After lunch Wallander drove to Lavendelvägen. Again it was Karin Fahlman who opened the door. But this time Elisabeth Lamberg was not resting. She was sitting in the living room when Wallander came in. Again he was struck by her pallor. He had the feeling it came from somewhere inside and also had roots far back in time and was not simply a reaction to her husband's murder.
Wallander sat down across from her. She scrutinised him.
'We are no closer to solving this case,' Wallander began.
'I know you're doing the best you can,' she said.
Wallander briefly wondered what she really meant. Was it a disguised criticism of their work? Or did she mean it honestly?
'This is the second time that I've come to see you,' he said, 'but I think we can safely assume it will not be the last. New questions turn up all the time.'
'I'll try to answer to the best of my ability.'
'This time I haven't simply come to ask questions,' Wallander continued. 'I also need to be able to look through your husband's belongings.'
She nodded but said nothing.
Wallander decided to take the bull by the horns.
'Did your husband have any debts?'
'Not as far as I know. The house is paid for. He never made any new investments in the studio without knowing that he could pay off the loans quickly.'
'Could he have taken out any loans that you would not have known about?'
'Of course he could have. I've already explained this to you. We lived under the same roof, but we had separate lives. And he was very secretive.'
Wallander grabbed hold of the last thing she said.
'In what way was he secretive? I still haven't fully understood this.'
Her eyes bored into him.
'What is a secretive person? Perhaps it would be more precise to say that he was a closed person. One never knew if he really meant what he said. Or was thinking something completely different. I could be standing right next to him and have the feeling that he was somewhere far, far away. I could never determine if he really meant it when he smiled. I could never be sure of who he really was.'
'It must have been a trying situation,' Wallander said. 'But it could hardly always have been like that?'
'He changed a great deal. It started back when Matilda was born.'
'Twenty-four years ago?'
'Perhaps not immediately. Let me say twenty years ago. At first I thought it was grief. Over Matilda's fate. Then I didn't know any more. Before it grew worse.'
'Worse?'
'About seven years ago.'
'What happened then?'
'I honestly don't know.'
Wallander stopped and backed up a little.
'So if I understand this correctly, something happened seven years ago? Something that changed him dramatically?'
'Yes.'
'And you don't have any idea what this might have been?'
'Maybe. Every spring he would let his assistant take care of his business for about fourteen days. Then he would go on a bus trip somewhere down on the Continent.'
'But you didn't accompany him?'
'He wanted to go on his own. And I had no particular desire to go. If I wanted to get away, I would travel with my friends. To different places.'
'So what happened?'
'That time the destination was Austria. And when he came home he was completely changed. Seemed both upbeat and sad at the same time. When I tried to ask him about it he had one of the few outbursts of temper I ever experienced from him.'
Wallander had started making notes.
'When exactly did this happen?'
'Nineteen eighty-one. In February or March. The bus trip was arranged from Stockholm, but Simon got on in Malmö.'
'You don't happen to recall the name of the travel agency?'
'I think it was Markresor. He almost always went with them.'
After writing down this name, Wallander tucked the notebook into his pocket.
'Now I'd like to have a look around,' he said. 'Above all, I'd like to see his room.'
'He had two. A bedroom and an office.'
Both were located on the basement level. Wallander only cast a cursory glance at the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. She was standing behind him, watching what he did. Then they continued on to Lamberg's expansive office. The walls were covered with bookcases.
There was an extensive record collection, a well-used armchair and a large desk.
Wallander suddenly thought of something.
'Was your husband religious?' he asked.
'No,' she said, surprised. 'I can't imagine that he was.'
Wallander's gaze wandered along the spines of the books. There were literary works in many languages but also non-fiction on various subjects. Several rows of books were devoted to astronomy. Wallander sat down at the desk. Nyberg had given him the keys. He unlocked the first drawer. Lamberg's wife sat down in the reading chair.
'If you don't want to be disturbed, I'm happy to leave,' she said.
'That's not necessary,' Wallander answered.
It took him a couple of hours to comb through the office. She sat in the armchair the whole time and followed him with her eyes. He did not find anything that brought him or the investigation forward.
Something had happened on a trip to Austria about seven years ago, he thought. The question is simply: what?
