The cleaning woman's name was Hilda Walden. 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 Saltsjobadens 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 Malmo, 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 Malmo. 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,
