat being mid-length and most likely navy blue.'

'Couldn't he even say anything about the man's height? Was he short or tall? What colour was his hair?'

'It all happened very fast. Backman only wanted to say what he felt sure about.'

'We know at least one thing about the man who attacked me,' Wallander said. 'That he ran much faster than I did. My impression was that he was of average height and fairly strong. He was also in much better shape than I am. My sense – even if it's somewhat vague – is that he may have been around my age. But this is really just a guess.'

They were still waiting for the first preliminary report from the medical examiner in Lund. Nyberg and the forensic laboratory in Linköping were in contact. Many fingerprints needed to be run through the various databases.

They all had a lot to do. Wallander therefore wanted to draw the meeting to a close as quickly as possible. It was eleven when they stood up. Wallander hadn't done more than walk into his office when the phone rang. It was Ebba from reception.

'You have a visitor,' she said. 'A man named Gunnar Larsson. He wants to talk to you about Lamberg.'

Wallander had just decided to make another trip out to see Elisabeth Lamberg.

'Can't anyone else deal with him?'

'He wanted to speak to you specifically.'

'Who is he?'

'He used to work for Lamberg.'

Wallander immediately changed his mind. The conversation with the widow would have to wait.

'I'll come out and get him,' Wallander said and got to his feet.

Gunnar Larsson was in his thirties. They went back to Wallander's office. Larsson declined the offer of a cup of coffee.

'I'm glad that you thought of coming in yourself,' Wallander began. 'Your name would have come up sooner or later. But this saves us some time.'

Wallander had flipped open one of his notebooks.

'I worked for Lamberg for six years,' Gunnar Larsson said. 'He let me go about four years ago. I don't think he's employed anyone else since then.'

'Why did he let you go?'

'He claimed that he could no longer afford to keep someone on. I think that was the truth. I think I had actually been expecting it. Lamberg didn't have more business than he could handle on his own. Since he didn't sell cameras or accessories, his profits were not great. And when times are bad people don't go and get their picture taken as often.'

'But you worked there for six years. That means you must have got to know him pretty well?'

'Both yes and no.'

'Let's start with the former.'

'He was always polite and friendly. To everyone: me and the customers alike. He had boundless patience with children. And he was very orderly.'

Wallander was suddenly struck by a thought.

'Would you say that Simon Lamberg was a good photographer?'

'There wasn't anything original about him. The pictures he took were conventional, since that's what people want. Photos that look like any other. And he was good at that. He never cut corners. He wasn't original, since he didn't have to be. I doubt that he cherished any artistic ambitions. At least I never saw any hint of it.'

Wallander nodded.

'I get the impression of a kindly but relatively colourless person. Is that right?'

'Yes.'

'Let us then proceed to why you feel you didn't know him.'

'He was probably the most reserved person I've ever known in my life.'

'In what way?'

'He never talked about himself. Or his feelings. I cannot recall a single instance where he described his own experience of anything. But in the beginning I tried to have regular conversations with him.'

'About what?'

'About anything. But I soon stopped.'

'Didn't he ever comment on current events?'

'I think he was very conservative.'

'Why do you think that?'

Gunnar Larsson shrugged.

'I just do. But on the other hand I doubt that he ever read the papers.'

I think you're wrong there, Wallander thought. He did read newspapers. And he probably knew a great deal about international affairs. He kept his opinions in a photo album of a kind that the world has probably never seen before.

'There was another thing I found strange,' Gunnar Larsson went on. 'During the six years that I worked for him, I never met his wife. Not that I was ever invited to their house, of course. To get a sense of where they lived, I walked past their house one Sunday.'

'So you never met their daughter?'

Perplexed, Gunnar Larsson looked at Wallander.

'They had children?'

'You didn't know this?'

'No.'

'They had a daughter. Matilda.'

Wallander chose not to add that she was severely handicapped. But evidently Gunnar Larsson had no idea that she even existed.

Wallander put his pen down.

'What did you think when you heard what had happened?'

'That it was utterly incomprehensible.'

'Do you think you could ever have imagined anything happening to him?'

'I still can't imagine it. Who could have had a reason to kill him?'

'That's what we're trying to ascertain.'

Wallander noticed that Gunnar Larsson appeared uncomfortable. It was as if he was unable to decide what to say next.

'You're thinking about something,' Wallander guessed. 'Am I right?'

'There were some rumours,' Gunnar Larsson said hesitantly. 'Rumours that Simon Lamberg gambled.'

'Gambled how?'

'Gambled to win money. Someone had seen him at the Jägersro racetrack.'

'Why would that start rumours? It's not unusual to go to Jägersro on occasion.'

'People also said he turned up regularly at illegal gambling clubs. Both in Malmö and Copenhagen.'

Wallander frowned.

'How did you hear this?'

'There are a lot of rumours floating around a small town like Ystad.'

Wallander knew all too well how true this was.

'There were rumours that he had heavy debts.'

'Did he?'

'Not during the time that I worked there. I could see that from his bookkeeping.'

'He may of course have taken out private loans. He could have ended up in the hands of a loan shark.'

'In that case I wouldn't know about it.'

Wallander thought for a moment.

'Rumours always start somewhere,' he said.

'It was a long time ago,' Gunnar Larsson said. 'Where or when I heard those rumours I really can't remember.'

'Did you know about the photo album he kept locked in his desk?'

'I never saw what he had in his desk.'

Wallander felt sure that the man sitting across from him was telling the truth.

'Did you have your own keys when you worked for Lamberg?'

'Yes.'

'What happened to those when you were let go?'

'I gave them back.'

Wallander nodded. He wasn't going to get any further. The more people he talked to, the more mysterious Simon Lamberg in all his colourlessness appeared. He made a note of Gunnar Larsson's phone number and address. The conversation came to a close and Wallander walked him out to the reception area. Then he went and got a cup of coffee and returned to his office. He unplugged the phone. He could not recall when he had last felt at such a loss. In which direction should they turn for their solution? Everything seemed to consist of loose threads. Even though he tried to avoid it, the image of his own face, distorted and pasted in a photo album, returned again and again.

The loose threads did not connect anywhere.

He checked the time. Almost twelve. He was hungry. The wind outside the window appeared to be blowing stronger. He plugged his phone back in. It rang immediately. It was Nyberg, who wanted to let him know that the forensic investigation was complete and that they had not found anything out of the ordinary. Now Wallander was free to look through the other rooms as well.

Wallander sat at his desk and tried to come up with a review of the events. In his mind he was conducting a conversation with Rydberg, and he cursed the fact that his colleague was absent. What do I do now? How do I go further? We're grasping at nothing, as if we were stumbling around in a circle.

He read through what he had written. Tried to coax a secret out of the brief account. But there was nothing. Irritated, he tossed the notepad aside.

