The Man on the Balcony

1

AT A QUARTER to three the sun rose.

An hour and a half earlier the traffic had thinned out and died away, together with the noise of the last night revelers on their way home. The street-sweeping machines had passed, leaving dark wet strips here and there on the asphalt. An ambulance had wailed down the long, straight street. A black car with white mudguards, radio antenna on the roof and the word POLICE in white block letters on the sides had glided past, silently and slowly. Five minutes later the tinkle of broken glass had been heard as someone drove a gloved hand through a shop window; then came the sound of running footsteps and a car tearing off down a sidestreet.

The man on the balcony had observed all this. The balcony was the ordinary kind with tubular iron rail and sides of corrugated metal. He had stood leaning on the rail, and the glow of his cigarette had been a tiny dark-red spot in the dark. At regular intervals he had stubbed out a cigarette, carefully picked the butt—barely a third of an inch long—out of the wooden holder and placed it beside the others. Ten of these butts were already neatly lined up along the edge of the saucer on the little garden table.

It was quiet now, as quiet as it could be on a mild early summer's night in a big city. A couple of hours still remained before the women who delivered the newspapers appeared, pushing their converted prams, and before the first office cleaner went to work.

The bleak half-light of dawn was dispersed slowly; the first hesitant sunbeams groped over the five-storied and six-storied apartment houses and were reflected in the television aerials and the round chimney pots above the roofs on the other side of the street. Then the light fell on the metal roofs themselves, slid quickly down and crept over the eaves along plastered brick walls with rows of unseeing windows, most of which were screened by drawn curtains or lowered Venetian blinds.

The man on the balcony leaned over and looked down the street. It ran from north to south and was long and straight; he could survey a stretch of more than two thousand yards. Once it had been an avenue, a showplace and the pride of the city, but forty years had passed since it was built. The street was almost exactly the same age as the man on the balcony.

When he strained his eyes he could make out a lone figure in the far distance. Perhaps a policeman. For the first time in several hours he went into the apartment; he passed through the living room and out into the kitchen. It was broad daylight now and he had no need to switch on the electric light; in fact he used it very sparingly even in the winter. Opening a cupboard, he took out an enamel coffeepot, then measured one and a half cups of water and two spoonfuls of coarse-ground coffee. He put the pot on the stove, struck a match and lit the gas. Felt the match with his fingertips to make sure it had gone out, then opened the door of the cupboard under the sink and threw the dead match into the garbage bag. He stood at the stove until the coffee had boiled up, then turned the gas off and went out to the bathroom and urinated while waiting for the grounds to sink. He avoided flushing the toilet so as not to disturb the neighbors. Went back to the kitchen, poured the coffee carefully into the cup, took a lump of sugar from the half-empty packet on the sink and a spoon out of the drawer. Then he carried the cup to the balcony, put it on the varnished wooden table and sat down o" the folding chair. The sun had already climbed fairly high and lit up the front of the buildings on the other side of the street down as far as the two lowest apartments. Taking a nickel-plated snuffbox from his trouser pocket, he crumbled the cigarette butts one by one, letting the tobacco flakes run through his fingers down into the round metal box and crumpling the bits of paper into pea-sized balls which he placed on the chipped saucer. He stirred the coffee and drank it very slowly. The sirens sounded again, far away. He stood up and watched the ambulance as the howl grew louder and louder and then subsided. A minute later the ambulance was nothing but a small white rectangle which turned left at the north end of the street and vanished from sight. Sitting down again on the folding chair he abstractedly stirred the coffee, which was now cold. He sat quite still, listening to the city wake up around him, at first reluctantly and undecidedly.

The man on the balcony was of average height and normal build. His face was nondescript and he was dressed in a white shirt with no tie, impressed brown gabardine trousers, gray socks and black shoes. His hair was thin and brushed straight back, he had a big nose and gray-blue eyes.

The time was half past six on the morning of June 2, 1967. The city was Stockholm.

The man on the balcony had no feeling of being observed. He had no particular feeling of anything. He thought he would make some oatmeal a little later.

The street was coming alive. The stream of motor vehicles was denser and every time the traffic lights at the intersection changed to red the line of waiting cars grew longer. A baker's van tooted angrily at a cyclist who swung out heedlessly into the road. Two cars behind braked with a screech.

The man got up, leaned his arms on the balcony rail and looked down into the street. The cyclist wobbled anxiously in towards the sidewalk, pretending not to hear the abuse slung at him by the delivery man.

On the sidewalks a few pedestrians hurried along. Two women in light summer dresses stood talking by the gasoline station below the balcony, and farther away a man was exercising his dog. He jerked impatiently at the lead while the dachshund unconcernedly sniffed around the trunk of a tree.

The man on the balcony straightened up, smoothed his thinning hair and put his hands in his pockets. The time now was twenty to eight and the sun was high. He looked up at the sky where a jet plane was drawing a trail of white wool in the blue. Then he lowered his eyes once more to the street and watched an elderly white-haired woman in a pale-blue coat who was standing outside the baker's in the building opposite. She fumbled for a long time in her handbag before getting out a key and unlocking the door. He saw her take out the key, put it in the lock on the inside and then shut the door after her. Drawn down behind the pane of the door was a white blind with the word CLOSED.

At the same moment the apartment-house entrance door next to the baker's opened and a little girl came out into the sunshine. The man on the balcony moved back a step, took his hands out of his pockets and stood quite still. His eyes were glued to the girl down in the street

She looked about eight or nine and was carrying a red-checked satchel. She was wearing a short blue skirt, a striped T-shirt and a red jacket with sleeves that were too short. On her feet she had black wooden-soled sandals that made her long thin legs seem even longer and thinner. She turned to the left outside the door and started walking slowly along the street with lowered head.

The man on the balcony followed her with his eyes. When she had gone about twenty yards she stopped, raised her hand to her breast and stood like that for a moment. Then she opened the satchel and rummaged in it while she turned and began to walk back. Then she broke into a run and rushed back inside without closing the satchel

The man on the balcony stood quite still and watched the entrance door close behind her. Some minutes passed before it opened again and the girl came out She had closed the satchel now and walked more quickly. Her fair hair was tied in a pony tail and swung against her back. When she got to the end of the block she turned the corner and disappeared.

The time was three minutes to eight. The man turned around, went inside and into the kitchen. There he drank a glass of water, rinsed the glass, put it on the rack and went out again onto the balcony.

He sat down on the folding chair and laid his left arm on the rail. He lighted a cigarette and looked down into the street while he smoked.

2

THE TIME by the electric wall-clock was five minutes to eleven and the date, according to the calendar on Gunvald Larsson's desk, was Friday, June 2, 1967.

Martin Beck was only in the room by chance. He had just come in and put down his case on the floor inside the door. He had said hello, laid his hat beside the carafe on the filing cabinet, taken a glass from the tray and filled it with water, leaned against the cabinet and was about to drink. The man behind the desk looked at him ill-humoredly and said:

'Have they sent you here too? What have we done wrong now?"

Martin Beck took a sip of water.

'Nothing, as far as I know. And don't worry. I only came up to see Melander. I asked him to do something for me. Where is he?"

'In the lavatory as usual."

Melander's curious capacity for always being in the lavatory was a hackneyed joke, and although there was a grain of truth in it Martin Beck for some reason felt irritated.

Mostly, however, he kept his irritation to himself. He gave the man at the desk a calm, searching look and said:

'What's bothering you?"

'What do you think? The muggings of course. There was one in Vanadis Park last night again."

'So I heard."

'A pensioner who was out with his dog. Struck on the head from behind. A hundred and forty kronor in his wallet. Concussion. Still in hospital. Heard nothing. Saw nothing." Martin Beck was silent.

'This was the eighth time in two weeks. That guy will end by killing someone."

Martin Beck drained the glass and put it down. "If someone doesn't grab him soon," Gunvald Larsson said. "Who do you mean by someone?"

'The police, for Christ's sake. Us. Anybody. A civil patrol from the protection squad in ninth district was there ten minutes before it happened."

'And when it happened? Where were they then?" "Sitting over coffee at the station. It's the same all the time. If there's a policeman hiding in every bush in Vanadis Park, then it happens in Vasa Park, and if there's a policeman hiding in every bush in both Vanadis Park and Vasa Park, then he pops up in Lill-Jans Wood."

'And if there's a policeman in every bush there too?" "Then the demonstrators break up the US Trade Center and set fire to the American embassy. This is no joking matter," Gunvald Larsson added stiffly.

Keeping his eyes fixed on him, Martin Beck said: "I'm not joking. I just wondered."

'This man knows his business. It's almost as if he had radar. There's never a policeman in sight when he attacks."

