'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.