It was now a quarter to one. The best thing he could do would be to go and get a bite to eat. Later in the afternoon he would need to have another conversation with Elisabeth Lamberg.

He realised he was too impatient. Despite everything that had happened, only one day had gone by since Simon Lamberg was murdered.

In his mind, Rydberg agreed with him. Wallander knew that he didn't have enough patience.

He put on his coat and got ready to leave.

The door opened. It was Martinsson.

He could tell from his face that something important had happened.

Martinsson paused in the doorway. Wallander regarded him with anticipation.

'We never found the man who attacked you last night,' Martinsson said. 'But someone saw him.'

Martinsson pointed to a map of Ystad that hung on Wallander's wall.

'He knocked you down at the corner of Aulingatan and Giödde's Alley. Then he most likely fled along Herrestadsgatan and turned north.

Shortly after you were attacked, he was observed in a garden close by, on Timmermansgatan.'

'What do you mean, "observed"?'

Martinsson took out his little notebook from his pocket and turned the pages.

'It was a young family by the name of Simovic. The wife was awake, since she was nursing her three-month-old baby. At some point she looked out into the garden and caught sight of a person lurking in the shadows. She immediately woke her husband. But when he got to the window, the person was gone. He said she was just imagining things. She was apparently convinced by this, and when her child fell asleep she went back to bed. It was only today, when she was out in the garden, that she remembered what had happened. She went over to the spot where she thought she had seen someone that night. I should also mention that she had heard that Lamberg had been murdered. Ystad is small enough that even the Simovics had a family portrait taken in his studio.'

'But she can't possibly have heard about our night-time chase,' Wallander objected. 'We haven't gone public with that.'

'Yes, that's right,' Martinsson said. 'That's why we should be thankful she even contacted us.'

'Was she able to offer a useful description?'

'She only saw a shadow at best.'

Wallander looked curiously at Martinsson.

'Then these observations aren't really of much use to us, are they?'

'No,' Martinsson said, 'if it weren't for the fact that she found something on the ground. Which she came by and dropped off a little while ago. And that is lying on my desk at this very moment.'

Wallander followed Martinsson to the latter's office.

'This? Was this what she found?'

'A hymn book. From the Church of Sweden.'

Wallander tried to think it through.

'What compelled Mrs Simovic to bring it in?'

'A murder had been committed. She had observed someone moving around in a suspicious manner in her garden at night. At first she had allowed herself to be convinced by her husband that it was only her imagination. But then she found the hymn book.'

Wallander slowly shook his head.

'This isn't necessarily the same man,' he said.

'And yet I would claim that there's a lot that says it is. How many people sneak around in other people's gardens at night in Ystad? In addition, the night patrol units were out and looking. I've talked with one officer who was out last night. They were out on Timmermansgatan several times. A garden was therefore a good place to hide.'

Wallander knew that Martinsson was right.

'A hymn book,' he said. 'Who the hell carries around a hymn book in the middle of the night?'

'And drops it in someone's garden after having attacked a police officer,' Martinsson added.

'Let Nyberg take care of the book,' Wallander said. 'And make sure to thank the Simovics for their help.'

He thought of something else as he was on his way out of Martinsson's office.

'Who is in charge of the office pool?'

'Hansson. But it doesn't seem to have gained any serious momentum yet.'

'It may never,' Wallander replied doubtfully.

Wallander walked down to the bakery-cafe by the bus terminal and had a couple of sandwiches. The hymn book was as mysterious a discovery as anything else that had so far been associated with the ongoing investigation of the photographer's death. Wallander realised how lost he really was. They were searching blindly for anything concrete to go on.

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.'

'I'll find out about it,' Svedberg said and stood up.

He almost collided in the doorway with Hansson, who was on his way in.

'I think I've found something,' Hansson said. 'I've been searching for something in my mind. Simon Lamberg never had any run-ins with the law, of course, but I still thought I remembered him from somewhere.'

Wallander and Svedberg waited eagerly. They both knew that Hansson from time to time had a good memory.

'I just thought of what it was,' he went on. 'About a year ago Lamberg wrote some letters of complaint to the police. He addressed them to Björk, even though almost none of his criticisms had anything to do with the Ystad police. Among other things he was unhappy about how we dealt with various cases of violent crime. One was about Kajsa Stenholm, who failed with that case in Stockholm that culminated down here last spring, after Bengt Alexandersson was killed. You were in charge of that one. I thought that might explain why your face was included in his bizarre photo album.'

Wallander nodded. Hansson could be right. But it didn't get them anywhere.

The feeling of being at a complete loss was very strong.

They simply had nothing concrete to go on.

The perpetrator was still only a fleeting shadow.

The weather changed on the third day of the investigation. When Wallander woke up fully rested at half past five, the sun shone through the window. The thermometer outside the kitchen window said it was seven degrees above zero Celsius. Perhaps spring had finally arrived.

Wallander studied his face in the bathroom mirror. His left cheek was swollen and blue. When he gently tried to remove the bandage at his hairline, the wound immediately started to bleed. He searched around for a fresh Band-Aid and put it on. Then he felt the temporary crown on his tooth. He still had not become accustomed to it. He showered and put on his clothes. The mountain of dirty laundry drove him grumpily down to the laundry room to sign up for a time while the coffee was brewing. He could not comprehend how so much laundry could accumulate in such a short time. Normally Mona managed the laundry. He felt a tug inside when he thought of her. Then he sat down at the kitchen table and read the paper. Lamberg's murder was given a lot of space. Björk had spoken to the press, and Wallander nodded approvingly. He had expressed himself well. Spelled out the facts, no speculation.

At a quarter past six, Wallander left the apartment and drove up to the station. Since everyone on the squad had a lot to do, they had decided to meet at the end of the day. The systematic mapping of Simon Lamberg, his habits, finances, social circle and past required time. Wallander had decided to investigate whether there was any basis to the rumours that Gunnar Larsson had talked about. That Simon Lamberg had been a man who had moved in the illegal world of gambling. He decided to draw on an old contact. He was planning to drive to Malmö and look up a man he hadn't seen for four years. But he knew where he was most likely to be found. He walked out to reception, went through the telephone messages, and decided there was nothing important. Then he went to Martinsson, who was an early riser. He was sitting in front of the computer, engaged in a search.

'How's it going?' Wallander asked.

Martinsson shook his head.

'Simon Lamberg must have been the closest to an umblemished citizen that you can get,' he said. 'Not a speck, not even a parking ticket. Nothing.'

'There were rumours that he gambled,' Wallander said. 'Illegally, no less, and that he had accumulated unregulated debt. I was planning to spend the morning looking into it. I'm driving up to Malmö.'

'What weather we have,' Martinsson said, without looking up from the screen.

'Yes,' Wallander said. 'I think it gives us grounds for hope.'