Martin Beck rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Send out…" Larsson broke in at once.

'Send out? Whom? What? The dog van? And let those goddamn dogs tear the civil patrol to pieces? Yesterday's victim had a dog, come to that. What good was it to him?" "What kind of dog?"

'How the hell do I know? Shall I interrogate the dog perhaps? Shall I get the dog here and send it out to the lavatory so that Melander can interrogate it?"

Gunvald Larsson said this with great gravity. He pounded the desk with his fist and went on:

'A lunatic prowls about the parks bashing people on the head and you come here and start talking about dogs!" "Actually it wasn't I who…" Again Gunvald Larsson interrupted him.

'Anyway, I told you, this man knows his business. He only goes for defenseless old men and women. And always from behind. What was it someone said last week? Oh yes, 'he leaped out of the bushes like a panther.'"

'There's only one way," Martin Beck said in a honeyed voice.

'What's that?"

'You'd better go out yourself. Disguised as a defenseless old man."

The man at the desk turned his head and glared at him.

Gunvald Larsson was six foot three and weighed 216 pounds. He had shoulders like a heavyweight boxer and huge hands covered with shaggy blond ban-. He had fair hair, brushed straight back, and discontented, clear blue eyes. Kollberg usually completed the description by saying that the expression on his face was that of a motorcyclist.

Just now the blue eyes were looking at Martin Beck with more than the usual disapproval.

Martin Beck shrugged and said:

'Joking apart…"

And Gunvald Larsson interrupted him at once.

'Joking apart I can't see anything funny in this. Here am I up to my neck in one of the worst cases of robbery I've ever known, and along you come driveling about dogs and God knows what."

Martin Beck realized that the other man, no doubt unintentionally, was about to do something that only few succeeded in: to annoy him to the point of making him lose his temper. And although he was quite well aware of this, he could not help raising his arm from the cabinet and saying:

'That's enough!"

At that moment, fortunately, Melander came in from the room next door. He was in his shirtsleeves, and had a pipe in his mouth and an open telephone directory in his hands.

'Hello," he said.

'Hello," said Martin Beck.

'I thought of the name the second you hung up," Melander said. "Arvid Larsson. Found him in the telephone directory too. But it's no good calling him. He died in April. Stroke. But he was in the same line of business up to the last. Had a rag-and-bone shop on the south side. It's shut now."

Martin Beck took the directory, looked at it and nodded. Melander dug a matchbox out of his trouser pocket and began elaborately lighting his pipe. Martin Beck took two steps into the room and put the directory down on the table. Then he went back to the filing cabinet.

'What are you busy on, you two?" Gunvald Larsson asked suspiciously.

'Nothing much," Melander said. "Martin had forgotten the name of a fence we tried to nail twelve years ago." "And did you?" "No," said Melander. "But you remembered it?" "Yes."

Gunvald Larsson pulled the directory towards him, riffled through it and said:

'How the devil can you remember the name of a man called Larsson for twelve years?"

'It's quite easy," Melander said gravely. The telephone rang. "First division, duty officer. "Sorry, madam, what did you say? "What?

'Am I a detective? This is the duty officer of the first division, Detective Inspector Larsson. "And your name is…?"

Gunvald Larsson took a ball-point pen from his breast pocket and scribbled a word. Then sat with the pen in midair.

'And what can I do for you? "Sorry, I didn't get that "Eh? A what? "A cat?

'A cat on the balcony?'

'Oh, a man.

'Is there a man standing on your balcony?" Gunvald Larsson pushed the telephone directory aside and drew a memo pad towards him. Put pen to paper. Wrote a few words.

'Yes, I see. What does he look like, did you say? "Yes, I'm listening. Thin hair brushed straight back. Big nose. Aha. White shirt. Average height. Hm. Brown trousers. Unbuttoned. What? Oh, the shirt. Blue-gray eyes.

'One moment, madam. Let's get this straight You mean he's standing on his own balcony?"

Gunvald Larsson looked from Melander to Martin Beck and shrugged. He went on listening and poked his ear with the pen.

'Sorry, madam. You say this man is standing on his own balcony? Has he molested you?

'Oh, he hasn't. What? On the other side of the street? On his own balcony?

'Then how can you see that he has blue-gray eyes? It must be a very narrow street.

'What? You're doing what?

'Now wait a minute, madam. All this man has done is to stand on his own balcony. What else is he doing?

'Looking down into the street? What's happening in the street?

'Nothing? What did you say? Cars? Children playing?

'At night too? Do the children play at night too?

'Oh, they don't. But he stands there at night? What do you want us to do? Send the dog van?

'As a matter of fact there's no law forbidding people to stand on their balconies, madam.

'Report an observation, you say? Heavens above, madam, if everyone reported their observations we'd need three policemen for every inhabitant.

'Grateful? We ought to be grateful?

'Impertinent? I've been impertinent? Now look here, madam…"

Gunvald Larsson broke off and sat with the receiver a foot from his ear.

'She hung up," he said in amazement.

After three seconds he banged down the receiver and said:

'Go to hell, you old bitch."

He tore off the sheet of paper he had been writing on and carefully wiped the ear wax off the tip of the pen.

'People are crazy," he said. "No wonder we get nothing done. Why doesn't the switchboard block calls like that? There ought to be a direct line to the nut house."

'You'll just have to get used to it," Melander said, calmly taking his telephone directory, closing it and going into the next room.

Gunvald Larsson, having finished cleaning his pen, crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. With a sour look at the suitcase by the door he said:

'Where are you off to?"

'Just going down to Motala for a couple of days," Martin Beck replied. "Something there I must look at."

'Oh."

'Be back inside a week. But Kollberg will be home today. He's on duty here as from tomorrow. So you needn't worry."

'I'm not worrying."

'By the way, those robberies…"

“Yes?”

'No, it doesn't matter."

'If he does it twice more well get him," Melander said from the next room.

'Exactly," said Martin Beck. "So long."

'So long," Gunvald Larsson replied.

3

MARTIN BECK got to Central Station nineteen minutes before the train was due to leave and thought he would fill in the time by making two telephone calls.

First home.

'Haven't you left yet?" his wife said.

He ignored this rhetorical question and merely said:

'll1 be staying at a hotel called the Palace. Thought you'd better know."

'How long will you be away?"

'A week."

'How do you know for certain?"

This was a good question. She wasn't dumb at any rate, Martin Beck thought.

'Love to the children," he said, adding after a moment, "take care of yourself."

'Thanks," she said coldly.

He hung up and fished another coin out of his trouser pocket. There was a line in front of the call boxes and the people standing nearest glared at him as he put the coin in the slot and dialed the number of southern police headquarters. It took about a minute before he got Kollberg on the line.

'Beck here. Just wanted to make sure you were back."

'Very thoughtful of you," Kollberg said. "Are you still here?"

'How's Gun?"

'Fine. Big as a house of course."

Gun was Kollberg's wife; she was expecting a baby at the end of August. "Ill be back in a week."

'So I gather. And by that time I shall no longer be on duty here."

There was a pause, then Kollberg said:

'What takes you to Motala?"

'That fellow…"

'Which fellow?"

'That junk dealer who was burned to death the night before last. Haven't you…"

"I read about it in the papers. So what?"

'I'm going down to have a look."

'Are they so dumb they can't clear up an ordinary fire on their own?"

'Anyway they've asked…"

'Look here," Kollberg said. "You might get your wife to swallow that, but you can't kid me. Anyway, I know quite well what they've asked and who has asked it. Who's head of the investigation department at Motala now?" "Ahlberg, but…"

'Exactly. I also know that you've taken five vacation days that were due to you. In other words you're going to Motala in order to sit and tipple at the City Hotel with Ahlberg. Am I right?" "Well…"

'Good luck," Kollberg said genially. "Behave yourself."

'Thanks."

Martin Beck hung up and the man standing behind him elbowed his way roughly past him. Beck shrugged and went out into the main hall of the station.

Kollberg was right up to a point. This in itself didn't matter in the least, but it was vexing all the same to be seen through so easily. Both he and Kollberg had met Ahlberg in connection with a murder case three summers earlier. The investigation had been long and difficult and in the course of it they had become good friends. Otherwise Ahlberg would hardly have asked the national police board for help and he himself would not have wasted half a day's work on the case.

The station clock showed that the two telephone calls had taken exactly four minutes; there was still a quarter of an hour before the train left. As usual the big hall was swarming with people of all kinds.

Suitcase in hand, he stood there glumly, a man of medium height with a lean face, a broad forehead and a strong jaw. Most of those who saw him probably took him for a bewildered provincial who suddenly found himself in the rush and bustle of the big city.

