Authors: Henning Mankell
He left the window, went out to the break room, and got a cup of coffee. While he walked back down the corridor he tried to understand what could have happened.
Simon Lamberg was a photographer, approaching sixty. A man with regular habits whose way of conducting his business was beyond reproach, photographing confirmations, weddings and children of various ages. According to his cleaning lady he came into the studio two evenings a week. At these times he sat in his inner office and shuffled papers around, listened to music. If the cleaning lady's information was correct he usually left around midnight.
Wallander came back to his office. He took up his former position at the window with the cup of coffee in his hand and stared out into the rain.
Why did Lamberg spend those evenings sitting in the studio?
Something about the situation stirred Wallander's curiosity.
He checked his watch. At that moment Ebba called. She had reached his dentist. Wallander could be seen at once.
He decided not to wait. If he was going to lead a murder investigation he couldn't walk around with a toothache. He went over to
Martinsson's office.
'I broke a tooth yesterday,' he said. 'I'm going to the dentist. But I'm assuming I'll be back within the hour. Let's have a meeting then. Has
Svedberg come back?'
'Not that I know.'
'Try Nyberg and see if he can make it in an hour or so. Then we'll be able to get his initial impression.'
Martinsson yawned and stretched.
'Who can possibly have had anything to gain by killing an old photographer?' he said. 'There doesn't appear to have been any burglary.'
'Old?' Wallander objected. 'He was fifty-six. But other than that I agree with you.'
'He was attacked inside the shop. How did the perpetrator enter?'
'Either with a key or else Lamberg let him in.'
'Lamberg was struck from behind.'
'Which can have many different explanations. And we have none of them.'
Wallander left the station and walked down to the dentist, who had his practice by the Main Square, right next to the electronics shop. As a child, Wallander had always been afraid of the dentist visits he had been dragged to. As an adult the fear had suddenly left him. Now he simply wanted to be free from the pain as quickly as possible. But he realised the broken tooth was a sign of ageing. He was only forty years old. But the deterioration had already started to set in.
Wallander was shown in at once and took his place in the dentist's chair. The dentist was young and worked quickly, with ease. He was done in about half an hour. The pain changed into a dull throbbing.
'It will soon be gone,' the dentist said. 'But you should come back here so that we can remove that tartar. I don't think you brush as well as you should.'
'Probably not,' Wallander said.
He made an appointment to come back in two weeks and returned to the station. At ten o'clock he gathered his colleagues in the conference room. Svedberg had returned, and Nyberg was also present.
Wallander sat at his usual place at the head of the table. Then he looked around. He wondered briefly how many times he had sat here, gathering himself to launch into yet another criminal investigation. He had noticed that it took more effort over the years. But he also knew that there was nothing else to do but throw oneself into it. They had a brutal murder to solve. It could not wait.
'Does anyone know where Rydberg is?' he asked.
'Backache,' Martinsson replied.
'Too bad,' Wallander said. 'We could have used him here now.'
He turned to Nyberg, and nodded at him to start.
'It is of course too early to say,' Nyberg said, 'but there are no indications of burglary. No marks on any doors, nothing that appears to have been stolen, at least not at first glance. The whole thing is very strange.'
Wallander had not expected Nyberg to have made any decisive observations at this stage. But he had still wanted him to be present.
He turned to Svedberg.
'As expected, Elisabeth Lamberg got a terrible shock. Apparently they have separate bedrooms. She doesn't normally notice when he comes home if he's out at night. They had dinner at about half past six that night. Shortly before eight he left for the studio. She went to bed a little after eleven and fell asleep at once. She doesn't understand who could have murdered him. She dismissed the idea that he had any enemies.'
Wallander nodded.
'Then this is what we know,' he said. 'We have a dead photographer.
But that is also all that we know.'
Everyone knew what this meant. Now the laborious investigations would proceed.
Where this would lead them they had no idea.