Wallander drove to Malmö. The temperature had risen by a few degrees. He enjoyed the thought of the transformation the landscape would now undergo. But not many minutes went by before his thoughts returned to the murder case that was his responsibility. They still lacked direction. They had no apparent motive. Simon Lamberg's death was incomprehensible. A photographer who had lived a quiet life. Who had undergone the tragedy of having a severely handicapped daughter. Who also to all intents and purposes lived separated from his wife. Nothing in all of this indicated, however, that anyone would have felt the need to crush his head with a furious blow.

To top it off, something had occurred on a bus trip to Austria seven years ago. Something that had significantly altered Lamberg.

Wallander surveyed the landscape as he drove. He wondered what it was in this picture of Lamberg that he had not seen through. There was something blurry about his whole figure. His life, his character, were strangely ephemeral.

Wallander arrived in Malmö shortly before eight o'clock. He drove straight to the parking garage behind the Savoy Hotel, then used the back entrance to the hotel. He headed for the dining room.

The man he was looking for was sitting by himself at a table at the very back of the room. He was absorbed in the morning paper. Wallander walked up to the table. The man started and looked up.

'Kurt Wallander,' he said. 'Are you so hungry that you have to come all the way to Malmö to eat breakfast?'

'Your logic is off as usual,' Wallander answered, and sat down.

He poured himself a cup of coffee as he thought about the first time he had met Peter Linder, the man on the other side of the table. It had been more than ten years ago, in the mid-1970s. Wallander had just started working in Ystad. They had made a raid on an illegal gambling club that had sprung up on a remotely located farm outside Hedeskoga. It had been clear to everyone that Peter Linder had been the man behind this business. The large profits had gone to him. But at the subsequent trial Linder had been acquitted. A band of lawyers had been able to put a hole in the prosecutor's case, and Linder had left the court a free man. No one had been able to get at the money he had made, since no one had been able to figure out where it was. A few days after the verdict, he had unexpectedly turned up at the police station and asked to speak to Wallander. He had complained of the treatment he had received at the hands of the Swedish legal system. Wallander had been furious.

'Everyone knows that you were behind it,' he had said.

'Of course it was me,' Peter Linder replied. 'But the prosecutor didn't manage to prove it well enough to determine my guilt. This does not mean, however, that I have to abandon my right to complain of mistreatment.'

Peter Linder's impudence had rendered Wallander speechless. For the next couple of years he was absent from Wallander's life. But one day an anonymous letter arrived to Wallander with a tip about another gambling club in Ystad. This time they managed to arrest and sentence several of the men involved. Wallander had known the whole time that it was Peter Linder who had written the anonymous letter. Since for some reason he had mentioned to Wallander at that first meeting that he 'always ate dinner at the Savoy', Wallander had looked him up there. With a smile, he had denied having written the letter. But both of them had known better.

'I'm reading in the paper that photographers live dangerously in Ystad,' Peter Linder said.

'No more dangerously than in other places.'

'And gambling clubs?'

'I think we're free of those for the moment.'

Peter Linder smiled. His eyes were very blue.

'Perhaps I should consider re-establishing myself in the Ystad region. What do you think?'

'You know what I think,' Wallander said. 'And if you come back, we'll put you away.'

Peter Linder shook his head. He smiled. This irritated Wallander, but he didn't show it.

'I actually came here to talk to you about the photographer who was killed.'

'I only ever go to a royal photographer who is here in Malmö. He took pictures of Sofiero Castle during the old king's time. An excellent photographer.'

'You only need to answer my questions,' Wallander broke in.

'Is this an interrogation?'

'No. But I'm dumb enough to think you might be able to help me. And even dumber to think that you'd be prepared to do it.'

Peter Linder spread his arms out in a gesture of invitation.

'Simon Lamberg,' Wallander went on, 'the photographer. There were rumours about him, that he was a gambler who bet large. Moreover, in an illegal setting. Both here and in Copenhagen. Also, unregulated loans. A man deeply entrenched in debt. All according to the rumours.'

'In order for a rumour to be interesting, at least fifty per cent of it must be true,' Peter Linder said philosophically. 'Is it?'

'I was hoping you would be able to answer that. Have you heard of him?'

Peter Linder considered the question.

'No,' he said after a moment. 'And even if only half of those rumours were true, I would have known who he was.'

'Is it possible that you might have missed him for some reason?'

'No,' Peter Linder said. 'That's inconceivable.'

'You are all-knowing, in other words.'

'When it comes to the illegal gambling world in southern Sweden, I know everything. I also know something about classical philosophy and Moorish architecture. Beyond this, I know almost nothing.'

Wallander did not protest. He knew that Peter Linder had achieved an astonishingly rapid rise in the academic world. Then one day, without warning, he had wandered out of the academy and in a short time established himself as a gambling-club owner.

Wallander finished his coffee.

'If you hear anything, I would be grateful for one of your anonymous letters,' he said.

'I'll put out some feelers in Copenhagen,' Peter Linder replied, 'but I doubt I'll find anything to offer you.'

Wallander nodded. He quickly rose to his feet. He could not bring himself to go so far as to shake Peter Linder's hand.

Wallander was back at the station by ten o'clock. A couple of officers were outside, drinking coffee in the spring warmth. Wallander checked Svedberg's office. He was not there. Same with Hansson. Only Martinsson was still diligently working in front of his computer screen.

'How did it go in Malmö?' he asked.

'Unfortunately, the rumours aren't true,' Wallander answered.

'Unfortunately?'

'It would have given us a motive. Gambling debts, hired guns. Everything we need.'

'Svedberg managed to find out through the business register that the company Markresor no longer exists. They merged with another company five years ago. And that company went under last year. He thought it would be impossible to get any old lists of passengers. But he thought it might be possible to trace the bus driver. If he's still alive.'

'Where is he?'

'I don't know.'

'Where are Hansson and Svedberg?'

'Svedberg is rooting around in Lamberg's finances. Hansson is talking to the neighbours. Nyberg is scolding a technician who misplaced a footprint.'

'Is it really possible to misplace a footprint?'

'It's possible to lose a hymn book in a garden.'

Martinsson is right, Wallander thought. Anything can be lost.

'Have we received any information from the public?' he asked.

'Nothing, apart from the Simovic family and the hymn book. As well as a few things that can be written off immediately. But there could be more. People normally take their time.'

'And Backman the bank director?'

'Reliable. But he hasn't seen more than we already know.'

'And the cleaning lady? Hilda Waldén?'

'Nothing more there either.'

Wallander leaned against the door frame.

'Who the hell killed him? What kind of a motive could there have been?'

'Who changes a radio station?' Martinsson said. 'And who runs around town at night with a hymn book in his pocket?'