'Hi, mister," someone said in a hoarse whisper. He turned to look at the person who had accosted him. A girl in her early teens was standing beside him; she had lank fair hair and was wearing a short batik dress. She was barefoot and duty and looked the same age as his own daughter. In her cupped right hand she was holding a strip of four photographs, which she let him catch a glimpse of.

It was very easy to trace these pictures. The girl had gone into one of the automatic photo machines, knelt on the stool, pulled her dress up to her armpits and fed her coins into the slot.

The curtains of these photo cubicles had been shortened to knee height, but it didn't seem to have helped much. He glanced at the pictures; young girls these days developed earlier than they used to, he thought. And the little slobs never thought of wearing anything underneath either. All the same, the photos had not come out very well.

'Twenty-five kronor?" the child said hopefully. Martin Beck looked around in annoyance and caught sight of two policemen in uniform on the other side of the hall. He went over to them. One of them recognized him and saluted. "Cant you keep the kids here in order?" Martin Beck said angrily.

'We do our best, sir."

The policeman who answered was the same one who had saluted, a young man with blue eyes and a fak, well-trimmed beard.

Martin Beck said nothing but turned and walked towards the glass doors leading out to the platforms. The girl in the batik dress was now standing farther down the hall, looking furtively at the pictures, wondering if there was something wrong with her appearance.

Before long some idiot was sure to buy her photographs. Then off she would go to Humlegården or Mariatorget and buy purple hearts or marijuana with the money. Or perhaps LSD.

The policeman who recognized him had had a beard. Twenty-four years earlier, when he himself joined the force, policemen had not worn beards.

By the way, why hadn't the other policeman saluted, the one without a beard? Because he hadn't recognized him?

Twenty-four years ago policemen had saluted anyone who came up to them even if he were not a superintendent. Or had they?

In those days girls of fourteen and fifteen had not photographed themselves naked in photo machines and tried to sell the pictures to detective superintendents ia order to get money for a fix.

Anyway, he was not a bit pleased with the new title he had got at the beginning of the year. He was not pleased with his new office at southern police headquarters out in the noisy industrial area at Västberga. He was not pleased with his suspicious wife and with the fact that someone like Gunvald Larsson could be made a detective inspector.

Martin Beck sat by the window in his first-class compartment, pondering all this.

The train glided out of the station and past the City Hall. He caught sight of the old white steamer Mariefred, that still plied to Gripsholm, and the publishing house of Norstedt, before the train was swallowed up in the tunnel to the south. When it emerged into daylight again he saw the green expanse of Tantolunden—the park that he was soon going to have nightmares about—and heard the wheels echo on the railroad bridge.

By the time the train stopped at Södertälje he was in a better mood. He bought a bottle of mineral water and a stale cheese sandwich from the metal handcart that now replaced the restaurant car on most of the express trains.

4

'WELL," AHLBERG SAID, "that's how it happened. It was rather chilly that night and he had one of those old-fashioned electric heaters that he stood beside the bed. Then he kicked off the blanket in his sleep and it fell down over the heater and caught fire."

Martin Beck nodded.

'It seems quite plausible," Ahlberg said. "The technical investigation was completed today. I tried to phone you but you had already left"

They were standing on the site of the fire at Borenshult and between the trees they could glimpse the lake and the flight of locks where they had found a dead woman three years earlier. All that remained of the burned-down house were the foundation and the base of the chimney. The fire brigade had, however, managed to save a small outhouse.

'There were some stolen goods there," Ahlberg said. "He was a fence, this fellow Larsson. But he'd been sentenced before, so we weren't surprised. We'll send out a list of the things."

Martin Beck nodded again, then said:

'I checked up on his brother in Stockholm. He died last spring. Stroke. He was a fence too."

'Seems to have run in the family," Ahlberg said.

'The brother never got caught but Melander remembered him."

'Oh yes, Melander… he's like the elephant, he never forgets. You don't work together any more, do you?"

'Only sometimes. He's at headquarters in Kungsholmsga-tan. Kollberg too, as from today. It's crazy, the way they keep moving us about."

They turned their backs on the scene of the fire and went back to the car in silence.

A quarter of an hour later Ahlberg drew up in front of the police station, a low yellow brick building at the corner of Prästgatan and Kungsgatan, just near the main square and the statue of Baltsar von Platen. Half-turning to Martin Beck he said:

'Now that you're here with nothing to do you might as well stay for a couple of days." Martin Beck nodded.

'We can go out with the motorboat," Ahlberg said. That evening they dined at the City Hotel on the local specialty from Lake Vättern, a delicious salmon trout. They also had a few drinks.

On Saturday they took the motorboat out on the lake. On Sunday too. On Monday Martin Beck borrowed the motor-boat. And again on Tuesday. On Wednesday he went to Vadstena and had a look at the castle.

The hotel he was staying at in Motala was modern and comfortable. He got on well with Ahlberg. He read a novel by Kurt Salomonson called The Man Outside. He was enjoying himself.

He deserved it. He had worked very hard during the winter and the spring had been awful. The hope that it would be a quiet summer still remained.

5

THE MUGGER had nothing against the weather.

It had started to ram early in the afternoon. At first heavily, then in a steady drizzle which had stopped about seven o'clock. But the sky was still overcast and oppressive and the rain was obviously going to start again soon. It was now nine o'clock and dusk was spreading under the trees. Half an hour or so still remained before lighting-up time.

The mugger had taken off his thin plastic raincoat and laid it beside him on the park bench. He was wearing tennis shoes, khaki trousers and a neat gray nylon pullover with a monogram on the breast pocket. A large red bandanna handkerchief was tied loosely around his neck. He had been in the park or its immediate vicinity for over two hours, observing people closely and calculatingly. On two occasions he had studied the passers-by with special interest and each time it had been not one person but two. The first couple had been a young man and a girl; both were younger than himself, the girl was dressed in sandals and a short black-and-white summer dress, the boy wore a smart blazer and light-gray trousers. They had made their way to the shady paths in the most secluded corner of the park. There they had stopped and embraced. The girl had stood with her back to a tree and after only a few seconds the boy had thrust his right hand up under her skirt and inside the elastic band of her panties and started digging with his fingers between her legs. "Someone might come," she said mechanically, but she had immediately moved her feet apart. The next second she had closed her eyes and started to twist her hips rhythmically, at the same time scratching the back of the boy's well-trimmed neck with the fingers of her left hand. What she had done with her right hand he had not been able to see, although he had been so close to them that he had caught a glimpse of the white lace panties.

He had walked on the grass, following them with silent steps, and stood crouched behind the bushes less than a dozen yards away. He had carefully weighed the pros and cons. An attack appealed to his sense of humor, but on the other hand the girl had no handbag and also he might not be able to stop her from screaming, which in its turn might impede the practice of his profession. Besides, the boy looked stronger and broader across the shoulders than he had first thought, and anyway it wasnt at all certain that he had any money in his wallet. An attack seemed unwise, so he had crept away as silently as he had come. He was no Peeping Tom, he had more important things to do; in any case, he presumed there wasn't much more to see. Before long the young couple had left the park, now suitably far apart. They had crossed the street and entered an apartment house, the outside of which indicated stable middle-class respectability. In the doorway the girl had straightened her panties and bra and drawn a moistened fingertip along her eyebrows. The boy had combed his hair.

At half past eight his attention focused on the next two people. A red Volvo had stopped in front of the hardware store at the street corner. Two men were in the front seat One of them got out and went into the park. He was bareheaded and wore a beige-colored raincoat. A few minutes later the second man had got out and gone into the park another way; he was wearing a cap and tweed jacket but had no overcoat. After about fifteen minutes they had returned to the car, from different directions and at an interval of some minutes. He had stood with his back to them, looking into the window of the hardware store, and he had overheard clearly what they said.

'Well?"

'Nothing."

'What do we do now?"

'Lill-Jans Wood?"

'In this weather?"

'Well…"

'Okay. But then we have coffee."

'Okay."

They had banged the car doors and driven off.

And now it was nearly nine o'clock and he sat on the bench waiting.

He caught sight of her as soon as she entered the park and knew at once which path she would take. A dumpy, middle-aged woman with overcoat, umbrella and large handbag. Looked promising. Maybe she kept a fruit and tobacco stand. He got up and put on the plastic raincoat, cut across the lawn and crouched down behind the bushes. She came on along the path, was almost abreast of him now—in five seconds, perhaps ten. With his left hand he drew the bandanna handkerchief up over his nose and thrust the fingers of his right hand into the brass knuckles. She was only a few yards away now. He moved swiftly and his footsteps on the wet grass were almost silent.