The case review that morning, the first in the hunt for the single or multiple perpetrators who for unknown reasons were responsible for the murder of the photographer Simon Lamberg, was of short duration.
There were countless routine methods for proceeding that they always followed. They had to wait for the report from the medical examiner's office in Lund, as well as the results of the forensic investigation of the crime scene that Nyberg and his men were conducting.
They would now make a study of Simon Lamberg and chart out the life that he had lived. They would also question neighbours and look for others who might have witnessed something. There was naturally also hope that even in these early stages information would come in that would make it possible to clear up the murder in the course of a few days. But Wallander already had an instinctive feeling that they stood on the brink of a complicated case. They had very little – or rather, nothing – to go on.
He noticed as he sat in the conference room that he was anxious.
The ache in his tooth was now gone. But instead he had this new worry in his stomach.
Björk came into the room and sat down to listen to Wallander's attempt to make a preliminary review of the events and timeline. No one had any questions when it was over. They assigned the most import ant tasks and then broke up the meeting. Wallander would speak with Lamberg's widow later in the day. First he wanted to do a more thorough inspection of the crime scene. Nyberg said he could let
Wallander into the studio and the inner room in a couple of hours.
Björk and Wallander lingered in the conference room after the others had filed out.
'You don't believe this was a burglar who was caught red-handed and got out of control?' Björk asked.
'No,' Wallander answered. 'But I could very well be wrong. We cannot rule out any possibilities. But I wonder what a burglar thought he would be able to get in Lamberg's studio.'
'Cameras?'
'He didn't sell any photographic equipment. He only took pictures.
The only items he had for sale were frames and albums. I think a burglar hardly makes an effort for that.'
'What does that leave? A private motive?'
'I don't know. But according to Svedberg, the widow, Elisabeth
Lamberg, was apparently adamant that he had no enemies.'
'But there is also no indication that it was a crazed madman?'
Wallander shook his head.
'There are no indications of anything,' he said, 'but we can make three reflections even at this stage. How did the perpetrator enter the studio? There are no marks on the door or windows. Lamberg had most likely not left the door unlocked. According to Elisabeth Lamberg he was always careful about locking.'
'That leaves two possibilities. Either he had a key. Or else Simon
Lamberg let him in.'
Wallander nodded. Björk had understood. He went on.
'The second observation is that the blow that killed Lamberg was delivered with violent force to the back of the head. That can be a sign of determination. Or rage. Or both. And a great capacity for strength.
At the moment of his death, Simon Lamberg had turned his back on the killer. Which in turn could mean two things. That he had not expected anything bad. Or he had tried to flee.'
'If he had let in the person who killed him, that would explain why he turned his back.'
'We can probably take yet another step,' Wallander said. 'Would he have let someone in that late at night who he didn't have a good relationship with?'
'Anything else?'
'According to the cleaning lady, Lamberg was in the habit of going to his studio two evenings a week. The days could vary. But there is a possibility that the perpetrator was aware of this. It is conceivable that we are looking for someone who knew Lamberg's habits, at least in part.'
They left the conference room and ended up standing in the hallway.
'That means that there are at least some possible avenues for investigation,'
Björk said. 'It's not a complete void.'
Wallander made a face.
'Almost,' he said. 'It's as close to a void as it can be. We could have used Rydberg.'
'I'm worried about his back problems,' Björk said. 'Sometimes I have the feeling it's something else.'
Wallander stared at him with surprise.
'What would that be?'
'He may have another illness. Back pain doesn't have to come from just muscles or bone.'
Wallander knew that Björk had a brother-in-law who was a doctor.
And since Björk from time to time considered himself to be suffering from any number of severe illnesses, Wallander assumed he was now transferring his concerns onto Rydberg.
'Rydberg always gets better after a week or so,' Wallander said.
They parted ways. Wallander returned to his room. Since the news of the murder had now spread, Ebba was able to give him the message that several reporters had called and asked when they would be able to get information. Without consulting anyone, Wallander announced that he would be available to answer questions at three o'clock.