The questions remained unanswered for the moment. Wallander went to his office. He felt restless and anxious. The meeting with Peter Linder had ruled out finding an answer to the murder in the illegal gambling world. What was left? Wallander sat down at his desk and tried to write out a new overview of the case. It took him over an hour. He read through what he had written. More and more he was leaning towards the possibility that the man had been let into the shop. It was most likely someone Lamberg knew and trusted. Someone who his widow in all likelihood did not know. He was interrupted in his thoughts by Svedberg knocking on the door.

'Guess where I've been,' he said.

Wallander shook his head. He was not in the mood for guessing.

'Matilda Lamberg is cared for at a facility right outside Rydsgård,' he said. 'Since it was so close I thought I might as well go out there.'

'So you've met Matilda?'

Svedberg immediately became sombre.

'It was terrible,' he said. 'She is incapable of doing anything.'

'You don't have to tell me more,' Wallander said. 'I think I get the picture.'

'Something strange happened,' Svedberg continued. 'I spoke to the director. A kind-hearted woman who is one of these quiet heroes of the world. I asked her how often Simon Lamberg came to visit.'

'What did she say?'

'He had never been there. Not once in all these years.'

Wallander said nothing, feeling disturbed.

'Elisabeth Lamberg comes once a week, usually on a Saturday. But that wasn't what was strange.'

'Then what was it?'

'The director said that there's another woman who comes to visit. On an irregular basis, but she does turn up on occasion. No one knows her name, no one knows who she is.'

Wallander frowned.

An unknown woman.

Suddenly he had a strong feeling. He didn't know where it had come from, but he was convinced. They had finally turned up a clue.

'Good,' he said. 'Very good. Try to round people up for a meeting.'

Wallander had the investigative team assembled at half past eleven. They came in from all over and everyone appeared brimming with the new energy that the fine weather had brought. Just before the meeting, Wallander had received a preliminary report from the medical examiner. It could be presumed that Simon Lamberg had died sometime before midnight. The blow to the back of his head had been delivered with tremendous force and had killed him immediately. In the wound they had recovered tiny slivers of metal that were easily recognisable as brass veneer, so it was now possible to make some assumptions about the murder weapon. A brass statuette or some such thing. Wallander had immediately called Hilda Waldén and asked if there had been any brass objects in the studio. She said no, which was the answer Wallander had wanted. The man who had come to kill Simon Lamberg had brought the murder weapon. This in turn meant that the murder had been planned. It was not something that had arisen from a heated argument or some other sudden impulse.

This was received as an important statement by the investigative squad. They now knew they were looking for a perpetrator who had acted with deliberation. They did not, however, know why he had returned to the scene of the crime. He had most likely left something behind. But Wallander could not let go of the feeling that there may have been another reason, one that they had not yet discovered.

'What would that be?' Hansson asked. 'If he hadn't forgotten something? Did he come there to plant something?'

'Which in turn may indicate a degree of forgetfulness,' Martinsson said.

They proceeded through the facts slowly and methodically. Most of the case was still very unclear. They were waiting for many answers or had not yet managed to put the information they did have in order. But Wallander wanted everything on the table even now. He knew from experience that detectives on an investigative squad needed to get access to information at the same time. One of his own worst policing sins was that he often kept information to himself. As the years went by he had managed to get a little better in this regard.

'We have a fair number of fingers and shoes,' Nyberg said when Wallander as usual turned to him first. 'We also have a good thumb on the hymn book. I don't know yet if it matches any of the prints we recovered in the studio.'

'Is there anything to say about the hymn book?' Wallander asked.

'It gives the impression of frequent use. But there is no name in it. Nor is there a stamp of any kind to indicate that it belongs to a particular parish or church.'

Wallander nodded and looked at Hansson.

'We aren't quite done with the neighbours yet,' he began. 'But no one that we've talked to has reported hearing or seeing anything unusual. No nightly tumult inside the studio. Nothing out on the street. No one could remember seeing anyone behaving in an unusual manner outside the studio either that night or on any earlier occasion. Everyone has assured us that Simon Lamberg was a pleasant person, although reserved.'

'Have any calls come in?'

'Calls are constantly coming in. But there's nothing of any im mediate interest.'

Wallander asked about the letters that Lamberg had written in which he complained about police performance.

'They're archived in some central location in Stockholm and are being retrieved. There was only one that marginally touched on our district.'

'I have trouble evaluating that album,' Wallander said. 'If it's of any significance or not. It may of course be because I'm included in it. At first I found it disturbing. Now I just don't know any more.'

'Other people sit at the kitchen table and write scathing missives to various political leaders,' Martinsson said. 'Simon Lamberg was a photographer. He didn't write. Symbolically, the darkroom was his kitchen table.'

'You may be right. Hopefully, we'll come back to this when we know more.'

'Lamberg was a complicated person,' Svedberg said. 'Pleasant and reserved. But also something else. We just can't articulate what this something else might be.'

'No, not yet,' Wallander said. 'But a picture of him will eventually take shape. It always does.'

For his part, Wallander told them about his trip to Malmö and the conversation with Peter Linder.

'I think we can discard the rumours about Lamberg as a gambler,' he concluded. 'It doesn't seem to have been anything other than just that: rumours.'

'I don't see how you can put stock in anything that man says,' Martinsson objected.

'He's smart enough to know when he should tell the truth,' Wallander said. 'He's smart enough not to lie when he doesn't need to.'

Then it was Svedberg's turn. He talked about the Stockholm travel agency that was no longer in existence, but he declared firmly that they would be able to locate the driver who had worked on the trip to Austria in March 1981.

'Markresor used a bus company in Alvesta,' he said. 'And that company is still there. I've checked that.'

'Can it really be of any importance?' Hansson asked.

'Maybe,' Wallander said. 'Or maybe not. But Elisabeth Lamberg was adamant. Her husband was a changed man when he returned.'

'Maybe he fell in love,' Hansson suggested. 'Isn't that what happens on charter trips?'

'For example, something like that,' Wallander said and suddenly wondered if that had happened to Mona in the Canary Islands last year.

He turned back to Svedberg.

'Find out about the driver. That may give us something.'

Svedberg then told them about his visit to Matilda Lamberg. The mood turned melancholy when they learned that Simon Lamberg had never visited his daughter. The fact that an unknown woman had turned up from time to time was met with less interest. Wallander, however, was convinced that this could be a lead. He had no thoughts about how she fitted into the picture. But he was not planning to drop her until he knew who she was.

Finally they discussed the public image of Simon Lamberg. With every step, the impression of a man living a well-ordered life was reinforced. There were no blemishes either on his finances or elsewhere in his exemplary existence. Wallander reminded the group that someone needed to pay a visit soon to the association of amateur astronomers in Lund that Lamberg had been a member of. Hansson took on this task.

Martinsson was busy with his computer searches. He could only confirm his earlier observations that Simon Lamberg had never had anything to do with the police.