It was close to five thirty when he gave up. Simon Lamberg's life appeared to have been hermetically sealed. No matter how hard he looked he could not find an entrance. They walked up to the ground floor again. Karin Fahlman was moving around in the background. Everything was quiet, just as before.
'Did you find what you were looking for?' Elisabeth Lamberg asked.
'I don't know what I'm looking for, other than a clue that could give us an idea about a motive and about who may have killed your husband. I have not found such a thing yet.'
Wallander said goodbye and drove back to the police station. The wind was still gusty. He was cold and wondered, for what seemed like the hundredth time, when spring was going to arrive.
He met up with the public prosecutor, Per Åkeson, outside the station. They walked into reception together. He gave Åkeson a quick overview of the case.
'So you have no direct leads to go on right now?' he said when Wallander was done.
'No,' Wallander answered. 'There is nothing yet that points in a particular direction. The needle of the compass is spinning wildly.'
Åkeson walked back out through the front doors. Wallander bumped into Svedberg in the corridor. He was just the person Wallander wanted to see. They went into Wallander's office and Svedberg sat down in the rickety visitor's chair. One of the armrests was threatening to come off.
'You should get a new chair,' he said.
'Do you think there's money for that?'
Wallander had his notebook out in front of him.
'There are two things I want to ask you,' he said. 'First, that you try to find out if there's a travel agency in Stockholm by the name of Markresor. Simon Lamberg went on a two-week trip with them to Austria in February or March of 1981. Find out what you can about this bus trip. And if you could dig up a passenger list after all these years that would be ideal.'
'Why is this important?'
'Something happened on that trip. His widow was very sure of that. Simon Lamberg was not the same when he returned.'
Svedberg made a note of this request.
'One more thing,' Wallander said. 'We should find out where this daughter, Matilda, is. She lives in an institution for the severely handicapped. But we don't know where.'
'You didn't ask about this?'
'I didn't think of it, actually. That blow last night might have been harder than I thought.'
'I'll find out about it,' Svedberg said and stood up.
He almost collided in the doorway with Hansson, who was on his way in.
'I think I've found something,' Hansson said. 'I've been searching for som
ething in my mind. Simon Lamberg never had any run-ins with the law, of course, but I still thought I remembered him from somewhere.'
Wallander and Svedberg waited eagerly. They both knew that Hansson from time to time had a good memory.
'I just thought of what it was,' he went on. 'About a year ago Lamberg wrote some letters of complaint to the police. He addressed them to Björk, even though almost none of his criticisms had anything to do with the Ystad police. Among other things he was unhappy about how we dealt with various cases of violent crime. One was about Kajsa Stenholm, who failed with that case in Stockholm that culminated down here last spring, after Bengt Alexandersson was killed. You were in charge of that one. I thought that might explain why your face was included in his bizarre photo album.'
Wallander nodded. Hansson could be right. But it didn't get them anywhere.
The feeling of being at a complete loss was very strong.
They simply had nothing concrete to go on.
The perpetrator was still only a fleeting shadow.
The weather changed on the third day of the investigation. When Wallander woke up fully rested at half past five, the sun shone through the window. The thermometer outside the kitchen window said it was seven degrees above zero Celsius. Perhaps spring had finally arrived.
Wallander studied his face in the bathroom mirror. His left cheek was swollen and blue. When he gently tried to remove the bandage at his hairline, the wound immediately started to bleed. He searched around for a fresh Band-Aid and put it on. Then he felt the temporary crown on his tooth. He still had not become accustomed to it. He showered and put on his clothes. The mountain of dirty laundry drove him grumpily down to the laundry room to sign up for a time while the coffee was brewing. He could not comprehend how so much laundry could accumulate in such a short time. Normally Mona managed the laundry. He felt a tug inside when he thought of her. Then he sat down at the kitchen table and read the paper. Lamberg's murder was given a lot of space. Björk had spoken to the press, and Wallander nodded approvingly. He had expressed himself well. Spelled out the facts, no speculation.