Afterwards he devoted an hour to writing a summary of the case for himself. He had just finished when Nyberg called to say that
Wallander could now start investigating the back room. Nyberg had still not made any noteworthy discoveries. Nor could the medical examiner state anything other than that Lamberg had been killed by a violent blow to the back of the head. Wallander asked if they could say something about the kind of weapon that had been used at this stage. But it was too early for an answer. Wallander ended the conversation and his thoughts returned to Rydberg. His teacher and mentor, the most skilled detective he had ever met. He had taught Wallander how impor t ant it was to turn and twist one's arguments and approach a problem from an unexpected angle.
I could have used him right now, Wallander thought. Maybe I should call him at home tonight.
He walked to the break room and drank yet another cup of coffee.
Carefully munched on a rusk. The pain in his tooth did not return.
Since he felt tired from his interrupted sleep the night before, he took a walk down to St Gertrude's Square. The drizzling rain continued.
He wondered when spring was coming. Our collective Swedish impatience in April is very high, he thought. Spring never seems to come at the right time. Winter always comes too early and spring too late.
Several people were gathered outside Lamberg's shop. Wallander knew some of them or at least had seen their faces before. He nodded and said hello. But he did not answer any questions. He stepped over the police tape and walked into the shop. Nyberg was standing with a
Thermos mug in his hand, arguing with one of his technicians. He did not stop when Wallander walked in. Only when he had finished saying his piece did he turn to Wallander. He pointed towards the studio. The body had been removed. There was only the large bloodstain on the white background paper. An artificial trail of plastic had been laid out.
'Walk there,' Nyberg instructed. 'We found a lot of footprints in the studio.'
Wallander pulled plastic booties over his shoes, slipped some rubber gloves into his pocket, and carefully walked into the room that had served as a combination office and developing room.
Wallander remembered how he, when he was very young, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, had nourished a passionate dream of becoming a photographer. But he did not aspire to have his own studio; he was going to be a press photographer. At all great events he would be there on the front lines and he would take his pictures while others took pictures of him.
As he stepped into the inner room he wondered where that dream had gone. It had suddenly just left him. Today he owned a simple
Instamatic that he rarely used. Several years later he wanted to become an opera singer. Nothing had come of that either.
He removed his coat and looked around the room. From the studio he could hear that Nyberg had started arguing again. Wallander heard vaguely that it was about a sloppy measurement of the distance between two footprints. He walked over to the radio and turned it on. Classical music. Lamberg walked down to the studio sometimes in the evenings,
Hilda Waldén had said. To work and to listen to music. Classical music.
So far so good. He sat down at the desk. Everything was carefully arranged. He lifted the green writing pad. Nothing. Then he stood up and walked out to see Nyberg and ask if they had found any keys. They had. Wallander put on his rubber gloves and walked back. He searched for the right key to open the desk cabinet. In the top drawer there were various tax documents and other correspondence with Lamberg's accountant. Wallander gingerly leafed through the papers. He was not looking for anything in particular. Therefore anything could turn out to be important.
He went drawer by drawer methodically. Nothing caught his eye. So far Simon Lamberg's life was a well-organised one, without secrets, without surprises. But he was still only scraping the surface. He bent down and and pulled out the lowest drawer. There was just a photo album inside. The cover and binding were made of a luxurious leather. Wallander put it on the desk in front of him and turned to the front page. He studied the single snapshot with a furrowed brow. It was no larger than a passport photograph. Wallander had noticed a magnifying glass in one of the other drawers he had searched. Now he located it again, turned on one of the two desk lamps, and studied the image more closely.
It was a picture of the American president, Ronald Reagan. But it was deformed, the face had been distorted. It was still Ronald Reagan. And yet not. The wrinkled old man had been turned into a horrifying monster.
Right next to the picture there was a date written in ink: 10 August 1984.