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in his chair. Martinsson had some papers in his hand.
"I want you to look at this. It happened last night. I was on duty and saw no reason to get you out of bed."
"Tell me."
Martinsson scratched his forehead. "A night patrolman called in at around 1 a.m., saying that there was a man lying dead in front of one of the cash machines outside a department store in the town."
"Which one?"
"The one next to the Inland Revenue."
Wallander nodded in recognition.
"We drove down to check it out. According to the doctor the man hadn't been dead long, a couple of hours at the outside. We'll have the autopsy report in a few days, of course."
"What had happened?"
"That's the question. He had an ugly wound on his head, but whether somebody hit him or whether he injured himself when falling to the ground, we couldn't tell."
"Had he been mugged?"
"His wallet was still there, with money in it."
Wallander thought for a moment. "No-one saw anything?"
"No."
"Who was he?"
Martinsson looked in his papers. "Name of Tynnes Falk. 47 years old and living nearby. He was renting the top-floor flat at 10 Apelbergsgatan."
Wallander raised his hand. "10 Apelbergsgatan?"
"That's right."
Wallander nodded slowly. A couple of years ago, soon after his divorce from Mona, he had met a woman during a night of dancing at the Hotel Saltsjöbaden. Wallander had been very drunk. He had gone home with her and woken up the next morning in a strange bed next to a woman he hardly recognised, whose name he couldn't remember. He had thrown his clothes on and left and never saw her again. For some reason, he was sure she had lived at 10 Apelbergsgatan.
"Do you recognise the address?" Martinsson said.
"I just didn't hear you."
Martinsson looked at him with surprise. "Was I mumbling?"
"Please go on."
"He was single, divorced actually. His ex-wife still lives here, but their children are all over the place. A boy of 19 is studying in Stockholm. The girl is 17 and works as a nanny at an embassy in Paris. The ex-wife has been notified."
"Where did he work?"
"He seems to have worked for himself. Some kind of computer consultant."
"And he wasn't robbed?"
"No, but he had just rung up his account balance at the cash machine before he died. He still had the slip in his hand when we found him."
"And he hadn't taken out any money?"
"The records say not."
"Strange. The most reasonable thing would be to assume that someone was waiting for him to withdraw money and then strike when he had the cash."
"That occurred to me as well, of course, but the last time he made a withdrawal was on Saturday, and that wasn't even a large sum of money."
Martinsson handed Wallander a plastic bag with a blood-spattered bank receipt. The time on it said 12.02 a.m. He handed it back to Martinsson.
"What does Nyberg say?"
"That nothing apart from the head wound points to a crime. He probably had a heart attack."
"Perhaps he had been expecting to see a higher figure than the one he found on the printout," Wallander said, thoughtfully.
"Why do you say that?"
Wallander wondered too. He stood up. "Let's wait for the autopsy report. Until then we'll assume no crime has been committed, so put it aside for now."
Martinsson gathered up his papers. "I'll contact the lawyer who was assigned to Hökberg. I'll let you know when he can be expected here so you can talk to her."
"Not that I want to," Wallander said. "But I suppose I should."
Martinsson left and Wallander walked to the toilets. He should be grateful at least that his days of constantly urinating due to elevated blood sugar were over.
For an hour he kept working on the contraband cigarettes case, while the thought of the favour he had agreed to do for Höglund nagged at the back of his mind.
At 4.02 p.m. Martinsson telephoned to say that Hökberg and her lawyer were ready.
"Who is he?" Wallander said.
"Herman Lötberg."
Wallander knew him. He was one of the older ones, and easy to work with. "I'll be there in five minutes," Wallander said, and hung up.
He walked