But only almost. He was still a yard behind the woman when she turned around, saw him and opened her mouth to scream. Unreflectingly he struck her across the mouth as hard as he could. He heard a crunch. The woman dropped her umbrella and staggered, then fell to her knees, clutching her handbag with both hands as if she had a baby to protect.

He struck her again, and her nose crunched under the brass knuckles. She fell back, her legs doubled under her, and didn't utter a sound. She was streaming with blood and seemed hardly conscious, but all the same he took a handful of sand from the path and strewed it over her eyes. At the same instant that he tore open the handbag her head flopped to one side, her jaw fell open, and she started to vomit.

Wallet, purse, a wrist watch. Not so bad.

The mugger was already on his way out of the park. As if she'd been protecting a baby, he thought. It could have been such a nice neat job. The silly old bitch.

A quarter of an hour later he was home. The time was half past nine on the evening of June 9, 1967, a Friday. Twenty minutes later it started to rain.

6

IT RAINED all night but on Saturday morning the sun was shining again, hidden only now and then by the fluffy white clouds that floated across the clear blue sky. It was June 10, the summer vacation had begun, and on Friday evening long lines of cars had crawled out of town on their way to country cottages, boat jetties and camping sites. But the city was still full of people who, as the weekend promised to be fine, would have to make do with the makeshift country life offered by parks and open-air swimming pools.

The time was a quarter past nine and a line was already waiting outside the pay window of the Vanadis Baths. Sun-thirsty Stockholmers, craving for a swim, streamed up the paths leading from Sveavägen.

Two seedy figures crossed Frejgatan against the red light. One was dressed in jeans and a pullover, the other in black trousers and a brown jacket which bulged suspiciously over the left-hand breast pocket. They walked slowly, peering bleary-eyed against the sun. The man with the bulge in his jacket staggered and nearly bumped into a cyclist, an athletic man of sixty or so in a light-gray summer suit, with a pair of wet swimming trunks on the baggage carrier. The cyclist wobbled and had to put one foot to the ground.

'Clumsy idiots!" he shouted, as he rode pompously away.

'Stupid old fool,'* the man with the jacket said. "Looks like a damned tycoon. Why, he might have knocked me down. I might have fallen and broken the bottle."

He stopped indignantly on the sidewalk and the mere thought of how near he had been to disaster made him shudder and raise his hand to the liquor in his jacket.

'And do you think he'd have paid for it? Not goddam likely. Sitting pretty, he is, in a swanky apartment at Norr Mälarstrand with his icebox full of champagne, but the sonof-abitch wouldn't think of paying for a poor bum's bottle of liquor that he'd broken. Dirty bastard!"

'But he didn't break it," his friend objected quietly.

The second man was much younger; he took his irate com-, panion by the arm and piloted him into the park. They climbed the slope, not towards the pool like the others but on past the gates. Then they turned off onto the path leading from Stefan's Church to the top of the hill. It was a steep pull and they were soon out of breath. Halfway up the younger man said:

'Sometimes you can find a few nickels in the grass behind the tower. If they've been playing poker there the night before. We might scrape enough together for another half-bottle before the liquor stores close…"

It was Saturday and the liquor stores shut at one o'clock.

'Not a hope. It was raining yesterday."

'So it was," the younger man said with a sigh.

The path skirted the fence of the bathing enclosure, which was teeming with bathers, some of them tanned so dark that they looked like Negroes, some of them real Negroes, but most of them pale after a long winter without even a week in the Canary Islands.

'Hey, wait a minute," the younger rflan said. "Let's have a look at the girls."

The older man walked on, saying over his shoulder:

'Hell, no. Come on, I'm as thirsty as a camel."

They went on up towards the water tower at the top of the park. Having rounded the gloomy building, they saw to their relief that they had the ground behind the tower to themselves. The older man sat down in the grass, took out the bottle and started unscrewing the cap. The younger man had continued to the top of the slope on the other side, where a red-painted paling sagged.

'Jocke!" he shouted. "Let's sit here instead. In case anyone comes."

Jocke got up, wheezing, and bottle in hand followed the other man, who had started down the slope.

'Here's a good spot," the younger man called, "by these bush…"

He stopped dead and bent forward.

'Christ!" he whispered hoarsely. "Jesus Cbristr

Jocke came up behind him, saw the girl on the ground, turned aside and vomited.

She was lying with the top part of her body half hidden under a bush. Her legs, wide apart, were stretched out on the damp sand. The face, turned to one side, was bluish and the mouth was open. Her right arm was bent over her head and her left hand lay against her hip, palm upwards.

The fair, longish hair had fallen across her cheek. She was barefoot and dressed in a skirt and a striped cotton T-shirt that had slipped up, leaving her waist bare.

She had been about nine years old.

There was no doubt that she was dead.

The time was five minutes to ten when Jocke and his mate appeared at the ninth district police station in Surbrunnsga-tan. They gave a rambling and nervous account of what they had seen in Vanadis Park to a police inspector called Granlund, who was duty officer. Ten minutes later Granlund and four policemen were on the spot.

Only twelve hours had passed since two of the four policemen had been called to an adjacent part of the park, where yet another brutal robbery had taken place. As nearly an hour had passed between the assault and the time it was reported, everyone had taken it for granted that the assailant had made himself scarce. They had therefore not examined the area closely and couldn't say whether the girl's body had been there at that time or not.

The five policemen established the fact that the girl was dead and that as far as they could tell she had been strangled. That was about all they could do for the moment.

While waiting for the detectives and the men from the technical department their main duty was to see that no busy-bodies came prying about.

Granlund, casting his eye over the scene of the crime, saw that the men from headquarters were not going to have an easy job. It had obviously rained heavily for some time after the body had been put there. On the other hand he thought he knew who the girl was, and the knowledge didn't make him too happy.

At eleven o'clock the previous evening an anxious mother had come to the police station and begged them to search for her daughter. The girl was eight and a half years old. She had gone out to play about seven, and had not been heard of since. The ninth district had alerted headquarters and all men on patrol had been given the girl's description. The accident wards of all hospitals had been checked.

The description, unfortunately, seemed to fit.

As far as Granlund knew, the missing girl had not been found. Also, she lived in Sveavägen near Vanadis Park. There seemed no room for doubt.

He thought of the girl's parents waiting at home in suspense, and inwardly he prayed that he would not have to be the one who told them the truth.

When the detectives at last arrived Granlund felt as if he had been standing an eternity in the sunshine near the child's little body.

As soon as the experts began their work he left them to it and walked back to the police station, the image of the dead girl branded on his retina.

7

WHEN KOLLBERG and Rönn reached the scene of the crime in Vanadis Park the area behind the water tower was properly roped off. The photographer had finished his work and the doctor was busy with his first routine examination of the body.

The ground was still damp and the only footprints near the body were fresh and had almost certainly been made by the men who had found the body. The girl's sandals were lying farther down the slope near the red paling.

When the doctor had finished Kollberg went up to him and said:

'Well?"

'Strangled," the doctor said. "Rape of some sort. Maybe."

He shrugged.

'When?"

'Last evening some time. Find out when she last ate and what…"

'I know. Do you think it happened here?"

'I see no signs that it didn't."

'No," Kollberg said. "Why the hell did it have to rain like that."

'Huh," the doctor said, walking off towards his car.

Kollberg stayed for another half hour, then took a car from the ninth district to the station at Surbrunnsgatan.

The superintendent was at his desk reading a report when

Kollberg entered. He greeted him and put the report aside. Pointed to a chair. Kollberg sat down and said:

'Nasty business."

'Yes," the superintendent said. "Have you found anything?"

'Not as far as I know. I think the rain has ruined everything."

'When do you think it happened? We had an assault case up there last evening. I was just looking at the report."

'I don't know," Kollberg said. "Well see when we can move her."

'Do you think it can be the same guy? That she saw him do it, or something?"

'If she has been raped it's hardly the same one. A mugger who is also a sex murderer… it's a bit much," Kollberg said vaguely.

'Raped? Did the doctor say so?"

'He thought it possible."

Kollberg sighed and rubbed his chin.

'The boys who drove me here said you know who she is."

'Yes," the superintendent said. "It seems like it. Granlund was in just now and identified her from a photo her mother brought in here last night."

The superintendent opened a file, took out a snapshot and gave it to Kollberg. The girl who now lay dead in Vanadis Park was leaning against a tree and laughing up at the sun. Kollberg nodded and handed the photo back.

'Do the parents know that…"

'No," the superintendent said.

He tore a sheet off the note pad in front of him and gave it to Kollberg.

