'Simon was always very careful. He would not have let in an unknown person, least of all at night.'

'But for someone he knew?'

'Who would that have been?'

'I don't know. Everyone has friends.'

'Simon went to Lund once a month. There was an association for amateur astronomers there. He was on the board. That was the only social outlet he had, as far as I know.'

Wallander realised that Svedberg had missed a very important question.

'Do you have any children?'

'A daughter. Matilda.'

Something in the way she answered put Wallander on his guard. The faint change in tone had not escaped him. As if the question bothered her. He went on hesitantly.

'How old is she?'

'Twenty-four.'

'She no longer lives at home?'

Elisabeth Lamberg looked him straight in the eye as she answered.

'When Matilda was born she was seriously handicapped. We had her home for four years. Then it didn't work any more. Now she lives in an institution. She needs help with absolutely everything.'

Wallander was taken aback. Exactly what he had been expecting, he couldn't say, but it was hardly the answer he had received.

She continued to look him right in the eye.

'It was not my decision. It was Simon who wanted it. Not me. He made the decision.'

For one moment Wallander felt as if he were staring straight down into a bottomless pit. Her pain was that strong.

Wallander sat quietly for a long time before he went on.

'Can you think of anyone who would have had any reason to kill your husband?'

Her answers continued to astonish him.

'After that happened, I didn't know him any more.'

'Even though it was twenty years ago?'

'Some things never heal.'

'But you were still married?'

'We lived under the same roof. That was all.'

Wallander thought about it before continuing.

'So you have no idea who the murderer could be?'

'No.'

'Nor can you think of a motive?'

'No.'

Wallander now tackled the most important question head-on.

'When I arrived you said you knew me. Can you remember if your husband ever talked about me?'

She raised her eyebrows.

'Why would he have done that?'

'I don't know. But that's the question.'

'We never talked much to each other. But I cannot think of an occasion when we talked about you.'

Wallander proceeded to his next point.

'We found an album in the studio. There were a great number of photographs of heads of state and other well-known people in it. For some reason my picture appeared among them. Do you know of this album?'

'No.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'The photographs were distorted. All of these people, including me, were made to look like monsters. Your husband must have spent many hours achieving these effects. But you claim to know nothing about this?'

'No. It sounds very strange. Incredible.'

Wallander saw that she was telling the truth. She really did not know much about her husband, since for twenty years she had not wished to know anything.

Wallander got up out of his chair. He knew he would be back with more questions. But right now he had nothing more to say.

She followed him to the front door.

'My husband probably had many secrets,' she said out of the blue. 'But I didn't share them.'

'If you didn't, then who would have?'

'I don't know,' she said, almost pleading. 'But someone must have.'

'What kind of secrets?'

'I've already said that I don't know. But Simon was full of secret rooms. I neither wanted nor was able to look into them.'

Wallander nodded.

He ended up sitting in the car. It had started raining again.

What had she meant by that? Simon was a man 'full of secret rooms'. As if the inner office in the shop was only one? As if there were more? That they had not yet found?

He drove slowly back to the station. The anxiety that he had felt earlier became stronger.

The rest of the afternoon and evening they continued to spend working on what little material they had. Wallander went home at around ten o'clock. The squad would be meeting up the following morning at eight.

Back in his apartment, he heated up a can of beans, which was the only thing he could find in the way of food. He fell asleep a little after eleven.

The telephone call came at four minutes to midnight. Wallander lifted the receiver while still half asleep. It was a man who claimed to be out for a late-night walk. He introduced himself as the man who had taken care of Hilda Waldén that morning.

'I just saw someone slip into Lamberg's studio,' he whispered.

Wallander sat up in bed.

'Are you sure of that? And it was not a police officer?'

'A shadow slipped in through the door,' he said. 'My heart is bad. But there is nothing wrong with my eyes.'

The connection broke off, most likely due to a problem with the line. Wallander sat with the receiver in his hand. It was unusual for him to be called by someone other than the police, especially at night. His name was of course not printed in the telephone directory. But someone must have given the man Wallander's number during the morning chaos.

Then he got out of bed and quickly put on his clothes.

It was just past midnight.

Wallander arrived at the square where the studio was located a few minutes later. He had walked, or half run, since it was only a short distance from Mariagatan, where he lived. Nonetheless he was out of breath. When he arrived, he spotted a man standing a little way off in the distance. He hurried over to him, greeted him and took him to a place where they still had a view of the entrance but would not be as visible. The man was in his seventies and introduced himself as Lars Backman. He was a retired director of Handels Bank. He still referred to it by its former name, Svenska Handelsbanken.

'I live right next to here, on Ågatan,' he said. 'I am always out walking early in the morning and late at night. Doctor's orders.'

'Tell me what happened.'

'I saw a man slip in through the door to the studio.'

'A man? On the phone you called him a shadow.'

'I suppose I automatically thought it was a man. But of course it could have been a woman.'

'And you haven't seen anyone leave the shop?'

'I've been keeping my eye on it. No one has left.'

Wallander nodded. He ran over to the telephone booth and called Nyberg, who answered after the third ring. Wallander had the feeling that he had been asleep. But he didn't ask, he simply explained quickly what had happened. He extracted the most important piece of information, which was that Nyberg had keys to the shop. In addition, he had not left them at the police station but had them with him at home. He had been planning to return to the studio early the next morning in order to wrap up the forensic investigation. Wallander asked him to come as quickly as possible, then ended the call. Deliberated over whether he should contact Hansson or any of the others. All too often Wallander violated the rule that a detective who finds himself in a situa tion beyond his immediate control should never be alone. But Wallander hesitated. Nyberg counted as backup. Once he arrived they would decide how to proceed. Lars Backman was still there. Wallander asked him kindly to leave the square. Another officer was on his way and they needed to be left alone. Backman did not appear to be displeased at this dismissal. He simply nodded and left.

Wallander started to feel cold. He was only wearing a shirt under his coat. The wind had intensified. The cloud cover was breaking up. It was probably only a couple of degrees above freezing. He watched the entrance to the shop. Could Backman have been mistaken? He didn't think so. He tried to figure out if there was a light on inside. But it was impossible to tell. A car went by, then another. Then he spotted Nyberg on the other side of the square and went to meet him. They leaned against the side of a house in order to escape the wind. Wallander kept an eye on the shop entrance the entire time. He quickly told Nyberg what had happened. Nyberg stared back at him in amazement.