It was past one o'clock. Wallander brought the meeting to a close.

'This is where we are right now,' he said. 'We still have no motive or any clear indication of who the perpetrator can be. The most important thing, however, is that we are now sure that the killing was planned. The perpetrator had his weapon with him. That means that we can disregard all earlier speculations that it was a burglary gone wrong.'

Everyone got up and went his own way. Wallander had decided to go out to the care facility where Matilda Lamberg lived. He was already dreading what would confront him. Sickness, suffering and lifelong handicaps were things he had never dealt with very well. But he wanted to know more about the unknown woman. He left Ystad and took Svartevägen out towards Rydsgård. The sea glittered temptingly on his left. He rolled down the window and drove slowly.

Suddenly he started to think about Linda, his eighteen-year-old daughter. Right now she was in Stockholm. She wavered between various ideas about what work she should pursue. Furniture refurbisher or physical therapist, or even actress. She and a friend rented an apartment in Kungsholmen. Wallander was not completely clear how she supported herself, but he did know that she waited tables at various restaurants from time to time. When she wasn't in Stockholm, she was with Mona in Malmö. And then she came often but irregularly to Ystad and visited him.

He could tell he was getting worried. At the same time there was so much in her character that he himself lacked. Deep down he had no doubt she would manage to find her own way through life. But the worry was there nonetheless. He couldn't do anything about it.

Wallander stopped in Rydsgård and ate a late lunch at the inn. Pork chops. At the table behind him, some farmers were loudly discussing the pros and cons of a new type of manure-spreading device. Wallander ate, trying to focus completely on his food. It was something that Rydberg had taught him. When he ate, he should think only of what was on his plate. Afterwards it felt as if his head had been aired out, like a house that is opened up after having been shut for a long time.

The care facility was near Rynge. Wallander followed Svedberg's directions and had no trouble finding it. He turned into the car park and stepped out of his car. The facility consisted of a mixture of old and new buildings. He went in through the main entrance. From somewhere a shrill laughter could be heard. A woman was in the middle of watering flowers. Wallander walked over to her and asked to speak to the director.

'That would be me,' the woman said and smiled. 'My name is Margareta Johansson. And I already know who you are, I've seen you so often in the papers.'

She continued watering the flowers. Wallander tried not to pay any attention to her comment about him.

'Sometimes it must be terrible to be a policeman,' she went on.

'I can agree with that,' Wallander answered. 'But I don't think I would want to live in this country if there were no police.'

'That's probably true,' she said and put down the watering can. 'I take it you're here about Matilda Lamberg?'

'Not for her sake, of course. It's about the woman who visits her. The one who isn't her mother.'

Margareta Johansson looked at him. A swift wave of concern passed over her face.

'Does this have anything to do with the father's murder?'

'It's not very likely, but I have been wondering who she is.'

Margareta Johansson pointed at a half-open door leading to an office.

'We can sit in there.'

She asked if Wallander wanted any coffee, and he declined.

'Matilda doesn't get many visitors,' she said. 'When I came here fourteen years ago, she had already been here six years. Only her mother came to see her. Perhaps another relative on some rare occasion. Matilda doesn't really notice if she has a visitor. She is blind, with poor hearing, and she doesn't react much to what goes on around her. But we still wish that those who reside here for many years, perhaps their whole lives, receive visits. Perhaps simply to give a feeling that they do in fact belong? In the larger context.'

'When did this woman begin her visits?'

Margareta Johansson thought back.

'Seven or eight years ago.'

'How often does she come?'

'It has always been very irregular. Sometimes half a year has gone by between visits.'

'And she has never given her name?'

'Never. Only that she is here to see Matilda.'

'I assume you have informed Elisabeth Lamberg about this?'

'Yes.'

'How did she react?'

'With surprise. She has also enquired as to who the woman is, and has asked us to call and tell her as soon as she arrives. The problem is simply that the woman's visits have always been very brief. Elisabeth Lamberg has never managed to get here before the woman has left.'

'How does the woman get here?'

'By car.'

'That she has driven herself?'

'I have never actually thought about that. Perhaps there has been someone else in the car that no one has noticed.'

'I assume that there isn't anyone who might have noticed what type of car it was? Or even made a note of the number plate?'

Margareta Johansson shook her head.

'Could you describe the woman to me?'

'She is between forty and fifty years old. Slender, not particularly tall. Simply but tastefully dressed. Short, blonde hair. No make-up.'

Wallander jotted this down.

'Is there anything else you've noticed about her?'

'No.'

Wallander stood up.

'Don't you want to meet Matilda?' she asked.

'I don't think I have the time,' Wallander said evasively. 'But most likely I'll be back here again. And I want you to notify the Ystad police if that woman returns. When was she here last?'

'A few months ago.'

She followed him outside. A nurse's assistant walked by pushing a wheelchair. Wallander caught sight of a shrunken boy under a blanket.

'Everyone feels better in the spring,' Margareta Johansson said. 'We can see it even in our patients, who are often completely sealed in their own worlds.'

Wallander said goodbye and walked over to his car. He had just started the engine when the telephone rang in Margareta Johansson's office. She called out that it was Svedberg. Wallander walked back in and took the receiver.

'I've tracked down the driver,' Svedberg said. 'It was easier than I had dared hope. His name is Anton Eklund.'

'Good,' Wallander said.

'It gets better. Guess what he told me? That he has the habit of keeping the passenger lists of all his trips. And that he has pictures from this particular one.'

'Taken by Simon Lamberg?'

'How did you know?'

'I did what you told me. I guessed.'

'To top it off, he lives in Trelleborg. He's retired these days. But we have a standing invitation to look him up.'

'We should absolutely take him up on that. As soon as possible.'

But first Wallander had another visit to think about. One that couldn't be put off.

From Rynge he was planning to drive straight to Elisabeth Lamberg's house.

He had a question he wanted an immediate answer to.

She was out in the garden when he pulled up. She was bent over the flower beds. Her grief over her recent loss was apparently neither deep nor long-lasting; as he listened over the fence, he thought he could hear her humming. As Wallander opened the gate, she heard him and straightened up. She held a little shovel in her hand and squinted in the sunlight.

'I'm sorry I had to come back and bother you again so soon,' Wallander said. 'But I have an urgent question.'

She put the shovel down in a basket next to her.

'Should we go in?'

'It's not necessary.'

She pointed to some deckchairs that were nearby. They sat down.

'I've talked to the director of the nursing home where Matilda is,' Wallander began. 'I went there.'

'Did you see Matilda?'

'Unfortunately, I had very little time.'

He didn't want to tell her the truth. That it was almost impossible for him to confront the seriously handicapped.

'We talked about the unknown woman who comes to visit her.'

Elisabeth Lamberg had put on a pair of dark glasses. He could not see her eyes.