'Mrs. Karin Carlsson, Sveavägen 83," Kollberg read aloud.

'The girl's name was Eva," the superintendent said. "Someone had better… you had better go there. Now. Before she finds out in a more unpleasant way."

'It's quite unpleasant enough as it is," Kollberg sighed.

The superintendent regarded him gravely but said nothing.

'Anyway, I thought this was your district," Kollberg said But he stood up and continued:

'Okay, okay, I'll go. Someone has to do it"

In the doorway he turned and said:

'No wonder we're short of men in the force. You have to be crazy to become a cop."

As he had left his car by Stefan's Church he decided to walk to Sveavägen. Besides, he wanted to take his time before meeting the girl's parents.

The sun was shining and all traces of the night's rain had already dried up. Kollberg felt slightly sick at the thought of the task ahead of him. It was disagreeable, to say the least. He had been forced into similar tasks before, but now, in the case of a child, the ordeal was worse than ever. If only Martin had been here, he thought; he's much better at this sort of thing than I am. Then he remembered how depressed Martin Beck had always seemed in situations like this, and followed up the train of thought: hah, it's just as hard for everyone, whoever has to do it.

The apartment house where the dead girl had lived was obliquely opposite Vanadis Park, in the block between Sur-brunnsgatan and Frejgatan. The elevator was out of order and he had to walk up the five flights. He stood still for a moment and got his breath before ringing the doorbell.

The woman opened the door almost at once. She was dressed in a brown cotton housecoat and sandals. Her fair hair was tousled, as if she had been pushing her fingers through it over and over again. When she saw Kollberg her face fell with disappointment, then her expression hovered between hope and fear.

Kollberg showed his identity card and she gave him a desperate, inquiring look.

'May I come in?"

The woman opened the door wide and stepped back.

'Haven't you found her?" she said.

Kollberg walked in without answering. The apartment seemed to consist of two rooms. The outer one contained a bed, bookshelves, desk, TV set, chest of drawers and two armchairs, one on each side of a low teak table. The bed was made, presumably no one had slept in it that night. On the blue bedspread was a suitcase, open, and beside it lay piles of neatly folded clothes. A couple of newly ironed cotton dresses hung over the lid of the suitcase. The door of the inner room was open; Kollberg caught sight of a blue-painted bookshelf with books and toys. On top sat a white teddy bear.

'Do you mind if we sit down?" Kollberg asked, and sat in one of the armchairs.

The woman remained standing and said:

'What has happened? Have you found her?"

Kollberg saw the dread and the panic in her eyes and tried to keep quite calm.

'Yes," he said. "Please sit down, Mrs. Carlsson. Where is your husband?"

She sat in the armchair opposite Kollberg.

'I have no husband. We're divorced. Where's Eva? What has happened?"

'Mrs. Carlsson, I'm terribly sorry to tell you this. Your daughter is dead."

The woman stared at him.

'No," she said. "No."

Kollberg got up and went over to her.

'Have you no one who can be with you? Your parents?"

The woman shook her head.

'It's not true," she said.

Kollberg put his hand on her shoulder.

'I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Carlsson," he said lamely.

'But how? We were going to the country…"

'We're not sure yet," Kollberg replied. "We think that she… that she's been the victim of…"

'Killed? Murdered?"

Kollberg nodded.

The woman shut her eyes and sat stiff and still. Then she opened her eyes and shook her head.

'Not Eva," she said. "It's not Eva. You haven't… you've made a mistake."

'No," Kollberg said. "I cant tell you how sorry I am, Mrs. Carlsson. Isn't there anyone I can call up? Someone I can ask to come here? Your parents or someone?"

'No, no, not them. I don't want anyone here."

'Your ex-husband?"

'He's living in Malmö, I think."

Her face was ashen and her eyes were hollow. Kollberg saw that she had not yet grasped what had happened, that she had put up a mental barrier which would not allow the truth past it He had seen the same reaction before and knew that when she could no longer resist, she would collapse.

'Who is your doctor, Mrs. Carlsson?" Kollberg asked.

'Doctor Ström. We were there on Wednesday. Eva had had a tummy ache for several days and as we were going to the country I thought I'd better…"

She broke off and looked at the doorway into the other room.

'Eva's never sick as a rule. And she soon got over this tummy ache. The doctor thought it was a touch of gastric influenza."

She sat silent for a moment. Then she said, so softly that Kollberg could hardly catch the words:

'She's all right again now."

Kollberg looked at her, feeling desperate and idiotic. He did not know what to say or do. She was still sitting with her face turned towards the open door into her daughter's room. He was trying frantically to think of something to say when she suddenly got up and called her daughter's name in a loud, shrill voice. Then she ran into the other room. Kollberg followed her.

The room was bright and nicely furnished. In one corner stood a red-painted box full of toys and at the foot of the narrow bed was an old-fashioned dollhouse. A pile of school-books lay on the desk.

The woman was sitting on the edge of the bed, her elbows propped on her knees and face buried in her hands. She rocked to and fro and Kollberg could not hear whether she was crying or not.

He looked at her for a moment, then went out into the hall where he had seen the telephone. An address book lay beside it and in it, sure enough, he found Doctor Strom's number.

The doctor listened while Kollberg explained the situation and promised to come within five minutes.

Kollberg went back to the woman, who was sitting as he had left her. She was making no sound. He sat down beside her and waited. At first he wondered whether he dared touch her, but after a while he put his arm cautiously around her shoulders. She seemed unaware of his presence.

They sat like this until the silence was broken by the doctor's ring at the door.

8

KOLLBERG WAS sweating as he walked back through Vanadis Park. The cause was neither the steep incline, the humid heat after the rain, nor his tendency to corpulence. At any rate not entirely.

Like most of those who were to deal with this case, he was jaded before the investigation started. He thought of the repulsiveness of the crime itself and he thought of the people who had been so hard hit by its blind meaninglessness. He had been through all this before, how many times he couldn't even say offhand, and he knew exactly how horrible it could turn out to be. And how difficult

He thought too of the swift gangsterization of this society, which in the last resort must be a product of himself and of the other people who lived in it and had a share in its creation. He thought of the rapid technical expansion that the police force had undergone merely during the last year; despite this, crime always seemed to be one step ahead. He thought of the new investigation methods and the computers, which could mean that this particular criminal might be caught within a few hours, and also what little consolation these excellent technical inventions had to offer the women he had just left, for example. Or himself. Or the set-faced men who had now gathered around the little body in the bushes between the rocks and the red paling.

He had only seen the body for a few moments, and at a distance, and he didn't want to see it again if he could help it. This he knew to be an impossibility. The mental image of the child in the blue skirt and striped T-shirt was etched into his mind and would always remain there, together with all the others he could never get rid of. He thought of the wooden-soled sandals on the slope and of his own child, as yet unborn; of how this child would look in nine years' time; of the horror and disgust that this crime would arouse, and what the front pages of the evening papers would look like.

The entire area around the gloomy, fortress-like water tower was roped off now, as well as the steep slope behind it, right down to the steps leading to Ingemarsgatan. He walked past the cars, stopped at the cordon and looked out over the empty playground with its sandpits and swings.

The knowledge that all this had happened before and was certain to happen again, was a crushing burden. Since the last time they had gotten computers and more men and more cars. Since the last time the lighting in the parks had been improved and most of the bushes had been cleared away. Next time there would be still more cars and computers and even less shrubbery. Kollberg wiped his brow at the thought and the handkerchief was wet through.

The journalists and photographers were already there, but fortunately only a few of the inquisitive had as yet found their way here. The journalists and photographers, oddly enough, had become better with the years, partly thanks to the police. The inquisitive would never be any better.

The area around the water tower was strangely quiet, despite all the people. From afar, perhaps from the swimming pool or the playground at Sveavägen, cheerful shouts could be heard and children laughing.

Kollberg remained standing by the cordon. He said nothing, nor did anyone speak to him.

He knew that the homicide squad had been alerted, that the search was being stabilized, that men from the technical division were examining the scene of the crime, that the vice squad had been called in, that a central office was being organized to receive tips from the public, that a special inquiry squad was being prepared to go from door to door, that the coroner was ready and waiting, that every radio patrol car was on the watch, and that no resources would be spared, even his own.

Yet he allowed himself this moment of reflection. It was summer. People were swimming. Tourists were wandering about, map in hand. And in the shrubbery between the rocks and the red paling lay a dead child. It was horrible. And it might get worse.

Still another car, perhaps the ninth or tenth, hummed up the hill from Stefan's Church and stopped. Without actually turning his head, Kollberg saw Gunvald Larsson get out and come up to him.

'How is it going?"

'Don't know."