At a quarter past six, Wallander left the apartment and drove up to the station. Since everyone on the squad had a lot to do, they had decided to meet at the end of the day. The systematic mapping of Simon Lamberg, his habits, finances, social circle and past required time. Wallander had decided to investigate whether there was any basis to the rumours that Gunnar Larsson had talked about. That Simon Lamberg had been a man who had moved in the illegal world of gambling. He decided to draw on an old contact. He was planning to drive to Malmö and look up a man he hadn't seen for four years. But he knew where he was most likely to be found. He walked out to reception, went through the telephone messages, and decided there was nothing important. Then he went to Martinsson, who was an early riser. He was sitting in front of the computer, engaged in a search.
'How's it going?' Wallander asked.
Martinsson shook his head.
'Simon Lamberg must have been the closest to an umblemished citizen that you can get,' he said. 'Not a speck, not even a parking ticket. Nothing.'
'There were rumours that he gambled,' Wallander said. 'Illegally, no less, and that he had accumulated unregulated debt. I was planning to spend the morning looking into it. I'm driving up to Malmö.'
'What weather we have,' Martinsson said, without looking up from the screen.
'Yes,' Wallander said. 'I think it gives us grounds for hope.'
Wallander drove to Malmö. The temperature had risen by a few degrees. He enjoyed the thought of the transformation the landscape would now undergo. But not many minutes went by before his thoughts returned to the murder case that was his responsibility. They still lacked direction. They had no apparent motive. Simon Lamberg's death was incomprehensible. A photographer who had lived a quiet life. Who had undergone the tragedy of having a severely handicapped daughter. Who also to all intents and purposes lived separated from his wife. Nothing in all of this indicated, however, that anyone would have felt the need to crush his head with a furious blow.
To top it off, something had occurred on a bus trip to Austria seven years ago. Something that had significantly altered Lamberg.
Wallander surveyed the landscape as he drove. He wondered what it was in this picture of Lamberg that he had not seen through. There was something blurry about his whole figure. His life, his character, were strangely ephemeral.
Wallander arrived in Malmö shortly before eight o'clock. He drove straight to the parking garage behind the Savoy Hotel, then used the back entrance to the hotel. He headed for the dining room.
The man he was looking for was sitting by himself at a table at the very back of the room. He was absorbed in the morning paper. Wallander walked up to the table. The man started and looked up.
'Kurt Wallander,' he said. 'Are you so hungry that you have to come all the way to Malmö to eat breakfast?'
'Your logic is off as usual,' Wallander answered, and sat down.
He poured himself a cup of coffee as he thought about the first time he had met Peter Linder, the man on the other side of the table. It had been more than ten years ago, in the mid-1970s. Wallander had just started working in Ystad. They had made a raid on an illegal gambling club that had sprung up on a remotely located farm outside Hedeskoga. It had been clear to everyone that Peter Linder had been the man behind this business. The large profits had gone to him. But at the subsequent trial Linder had been acquitted. A band of lawyers had been able to put a hole in the prosecutor's case, and Linder had left the court a free man. No one had been able to get at the money he had made, since no one had been able to figure out where it was. A few days after the verdict, he had unexpectedly turned up at the police station and asked to speak to Wallander. He had complained of the treatment he had received at the hands of the Swedish legal system. Wallander had been furious.
'Everyone knows that you were behind it,' he had said.
'Of course it was me,' Peter Linder replied. 'But the prosecutor didn't manage to prove it well enough to determine my guilt. This does not mean, however, that I have to abandon my right to complain of mistreatment.'
Peter Linder's impudence had rendered Wallander speechless. For the next couple of years he was absent from Wallander's life. But one day an anonymous letter arrived to Wallander with a tip about another gambling club in Ystad. This time they managed to arrest and sentence several of the men involved. Wallander had known the whole time that it was Peter Linder who had written the anonymous letter. Since for some reason he had mentioned to Wallander at that first meeting that he 'always ate dinner at the Savoy', Wallander had looked him up there. With a smile, he had denied having written the letter. But both of them had known better.
'I'm reading in the paper that photographers live dangerously in Ystad,' Peter Linder said.
'No more dangerously than in other places.'
'And gambling clubs?'
'I think we're free of those for the moment.'
Peter Linder smiled. His eyes were very blue.
'Perhaps I should consider re-establishing myself in the Ystad region. What do you think?'