'When we spoke about Matilda last time, you never mentioned anything about this woman. That surprises me. It makes me curious. Above all, it strikes me as strange.'

'I didn't think it was important.'

Wallander hesitated over how hard or direct to be. After all, her husband was brutally murdered a couple of days ago.

'It's not the case, then, that you know who the woman is? And that you for some reason don't want to talk about her?'

She took off her sunglasses and looked at him.

'I have no idea who she is. I've tried to find out, but I haven't been successful.'

'What have you done in order to find out about her?'

'The only thing I could do, which is to ask the staff to call me as soon as she appears. Which they have. But I've never made it out there in time.'

'You could of course have asked the staff not to let her in? Or given orders that she was not allowed to visit Matilda without providing a name?'

Elisabeth Lamberg looked confused.

'She did give her name, the first time she was there. Didn't the director tell you that?'

'No.'

'She introduced herself as Siv Stigberg, and she said she lived in Lund, but I haven't been able to find anyone by that name there. I've looked into it. I've looked through telephone directories for the entire country. There is a Siv Stigberg in Kramfors, and another in Motala. I've even been in touch with both of them. Neither one understood what I was talking about.'

'She gave a false name? That must have been why Margareta Johansson didn't say anything.'

'Yes. That's the only reason I can imagine.'

Wallander reflected on this. He now believed that she was telling the truth.

'The whole thing is remarkable. I still don't understand why you didn't tell me this from the start.'

'I realise now that I should have.'

'You must have really wondered who she was, why she was paying these visits.'

'Of course. That was why I instructed the director to let her keep visiting Matilda. I was hoping to make it in time one day.'

'What does she do when she's there?'

'She only stays a short while. Looks at Matilda, but never says anything. Even though Matilda can hear when someone talks to her.'

'Did you ever ask your husband about her?'

Her voice was filled with bitterness when she answered.

'Why should I have done that? He wasn't interested in Matilda. She didn't exist.'

Wallander got up out of the deckchair.

'Nonetheless, I have an answer to my question,' he said.

He went straight to the station. The feeling of urgency was suddenly very strong. It was already late afternoon. Svedberg was in his office.

'Now we go to Trelleborg,' Wallander said from the doorway. 'Do you have the driver's address?'

'Anton Eklund lives in an apartment in the middle of town.'

'It's probably best if you call and ask if he's home.'

Svedberg looked up the number. Eklund picked up almost immediately.

'We can come any time,' Svedberg said when he had finished the brief conversation.

They took his car, which was better than Wallander's. Svedberg drove quickly and confidently. Wallander travelled west along Strandvägen for the second time that day. He told Svedberg about his visits to the nursing home and Elisabeth Lamberg.

'I can't escape the feeling that this woman is important,' he said. 'And that she definitely has something to do with Simon Lamberg.'

They continued on in silence. Wallander enjoyed the view, somewhat distractedly. He also dozed off for a moment. His cheek no longer hurt, although it was still discoloured. His tongue had also started to get used to the temporary crown.

Svedberg only needed to ask for directions once in order to find Eklund's address in Trelleborg. It was a red-brick apartment building in the centre of town. Eklund was on the ground floor. He had spotted them and was waiting with an open door. He was a large man with abundant grey hair. When he shook Wallander's hand, he squeezed so hard it almost hurt. He invited them into the small apartment. Coffee had been set out. Wallander immediately assumed that Eklund lived on his own. The apartment was tidy but nonetheless projected the impression of a single man living alone. He had this idea confirmed as soon as he sat down.

'I've been on my own for the past three years,' he said. 'My wife died. That was when I moved here. We only had one year together in retirement. One morning she lay dead in the bed.'

Neither of the detectives said anything. There was nothing to say. Eklund picked up the plate of pastries. Wallander chose a piece of Bundt cake.

'You were the driver on a charter bus trip to Austria in 1981,' he started. 'Markresor were the organisers. You left from Norra Bantorget in Stockholm, with Austria as your final destination.'

'We were going to Salzburg and Vienna. Thirty-two passengers, one travel director and me. The bus was a Scania, completely new.'

'I thought that bus trips to the Continent went out of vogue after the 1960s,' Svedberg said.

'They did,' Eklund said. 'But they came back. Markresor – Ground Travel – may seem like a silly name for a travel agency, but they were on the right track. There turned out to be a lot of people who absolutely did not want to go up in the air and be tossed to some distant holiday destination. There were people who really wanted to experience travelling.

And for that you have to stay on the ground.'

'I've heard that you kept the passenger lists,' Wallander said.

'It became an obsession,' Eklund said. 'I look through them sometimes. I don't remember most of them. Some names bring out memories. Most of them good, some that you'd rather forget.'

He got up and reached for a plastic sleeve on a shelf. He held it out to Wallander. It contained a list of thirty-two names. He picked out the name Lamberg almost immediately. He went slowly through the rest of the names, none of which had appeared in the context of the investigation before. More than half of the passengers came from the middle of Sweden. There was also a couple from Härnösand, a woman from Luleå, as well as seven individuals from southern Sweden. From Halmstad, Eslöv and Lund. Wallander passed the list to Svedberg.

'You said you had pictures from the trip? That Lamberg had taken?'

'Because of his profession, he was appointed our official photographer. He took almost all of the shots. Those who wanted copies wrote their names on a list. Everyone received what they had ordered. He kept his promises.'

Eklund lifted a newspaper. Under it there was an envelope with photographs.

'Lamberg gave me all of these free of charge. He had chosen them himself. I wasn't the one who picked them out.'

Wallander slowly looked through the stack of pictures. There were nineteen in all. He already sensed that Lamberg would not appear in any of them, since he had been behind the camera. But in the second-to-last one he appeared in a group shot. On the back someone had written that the photo had been taken in a rest area between Salzburg and Vienna. Even Eklund was in it. Wallander assumed that Lamberg had used a timer. He went through the stack one more time. Studied details and faces. Suddenly he noticed a woman's face that appeared again and again. She always stared straight into the camera. And smiled. When Wallander looked at her features, he had the feeling that there was something familiar about it, without being able to put his finger on what it was.

He asked Svedberg to take a look at them.

'What do you remember of Lamberg from that trip?'

'To begin with I didn't notice him very much. But then there was plenty of drama.'

Svedberg looked up quickly.

'What do you mean?' Wallander asked.

'Maybe one shouldn't talk about these kinds of things,' Eklund said hesitantly. 'He's dead now. But he got together with one of the ladies on the trip. And it was not an uncomplicated matter.'

'Why not?'

'Because she was married. And her husband was there.'

Wallander let this sink in.

'There was something else,' Eklund said, 'that probably didn't help matters much.'

'What was that?'

'She was a minister's wife. He was a man of the Church.'