'The rain. It poured with rain all night Probably…"

For once, Gunvald Larsson interrupted himself. After a moment he went on:

'If they take any footprints they're probably mine. I was here last evening. Soon after ten."

'Oh."

'The mugger. He struck down an old woman. Not fifty yards from here."

'So I heard."

'She had just shut up her fruit and candy stand and was on her way home. With the entire day's takings in her handbag."

'Oh?"

'Every single cent of ft. People are crazy," Gunvald Larsson said.

He paused again. Nodded towards the rocks and the shrubbery and the red paling and said:

'She must have been lying there then."

'Presumably."

'It had already started raining when we got here. And the civil patrol, ninth district, had been here three quarters of an hour before the robbery. They didn't see anything either. She must have been lying here then too."

'They were looking for the mugger," Kollberg said.

'Yes. And when he got here they were in Lill-Jans Wood. This was the ninth time."

'What about the old woman?"

'Ambulance case. Rushed to hospital. Shock, fractured jaw, four teeth knocked out, broken nose. All she saw of the man was that he had a red bandanna handkerchief over his face. God awful description."

Gunvald Larsson paused again and then said:

'If I'd had the dog van…"

'What?"

'Your admirable pal Beck said that I should send out the dog van, when he was up last week. Maybe a dog would have found…"

He nodded again in the direction of the rocks, as though unwilling to put what he meant into words.

Kollberg didn't like Gunvald Larsson particularly, but this time he sympathized with him. "It's possible," Kollberg said.

'Is it sex?" Gunvald Larsson asked with some hesitation. "Presumably."

'In that case I don't suppose there's any connection." "No, I don't suppose there is."

Rönn came up to them from inside the cordon and Larsson said at once: "Is it sex?"

'Yes," Rönn said. "Looks like it. Pretty certain." "Then there's no connection." "What with?" "The mugger."

'How are things going?" Kollberg asked. "Badly," Rönn said. "Everything must have been washed away by the rain. She's soaked to the skin."

'Christ, it's sickening," Larsson said. "Two maniacs prowling around the same place at the same time, one worse than the other."

He turned on his heel and went back to the car. The last they heard him say was:

'Christ, what a goddam awful job. Who'd be a cop…" Rönn watched him for a moment. Then he turned to Kollberg and said:

'Would you mind coming for a moment, sir?" Kollberg sighed heavily and swung- his legs over the rope.

Martin Beck did not go back to Stockholm until Saturday afternoon, the day before he was due back on duty. Ahlberg saw him off at the station.

He changed trains at Hallsberg and bought the evening papers at the station book stall. Folded them and tucked them into his raincoat pocket and didn't open them until he had settled down on the express from Gothenburg.

He glanced at the banner headlines and gave a start. The nightmare had begun.

A few hours later for him than for the others. But that was about all.

9

THERE ARE moments and situations that one would like to avoid at all costs but which cannot be put off. Police are probably faced with such situations more often than other people, and without a doubt they occur more often for some policemen than for others.

One of these situations is to question a woman called Karin Carlsson less than twenty-four hours after she has learned that her eight-year-old daughter has been strangled by a sex maniac. A lone woman who, despite injections and pills, is still suffering from shock and is so apathetic that she is still wearing the same brown cotton housecoat and the same sandals she had on when a corpulent policeman she had never seen before and would never see again had rung her doorbell the day before. Moments such as that immediately before the questioning begins.

A detective superintendent in the homicide squad knows that this questioning cannot be put off, still less avoided, because apart from this one witness there is not a single clue to go on. Because there is not yet a report on the autopsy and because the contents of that report are more or less already known.

Twenty-four hours earlier Martin Beck had been sitting in the stern of a rowboat taking up the nets that he and Ahlberg had put down early the same morning. Now he was standing in a room at investigation headquarters at Kungsholmsgatan with his right elbow propped on a filing cabinet, far too ill at ease even to sit down.

It had been thought suitable for this questioning to be conducted by a woman, a detective inspector of the vice squad. She was about forty-five and her name was Sylvia Granberg. In some ways the choice was a very good one. Sitting at the desk opposite the woman in the brown housecoat she looked as unmoved as the tape recorder she had just started.

When she switched off the apparatus forty minutes later she had undergone no apparent change, nor had she once faltered. Martin Beck noticed this again when, a little later, he played back the tape together with Kollberg and a couple of others.

Granberg: I know it's hard for you, Mrs. Carlsson, but unfortunately there are certain questions we must put to you.

Witness: Yes.

G: Your name is Karin Elisabet Carlsson?

W: Yes.

G.- When were you born?

W: Sev… nineteenthir…

G: Can you try and keep your head turned towards the microphone when you answer?

W: Seventh of April nineteen thirty-seven.

G: And your civil status?

W: What… I…

G: I mean are you single, married or divorced?

W:' Divorced.

G: Since when?

W: Six years. Nearly seven.

G: And what is your ex-husband's name?

W: Sigvard Erik Bertil Carlsson.

G: Where does he live?

W: In Malmö… I mean he's registered there… I think.

G: Think? Don't you know?

Martin Beck: He's a seaman. We haven't been able to locate him yet.

G: Wasn't the husband liable for support of his daughter?

MB: Yes, of course, but he doesn't seem to have paid up for several years.

W: He… never really cared for Eva.

G: And your daughter's name was Eva Carlsson? No other first name?

W: No.

G: And she was born on the fifth of February nineteen fifty-nine?

W: Yes.

G: Would you be good enough to tell us as exactly as possible what happened on Friday evening?

W: Happened… nothing happened. Eva… went out.

G: At what time?

W: Soon after seven. She'd been watching TV and we'd had our dinner.

G: What time was that?

W: At six o'clock. We always had dinner at six, when I got home. I work at a factory that makes lampshades… and I call for Eva at the afternoon nursery on the way home. She goes there herself after school… then we do the shopping on our way…

G: What did she have for dinner?

W: Meatballs… could I have a little water?

G: Of course. Here you are.

W: Thank you. Meatballs and mashed potatoes. And we had ice cream afterwards.

G: What did she drink?

W: Milk.

G: What did you do then?

W: We watched TV for a while… it was a children's program.

G: And at seven o'clock or just after she went out?

W: Yes, it had stopped raining then. And the news had started on TV. She's not very interested in the news.

G: Did she go out alone?

W: Yes. Do you… you see it was quite light and the school vacation had begun. I told her she could stay out and play until eight. Do you think it… was careless of me?

G: Certainly not. By no means. Then you didn't see her again?

W: No… not until… no, I can't…

G: The identification? We needn't talk about that. When did you start getting worried?

W: I don't know. I was worried the whole time. I'm always worried when she's not at home. You see, she's all…

G: But when did you start looking for her?

W: Not until after half past eight. She's careless sometimes.

Stays late with a playmate and forgets to look at the time. You know, children playing…

G; Yes. I see. When did you start searching?

W: About a quarter to nine. I knew she had two playmates the same age she used to go to. I called up the parents of one of them but got no answer.

MB: The family's away. Gone out to their summer cottage over the weekend.

W: I didn't know that. I don't think Eva did either.

G: What did you do then?

W: The other girl's parents have no telephone. So I went there.

G: What time?

W: I can't have got there until after nine, because the street door was locked and it took a while before I got in. I had to stand and wait until someone came. Eva had been there just after seven, but the other girl hadn't been allowed out. Her father said he thought it was too late for little girls to be out alone at that hour. (Pause)

W: Dear God if only I'd… But it was broad daylight and there were people everywhere. If only I hadn't…

G: Had your daughter left there at once?

W: Yes, she said she'd go to the playground.

G: Which playground do you think she meant?

W: The one in Vanadis Park, at Sveavägen. She always went there.

G: She can't have meant the other playground, the one up by the water tower?

W: I don't think so. She never went there. And certainly not alone.

G: Do you think she might have met some other playmates?

W: None that I know of. She always used to play with those two.

G; Well, when you didn't find her at this other place, what did you do then?

W: I… I went to the playground at Sveavägen. It was empty.

G: And then?

W: I didn't know what to do. I went home and waited. I stood in the window watching for her.

G: When did you call the police?

W: Not until later. At five or ten past ten I saw a police car stop by the park and then an ambulance came. It had started raining again by then. I put on my coat and ran there. I… I spoke to a policeman standing there, but he said it was an elderly woman who had hurt herself.

G: Did you go home again after that?

W: Yes. And I saw the light was on in the apartment. I was so happy because I thought she had come home. But it was myself who had forgotten to put it out.

G: At what time did you call the police?

W: By half past ten I couldn't stand it any longer. I called up a friend, a woman I know at work. She lives at Hökarängen. She told me to call the police at once.

