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 Lavendelvagen.'
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 Walden 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.