Eklund pointed him out in one of the pictures. The hymn book flashed through Wallander's head. He realised he was sweating. He glanced at Svedberg. He had the feeling his colleague was having the same associations.

Wallander grabbed the stack of photographs, taking out one where the unknown woman was smiling at the camera.

'Is this her?' he asked.

Eklund looked at it and nodded.

'It is. Can you imagine? A minister's wife from a parish outside Lund.'

Wallander looked at Svedberg again.

'How did the whole thing end?'

'I don't know. And I'm not even sure if the minister discovered what was going on behind his back. To me he seemed very unaware of worldly things. But the whole situation on the trip was very uncomfortable.'

Wallander looked at the image of the woman. Suddenly he knew who she was.

'What is the name of this family?'

'Wislander. Anders and Louise.'

Svedberg studied the passenger list and wrote down their address.

'We need to borrow these photos for a while,' Wallander said. 'You'll get them back of course.'

Eklund nodded.

'I hope I haven't said too much,' he said.

'Quite the opposite. You've been a big help.'

They said goodbye, thanked him for the coffee and walked out onto the street.

'This woman fits the description of the woman who visits Matilda Lamberg,' Wallander said. 'I want to confirm that it is her, as soon as possible. Why she visits Matilda, I don't know. But that will have to be a later question.'

They hurried to the car and left Trelleborg. Before they left, however, Wallander called Ystad from a phone booth and, after considerable effort, managed to get hold of Martinsson. Wallander quickly explained what had happened and asked Martinsson to find out if Anders Wislander was still minister of a parish outside Lund.

They would come in to the station as soon as they had been to Rynge.

'Do you think she could be the one?' Svedberg asked later.

Wallander sat silent for a long time before answering.

'No,' he said finally. 'But it could be him.'

Svedberg glanced at him.

'A minister?'

Wallander nodded.

'Why not? Ministers are ministers, but also human. Of course it's possible. And aren't there any number of brass objects in a church?'

They stopped only briefly in Rynge. The director immediately identified the unknown woman in the picture Wallander showed her. Then they continued on to the station in Ystad and went straight into Martinsson's office. Hansson was also there.

'Anders Wislander is still a minister outside Lund,' Martinsson said. 'But right now he's on sick leave.'

'Why?' Wallander asked.

'Because of personal tragedy.'

Wallander looked searchingly at him.

'What happened?'

'His wife died about a month ago.'

The room fell silent.

Wallander held his breath. He didn't know anything for sure, and yet he was now convinced they were on the right track. They would find the solution to the case, at least in part, with the minister Anders Wislander in Lund. He sensed a context unfolding.

Wallander and his colleagues went into the conference room. Nyberg had also appeared from somewhere. During the meeting, Wallander was very firm in his approach. They were to focus completely on Anders Wislander and his dead wife. That evening they tried to find out as much as possible about the couple. Wallander had ordered everyone to proceed with caution, to be as discreet as possible. When Hansson had suggested that they should contact Wislander that evening, Wallander had summarily dismissed it. That could wait until the following day. The task at hand was to take care of as much groundwork as possible.

This was not to say there was very much they could actually clarify. Rather, their task was to sift through what they already knew and introduce Anders and Louise Wislander as a grid over the known circumstances of Simon Lamberg's death.

They could, after all, establish a great deal. Svedberg managed, with the help of a reporter, to locate the obituary of Louise Wislander in Sydsvenska Dagbladet. From this they learned that she had been fortyseven at the time of her death. 'After drawn-out and patient suffering,' the obituary said. They went back and forth on what this phrase meant. She could hardly have committed suicide. Perhaps it had been cancer. In a death announcement they noted two children among the grieving. They discussed at length whether they should notify their colleagues in Lund. Wallander hesitated, but decided against it. It was still too early.

A little after eight, Wallander asked Nyberg to do something that did not ordinarily fall under his responsibilities. But Wallander turned to him, because he felt he needed to keep the others close by. Nyberg was assigned the task of finding out if Wislander's home address was a free-standing house or an apartment. Nyberg left. They sat down to conduct a fresh review. A pizza had been ordered from somewhere. While they ate, Wallander tried to come up with an interpretation where Anders Wislander was the perpetrator.

There were many objections. The professed love affair between Simon Lamberg and Louise Wislander lay several years back in time. In addition, she was deceased. Why would Anders Wislander react at this late stage? Was there even anything that indicated that he had this capacity for violence? Wallander realised that all of these objections were major. He wavered, but did not relinquish his conviction that they were nonetheless close to the answer.

'The only thing we have left is to talk to Wislander,' he said. 'And we'll do that tomorrow. Then we'll see.'

Nyberg returned. He informed Wallander that Wislander lived in a free-standing house owned by the Church of Sweden. Since he was on leave, Wallander assumed they would find him at home. Before they broke up for the evening, Wallander decided to take Martinsson with him the next day. They did not need to be more than two.

He drove home through the spring warmth around midnight. He took the street past St Gertrude's Square. Everything was very still. A wave of melancholy and fatigue washed over him. For a moment, the world appeared to consist entirely of sickness and death. And an emptiness left by Mona. But then he thought about spring having arrived at last. He shook off his distress. They were going to speak to Wislander tomorrow. Then they would know if they were closer to a solution or not.

He stayed up for a long time. He had the urge to call both Linda and Mona. Around one o'clock he boiled a couple of eggs that he ate standing in front of the sink. Before he went to bed he studied his face in the bathroom mirror. His cheek was still discoloured. He also saw that he needed a haircut.

He slept badly and got up at five o'clock. While he waited for Martinsson to arrive he sorted through the mountain of laundry and vacuumed the apartment. He had several cups of coffee, standing at the kitchen window, once again reviewing all the circumstances of Simon Lamberg's death.

At eight o'clock he walked down to the street and waited. It was going to be yet another beautiful spring day. Martinsson was punctual as usual. Wallander got into the car. They drove towards Lund.

'I slept badly for once,' Martinsson said. 'I don't usually. But it was as if I had a premonition.'

'A premonition about what?'

'I don't know.'

'It's probably just spring.'

Martinsson glanced over at him.

'What do you mean, "just spring"?'

Wallander didn't reply, just muttered something under his breath.

They arrived in Lund shortly before nine thirty. As usual, Martinsson had driven jerkily and with poor concentration. But apparently he had memorised the directions. He had no trouble finding the street where Wislander lived. They drove past number 19 and parked the car out of sight.

'Let's go,' Wallander said. 'Let me do all the talking.'

The house was large. Wallander guessed that it dated to the beginning of the century. As they walked in through the gate he noticed that the garden needed attention. He saw that Martinsson had noticed the same thing. Wallander rang the doorbell, wondering what awaited them. He rang again. No one opened. More rings. Same response: nothing. Wallander made a quick decision.

'Wait here. Not by the house, out in the street. His church isn't far from here. I'll take your car.'