G: According to the information we have you called at ten minutes to eleven.

W: Yes. And then I went to the police station. The one in Surbrunnsgatan. They were awfully nice and kind. They asked me to tell them what Eva looks… looked like and what she had on. And I'd taken a snapshot with me so they could see what she looked like. They were so kind. The policeman who wrote everything down said that a lot of children got lost or stayed too long at the home of some playmate but that they all usually turned up safely after an hour or two. And…

G: Yes?

W: And he said that if anything had happened, an accident or something, they'd have known about it by that time.

G: What time did you get home again?

W: It was after twelve by then. I sat up waiting… all night. I waited for someone to ring. The police. They had my telephone number, you see, but no one called. I called them up once more anyway. But the man who answered said he had my number written down and that he'd call up at once if…

(Pause)

W: But no one called. No one at all. Not in the morning either. And then a plainclothes policeman came and… and said… said that…

G: I don't think we need go on with this.

W: Oh, I see. No.

MB: Your daughter has been accosted by so-called molesters once or twice before, hasn't she?

W: Yes, last fall. Twice. She thought she knew who it was.

Someone who lived in the same apartment house as Eivor, that's the friend who has no telephone.

MB: The one who lives in Hagagatan?

W: Yes. I reported it to the police. We were up here, in this building, and they got Eva to tell a lady all about it.

They gave her a whole lot of pictures to look at too, in a big album.

G: There's a record of all that. We got the material out of the files.

MB: I know. But what I was going to ask is whether Eva was molested by this man later. After you reported him to the police?

W: No… not as far as I know. She didn't say anything

… and she always tells me…

G: Well, that's about all, Mrs. Carlsson,

W: Oh. I see.

MB: Forgive my asking, but where are you going now?

W: I don't know. Not home to…

G: I'll come down with you and we can talk about it We'll think of something.

W: Thank you. You're very kind.

Kollberg switched off the tape recorder, stared gloomily at Martin Beck and said:

'That bastard who molested her last fall…"

'Yes?"

'It's the same one Ronn's busy with downstairs. We went and fetched him straight off at midday yesterday."

'And?"

'So far it's merely a triumph for computer technique. He only grins and says it wasn't him."

'Which proves?"

'Nothing, of course. He has no alibi either. Says he was at home asleep in his one-room apartment at Hagagatan. Can't quite remember, he says."

'Can't remember?"

'He's a complete alcoholic," Kollberg said. "At any rate we know that he sat drinking at the Röda Berget restaurant until he was chucked out at about six o'clock. It doesn't look too good for him."

'What did he do last time?"

'Exposed himself. He's an ordinary exhibitionist, as far as I can make out. I have the tape of the interview with the girl here. Yet another triumph for technology."

The door opened and Rönn came in.

'Well?" Kollberg asked.

'Nothing so far. Well have to let him come round a bit. Seems done in."

'So do you," Kollberg said.

He was right; Rönn looked unnaturally pale and his eyes were swollen and red-rimmed.

'What do you think?" Martin Beck asked.

'I don't know what to think," Rönn replied. "I think I'm sickening for something."

'You can do that later," Kollberg said. "Not now. Let's listen to this tape."

Martin Beck nodded. The spool of the recorder started turning again. A pleasant female voice said:

'Questioning of schoolgirl Eva Carlsson born fifth of February nineteen fifty-nine. Examining officer Detective Inspector Sonja Hansson."

Both Martin Beck and Kollberg frowned and missed the next few sentences. They recognized the name and voice all too well. Sonja Hansson was a girl whose death they had very nearly brought about two and a half years earlier when they used her as decoy in a police trap.

'A miracle she stayed on in the force," Kollberg said.

'Yes," Martin Beck agreed.

'Quiet, I can't hear," Rönn said.

He had not been mixed up in it that time.

'… so then this man came up to you?"

'Yes. Eivor and I were standing at the bus stop."

'What did he do?"

'He smelled nasty and he had a funny walk, and he said… it was so funny what he said."

'Can you remember what it was?"

'Yes, he said, 'Hello, little girlies, will you jerk me off if I give you five kronor?'"

'Do you know what he meant by that, Eva?"

'No, it was so funny. I know what jerk is, because sometimes the girl sitting next to me at school jerks my elbow. But why did the man want us to jerk his elbow? He wasn't sitting down and writing or anything, and anyway…"

'What did you do then? After he had said that?"

'He said it several times. Then he walked off and we crept after him."

'Crept after him?"

'Yes, shadowed him. Like on the movies or TV.**

'Did you dare to?"

'Humph, there was no harm in it."

'Oh yes, Eva, you should watch out for men like that."

'Humph, he wasn't dangerous."

'Did you see which way he went?"

'Yes, he went into the apartment house where Eivor lived and two floors above hers he took out a key and went inside."

'Did you both go home then?"

'Oh no. We crept up and looked at the door. It had his name on it, see."

'Yes, I see. And what was his name?"

'Eriksson, I think. We listened through the mail slot too. We could hear him mumbling."

'Did you tell your mother about it?"

'Humph, it was nothing. But it was funny."

'But you did tell your mother about what happened yesterday?"

'About the cows, yes."

'Was it the same man?"

'Ye-es."

'Are you sure?"

'Almost."

'How old do you think this man is?"

'Oh, about twenty at least."

'How old do you think I am?"

'Oh, about forty. Or fifty."

'Is this man older or younger than I am, do you think?"

'Oh, much older. Much, much older. How old are you?"

'Twenty-eight. Well, can you tell me what happened yesterday?"

'Well, Eivor and I were playing hopscotch in the doorway and he came up and stood there and said, 'Come along up with me, girlies, and you can watch me milking my cows.'"

'I see. And what did he do then?"

'Humph, he couldn't have cows up in his room. Not real ones."

'What did you say, you and Eivor?"

'Oh, we didn't say anything, but afterwards Eivor said she was ashamed because her hair ribbon had come undone so she wasn't going home with anybody."

'Did the man go home then?"

'No, he said, 'Well, I'll just have to milk my cows here then.' Then he undid his trousers and…"

'Yes?"

'I say, do you think that if Eivor's hair ribbon hadn't come undone, we might have been murdered? How exciting…"

'No, I don't think so. The man undid his trousers, you said?"

'Yes, and then he took out that thing that men do wee-wee with…"

The clear childish voice was cut off in the middle of the sentence as Kollberg reached out and switched off the tape recorder. Martin Beck looked at him. Propped his head on his left hand and rubbed his nose with his knuckles. "The funny thing about this is…" Rönn began.

'What the hell are you saying," Kollberg barked.

'Well, he admits it now. The time before, he swore blind he didn't, and the girls got more and more uncertain about identifying him, so nothing came of it. But now he confesses. Says he was drunk both times, else he wouldn't have done it."

'Oh, so he admits it now," Kollberg said.

'Yes."

Martin Beck glanced inquiringly at Kollberg. Then he turned to Rönn and said:

'You didn't get any sleep last night, did you?"

'No."

'Then you'd better go home and catch up on it"

'Shall we let this fellow go?"

'No," Kollberg said. "We won't let him go."

10

SURE ENOUGH, the man's name was Eriksson. He was a warehouse laborer and it didn't take an expert to see that he was an alcoholic. He was sixty years old, tall, bald and emaciated. His whole body twitched and shook.

Kollberg and Martin Beck questioned him for two hours, which were equally wretched for all concerned.

The man admitted the same disgusting details over and over again. At intervals he sniffled and sobbed, calling heaven to witness that he had gone straight home from the restaurant on Friday afternoon. At any rate he couldn't remember anything else.

After two hours he confessed that he had stolen two hundred kronor in July 1964 and a cycle when he was eighteen. He then did nothing but snivel. He was a human wreck, an outcast from the dubious fellowship that surrounded him, and utterly alone.

Kollberg and Martin Beck regarded him gloomily and sent him back to the cell.

At the same time other men from the division, and from the fifth district, tried to find someone in the apartment house at Hagagatan who could either confirm or confute his alibi They were not successful.

The autopsy report available about four o'clock that afternoon was still preliminary. It spoke of strangulation, finger marks on the neck and sexual assault. Out-and-out rape had not been established.

Otherwise the report contained negative information. There was no indication that the girl had had a chance to resist. No scrapings of skin had been found under the nails and no bruises on arms and hands, though there were some on the lower abdomen, as if caused by blows of a fist

The technical division had examined her clothes, and had nothing unusual to report. Her pants, however, were missing. They couldn't be found anywhere. They had been white cotton, size 6, and a well-known make.

