'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?'