Wallander had written down the name of the church. Svedberg had pointed it out on a map last night. It took him five minutes to get there. The church looked abandoned. At first he thought he was mistaken. Anders Wislander wasn't there. But when he tried the church doors, they were unlocked. He stepped into the dim vestibule and pulled the door shut behind him. It was very quiet. No sound from the outside penetrated the thick walls. Wallander walked into the main church space. It was well lit in there. The sun streamed in through the tinted stained-glass windows.

Wallander saw that someone was sitting in the front row, closest to the altar. He walked slowly down the aisle. A man was sitting there, hunched over, as if in prayer. Only when Wallander had reached the front did he look up. Wallander recognised him. It was Anders Wislander. The face was the same as in the only one of Lamberg's photographs in which he appeared. He was unshaven and his eyes were moist. Wallander immediately started to feel ill at ease. He now regretted having left Martinsson behind.

'Anders Wislander?' he asked.

The man stared back at him earnestly.

'Who are you?'

'My name is Kurt Wallander and I'm with the police. I'd like to talk to you.'

Wislander's voice suddenly became shrill and impatient when he answered.

'I am grieving. You are disturbing me. Leave me in peace.'

Wallander felt his discomfort grow. The man in the pew appeared close to a breaking point.

'I know that your wife is dead,' he said. 'That's what I want to talk to you about.'

Wislander stood up from his seat so forcefully that Wallander shrank back. Now he was certain that Wislander was unbalanced.

'You disturb me and do not leave although I ask you. Therefore I must listen to what you have to say,' he said. 'We can go into the sacristy.'

Wislander showed the way and turned left when he reached the altar. Wallander observed from his back that he appeared unusually strong. This could have been the man he had tried to catch up with and who had knocked him down.

There was a little table and a couple of chairs in the sacristy. Wislander sat down and pointed at the other chair. Wallander pulled it out from under the table, wondering how he should begin. Wislander stared at him with his moist eyes. Wallander glanced around the room. On another table there were two large candelabra. Wallander studied them without first knowing what it was that had caught his attention. Then he saw that one was different from the other. One of the arms of one candelabrum was missing. And it was made of brass. He looked at Wislander, and realised that the man was aware of what Wallander had seen. Nonetheless the attack took him by surprise. Wislander threw himself at Wallander with something like a roar. His fingers dug into his neck and his strength, or his insanity, was great. Wallander struggled against him while Wislander shouted things incomprehensibly, something about Simon Lamberg, that the photographer had to die. Then Wislander, in his delirium, started in on a diatribe about the riders of the Apocalypse. Wallander struggled to free himself. Finally, with enormous effort, he managed to do so. But then Wislander was on him again, like an animal fighting for its life. During their wrestling match, they reached the table with the candelabra. Wallander managed to grab one and strike Wislander in the face. Wislander immediately collapsed. For a moment, Wallander believed he had killed him. The same way that Lamberg had died. But then he saw that Wislander was breathing.

Wallander sank down on a chair and tried to catch his breath. He noticed that his face was scratched up. The repaired tooth had broken for the third time.

Wislander lay on the floor. Slowly he started to regain consciousness. At the same moment Wallander heard the church door open.

He left the sacristy to meet Martinsson, who had got worried and called a taxi from the house of one of the neighbours.

Everything had happened very fast, but Wallander knew it was now over. He had also recognised Wislander as the man who had attacked him. He had recognised him without ever really having seen his face. But it was him, there was no doubt about that.

A couple of days later Wallander had a meeting with his colleagues in the conference room. It was the afternoon. A window was open. The spring warmth appeared to have arrived for good. Wallander had completed his questioning of Anders Wislander, at least for the moment. The man was now in such poor psychological shape that a physician had advised Wallander to stop. But the picture was complete. Wallander had called this meeting in order to provide them with an overview of what had happened.

'It is dark and sombre and tragic,' he began. 'But Simon Lamberg and Louise Wislander continued to meet in secret after that bus trip. And Louise's husband knew nothing of it. Until recently, shortly before she died. She had a tumour on her liver. On her deathbed she confessed her infidelity. Wislander had then been overcome by something that can only be described as insanity. In part, grief over his wife's death, in part rage and anguish over her betrayal. He started stalking Lamberg. In his mind, Lamberg was also guilty of his wife's death. He took sick leave and spent almost all his time here in Ystad. He kept the studio under surveillance, staying at one of the small hotels in town. He followed the cleaning lady, Hilda Waldén. One Saturday, he broke into her apartment, took the keys, and had them copied. Before she returned, he replaced the originals. Then he entered the studio and killed Lamberg with the candelabrum. After that, in his confusion, he still believed that Lamberg was alive. He actually returned in order to kill him a second time. He dropped the hymn book when he was hiding in the garden. The fact that he turned on the radio and changed the setting is a bizarre detail. He had apparently started imagining that he would be able to hear God's voice through the radio. That God would forgive him for the sin he had committed. But all he managed to find was a station that broadcast rock music. The photographs were Lamberg's work through and through. They had nothing to do with the death. He nourished a contempt for politicians and other powerful men. In addition, he was displeased with the work of the police. He was a curmudgeon. A little man who tried to control his world by deforming faces. But this solves our case. I can't help pitying Wislander. His world collapsed. He didn't have the strength to bear it.'

The room was silent.

'Why did Louise visit Lamberg's handicapped daughter?' Hansson asked.

'I've been asking myself that,' Wallander answered. 'Perhaps her love affair had religious undertones. Perhaps the two of them were involved in praying for Matilda? Did Louise then go to the nursing home in order to check the effect of her prayers? Perhaps she regarded Matilda as the victim of her parents' earlier sinful life? We'll never know. As little as we'll ever know what bound these two singular people together. There are always secret rooms that we don't manage to find a way into. And perhaps that's for the best.'

'One can take a step further,' Rydberg said, 'if you think about Wislander. Perhaps his rage actually stemmed from the fact that Lamberg had seduced his wife from a religious perspective. Not erotically. One has reason to question if it was only the usual jealousy that played a role in this case.'

Again, there was silence. Then they went on to discuss Lamberg's pictures.

'He must have been crazy in his own way,' Hansson said. 'To spend his spare time distorting images of well-known people.'

'Perhaps the explanation is quite different,' Rydberg suggested. 'Perhaps there are people in today's society that feel so powerless they no longer partake in what we call democratic society. Instead they devote themselves to rites. If this is the case, our nation is in trouble.'

'I hadn't considered that possibility,' Wallander said. 'But you could be right. And in that case I agree with you. Then the foundation has really started to crack.'

The meeting came to an end. Wallander felt tired and despondent, despite the beautiful weather. And he missed Mona.

Then he checked the time. A quarter past four.

He had to go back to the dentist.

How many times it had been, he no longer knew.