slowly. The woman in the window continued to scream. She was the mother of the dead bride, and her pain cut that warm August day like a diamond cuts glass. They agreed afterwards that it was her scream that shook them the most.
Hoglund disappeared into the house, while Wallander remained under the window with outstretched arms. Lars Skander stood at his side like a ghost, staring up at the distraught woman in the window. Then Hoglund appeared out of nowhere behind her and pulled her into the room. Everything went quiet.
When Wallander and Lars Skander entered the bedroom, Hoglund was sitting on the floor with her arms around the woman. Wallander went back downstairs and called an ambulance. They returned to the garden at the back of the house once the ambulance had come and gone. Hoglund picked up the phone that lay in the grass.
'Martinsson had just answered when it happened. He must have wondered what was going on,' she said.
He sat back down in one of the chairs. 'Call him,' he said.
She sat down across from him. A bee buzzed back and forth between them. Svedberg had a phobia of bees. Now he was dead. That's why they were there, in the Skanders' garden. Many others were also dead. Too many.
'I'm afraid he's going to strike again,' Wallander said. 'Every second I think I'll get a call telling me he's done it again. I'm going crazy looking for signs that the nightmare will soon be over, that we won't have to kneel over any more bodies of people who have been shot, but I can't find them.'
'All of us have that fear,' she replied.
That was all that needed to be said. Hoglund called Martinsson who, as expected, demanded to know what had happened. Wallander moved his chair over into the shade and took hold of his thoughts.
If the decision to move the photo session to Nybrostrand was made only a couple of weeks ago, who would have had access to that information? Why hadn't anyone confirmed whether or not Rolf Haag had an assistant?
Hoglund finished her conversation and also moved her chair into the shade.
'He'll call me back,' she said. 'Apparently the Werners are both very old. Martinsson can't tell whether they're in shock or just senile.'
'What about the question of Rolf Haag's assistant?' Wallander asked brusquely. 'The Malmo police were going to take care of that for us. Do you remember Birch? We worked with him on a case last year.'
'How could I forget?'
Birch was a police officer of the old school. It had been a pleasure to meet him.
'He moved to Malmo,' she said. 'I think he was put in charge of this.'
'Then he's already done the work,' Wallander said firmly.
He took up his phone and dialled the Malmo police station. He was in luck: Birch was in his office. After exchanging greetings, Birch got straight to the point.
'I called Ystad with my report,' he said. 'It hasn't reached you?'
'Not yet.'
'Then I'll tell you the main points of interest. Rolf Haag's studio is located close to the Nobel plaza, and his main occupation was studio photography, though he also published some travel books.'
'I'm going to interrupt you here,' Wallander said. 'What I really need to know is whether or not he had an assistant.'
'Yes, he did.'
'What's his name?' Wallander gestured for Hoglund to give him a pen.
'Her name is Maria Hjortberg.'
'Have you talked to her?'
'I couldn't. She's at her parents' house outside Hudiksvall for the weekend. It's a small place in the woods and they have no phone. She's coming back to Malmo this evening and I'm planning to meet her at the airport. But I very much doubt she's the person who shot her boss and this young couple.'
This wasn't the answer that Wallander was looking for, and it irritated him, which he thought was probably a sign that he was a bad policeman.
'What I need to know is whether someone else knew where the wedding pictures were going to be taken.'
'I searched the studio last night,' Birch said. 'It took half the night. I found a letter from Torbjorn Werner to Haag dated 28 July. In it he confirmed the time and place for the photo session.'
'Where was it posted?'
'Ystad appears at the top of the page.'
'There's no envelope? No postmark?'
'There's a big bag of paper in Haag's office, so it could be in there. Otherwise, I'm afraid it might already have been thrown away. It was written several weeks ago, after all.'
'I need that envelope.'
'Why is it so important? Can't we assume it was posted in Ystad, since that's where it was written?'
'I need to know if the envelope was opened by someone before it reached Haag. I want our forensics team to have a look at it, if only to rule out this possibility.'
Birch didn't need further explanation. He promised to go down to the studio at once.
'That's some theory you've got,' he said.
'It's all I have right now,' Wallander answered.
Birch promised to call if he found anything.
It was already midday. Wallander went home, fried some eggs for lunch, then lay down to rest for half an hour. At 1.10 p.m. he was back at the police station.
Going through the notes in his office, he decided that the theory about someone having opened the letters needed to be explored before they dismissed it. He went out to the front desk and talked to the girl who filled in for Ebba on the weekends. He asked her if she knew where the post in Ystad was sorted. She didn't.
'Maybe you could find that out for me,' Wallander said.
'But it's Sunday,' she said.
'A regular working day, as far as I'm concerned.'
'But surely not for the post office.'
Wallander was starting to get angry, but he controlled himself.
'Post is collected even on Sundays,' he said. 'At least once. That means that someone is working down at the post office today.'
She promised to try to find the answer to his question. Wallander hurried back to his office, feeling that he had disturbed her. Just as he closed his door, it struck him that he was wrong about one thing. He had told Hoglund that two postmen already figured in this investigation. But there were actually three. What was it Sture Bjorklund had said that day? He had the feeling that someone had been at his house when he wasn't there. His neighbours knew how much he valued his privacy. The only person who came by regularly was the postman.
Could it have been the postman who put Svedberg's telescope in Bjorklund's shed? It wasn't just a wholly unreasonable idea, it was crazy. He was grasping at straws. He growled angrily to himself and started leafing through the various reports that lay on his desk. Before he'd got very far, Martinsson appeared in the doorway.
'How did it go?' Wallander asked.
'Ann-Britt told me about the woman who tried to jump out the window. We didn't have quite as bad a time of it, but it's so tragic. Torbjorn had just taken over the farm. The old couple were getting ready to hand over all the responsibility to the next generation. One son died in a car crash a few years ago. And now they have no one.'
'The killer doesn't consider things like that,' Wallander said.
Martinsson walked over and stood by the window. Wallander could see how shaken he was. Once upon a time, he had been an eager young recruit with all the best intentions - and at a time when becoming a police officer was no longer seen as something noble. Young people seemed to despise the profession, in fact. But Martinsson held fast to his ideals and genuinely wanted to be a good policeman. It was only during the last few years that Wallander had noticed his faith starting to slip. Now Wallander doubted that Martinsson would make it to retirement.
'He's going to do it again,' Martinsson said.