In the evening the men detailed to go around from door to door had handed out five hundred stenciled questionnaires. Only one reply of any interest had been received. An eighteen-year-old girl by the name of Majken Jansson, who lived in the apartment house at Sveavägen 103 and was the daughter of a businessman, said that she and a boyfriend her own age had spent about twenty minutes in Vanadis Park sometime between eight and nine. She wasn't sure of the exact time. They had seen nothing and heard nothing.

Asked what they had been doing in Vanadis Park, she had replied that they had been at a family dinner party and had just gone out to get a breath of air.

'A breath of air," Melander said thoughtfully.

'Between the legs, no doubt," Gunvald Larsson said.

Larsson had been in the regular navy and was still in the reserve. Now and then he gave vent to his below-decks humor.

Hour after hour dragged past. The investigation machinery went grinding on. The time was already past one o'clock on the night between Sunday and Monday when Martin Beck came home to Bagarmossen. Everyone was asleep. He took a can of beer out of the icebox and made a cheese sandwich. Then he drank the beer and threw the sandwich into the garbage bag.

After he had got into bed he lay for a while thinking of the alcoholic warehouse laborer called Eriksson, who three years ago had stolen two hundred kronor from a workmate's coat.

Kollberg couldn't get to sleep. He lay in the dark staring at the ceiling. He too thought of the man called Eriksson whose name had been in the vice squad's register. He also considered the fact that if the man who had committed the murder in Vanadis Park was not in the register, then computer technology was about as much good to them as it had been to the American police in their hunt for the Boston strangle!. In other words, none at all. The Boston strangler had killed thirteen people, all lone women, in two years without leaving a single clue.

Now and then he looked at his wife. She was asleep, but twitched every time the baby in her body kicked.

11

IT WAS MONDAY afternoon, fifty-four hours after the dead girl had been found in Vanadis Park.

The police had appealed to the public for help through the press, radio and television, and over three hundred tips had already come in. Each item of information was registered and examined by a special working group, after which the results were studied in detail.

The vice squad combed its registers, the forensic laboratory dealt with the meager material from the scene of the crime, the computers worked at high pressure, men from the assault squad went around the neighborhood knocking on doors, suspects and possible witnesses were questioned, and as yet all this activity had led nowhere. The murderer was unknown and still at large.

The papers were piling up on Martin Beck's desk. Since early morning he had been working on the never-ceasing stream of reports and interrogation statements. The telephone had never stopped ringing, but in order to get a breathing space he had now asked Kollberg to take his calls during the next hour or so. Gunvald Larsson and Melander were spared all these telephone calls; they sat behind closed doors sifting material.

Martin Beck had had only a few hours' sleep during the night and he had skipped lunch so as to have time for a press conference, which had yielded the journalists very little.

He yawned and looked at the time, astonished that it was already a quarter past three. Gathering up a bundle of papers that belonged to Melander's department, he knocked at the door and went in to Melander and Larsson.

Melander did not look up when he entered the room. They had worked together for so long that he knew Martin Beck's knock. Gunvald Larsson glared at the bundle of papers in Martin Beck's hand and said:

'Good God, have you brought still more? We're swamped with work already."

Martin Beck shrugged and put the papers down at Melander's elbow.

'I was going to order some coffee," he said. "Like some?"

Melander shook his head without looking up.

'Good idea," Gunvald Larsson said.

Martin Beck went out, shut the door behind him and collided with Kollberg, who had come rushing up. Martin Beck saw the frantic expression on Kollberg's round face and asked:

'What's up with you?"

Kollberg gripped his arm and said, so fast that the words tumbled over each other:

'Martin, it has happened again! He has done it again! In Tanto Park."

They drove across the West Bridge with sirens full on, and on the radio they heard that all available squad cars had been directed to Tanto Park to cordon it off. All that Martin Beck and Kollberg had been told before leaving headquarters was that a girl had been found dead near the open-air theater, that the circumstances were similar to the murder in Vanadis Park and that the body had been found so soon after the crime that there was a chance the murderer had not yet got very far.

As they drove past the Zinkensdamm athletic field they saw a couple of black-and-white cars turn into Wollmar Yxkullsgatan. One or two more were standing in Ringvägen and inside the park.

They pulled up outside the row of old wooden houses in Sköldgatan. The road into the park was blocked by a car with a radio aerial. On the footpath they saw a uniformed police officer stop some children who were on their way up the hill.

Martin Beck strode swiftly towards the officer, leaving

Kollberg to follow as best he could. The policeman saluted and pointed up into the park. Martin Beck strode on without slacking his pace. The park was very hummocky and not until he had passed the theater and climbed' the slope did he see some men standing in a semicircle with their backs to him. They were in a hollow about thirty yards from the road. Farther away, where the road forked, a uniformed policeman was on guard to keep inquisitive people away.

As he went down the slope Kollberg caught up with him. They could hear the policemen down there talking, but they fell silent as Beck and Kollberg approached. The men saluted and stepped aside. Martin Beck heard Kollberg panting.

The girl was lying on her back in the grass with both arms bent over her head. The left leg was bent and the knee drawn up so high to the side that the thigh lay at right angles to the body. The right leg lay stretched out obliquely from the trunk. Her face was turned upwards, with half-closed eyes and open mouth. Blood had trickled down from the nostrils. A skipping rope of yellow transparent plastic was wound tightly around her neck in several coils. She was wearing a yellow sleeveless cotton dress buttoned right down the front. The three bottom buttons had been torn off. She had no pants. On her feet were white socks and red sandals. She looked about ten years old. She was dead.

Martin Beck saw all this during the few seconds he was able to keep his eyes on her. Then he turned and looked towards the road. Two of the men from the technical division were running down the slope. They were dressed in gray-blue coveralls and one of them was carrying a large gray metal box. The second man had a coil of rope in one hand and a black bag in the other. As they got nearer the man with the rope called:

'That bastard who has left his car in the middle of the road will have to move it so that we can drive up."

Then, glancing at the dead girl, he ran down to the road fork and began cordoning off the area with the rope.

A radio policeman in a leather jacket was standing beside the road speaking, into a walkie-talkie while a plainclothes man stood beside him listening. Martin Beck recognized the plainclothes man. His name was Manning and he belonged to the protection squad in second district.

Manning caught sight of Martin Beck and Kollberg, said a few words to the radio policeman and then came up to them.

'It seems as if the whole area is cordoned off now," he said. "As far as possible."

'How long since she was found?" Martin Beck asked.

Manning looked at his wrist watch.

'It's twenty-five minutes since the first car got here," he said.

'And you've no description to go on?" Kollberg asked.

'No, unfortunately."

'Who found her?" Martin Beck asked.

'A couple of small boys. They gave the alarm to a radio car that was driving along Ringvägen. She was still warm when they got here. Doesn't seem to be long since it happened."

Martin Beck looked around him. The technical division car was driving down the slope, closely followed by the doctor's.

From the hollow where the dead child's body lay nothing could be seen of the allotment gardens that began behind a mound about fifty yards to the west. Above the treetops the upper stories of one of the apartment houses in Tantogatan were visible, but the railroad that divided the street from the park was hidden by the greenery.

'He couldn't have chosen a better spot in the whole of Stockholm," Martin Beck said.

'A worse one, you mean," Kollberg said.

He was right. Even if the man guilty of the little girl's death was still within the area, he had a pretty good chance of escaping. The park is the biggest in the inner part of the city. Next to Tanto Park itself there are allotment gardens and cottages, and below them, on the shore of Arstaviken, is a straggling line of small boatyards, storehouses, workshops, scrapyards and ramshackle wooden huts. Between Wollmar Yxkullsgatan, which cuts through the area from Ringvägen to the water, and Hornsgatan lies the Högalid Institution for alcoholics, consisting of several large, irregularly placed buildings. Round about are several more storehouses and wooden sheds. Between the institution and the Zinkensdamm athletic field is yet another colony of allotment gardens. A viaduct over the railroad connects the south side of the park with Tantogatan, where five gigantic apartment houses have been built on the rocks nearest the water. Farther up, at the corner of Ringvägen, is the Tanto workingmen's hostel, consisting of a line of low, sprawling wooden huts.

Martin Beck sized up the situation as almost hopeless. He did not see how they could possibly catch the murderer here and now. For one thing, they didn't even have his description; for another, he was sure to have made a clear getaway by this time. Thirdly, the alcoholics* home and the working-men's hostel could supply them with so many suspicious individuals that it would take days to question them.

The next hour confirmed his doubts. When the doctor had finished his preliminary examination he could merely say that the girl had been strangled and probably raped, and that death had occurred quite recently. The dog van had arrived soon after Martin Beck and Kollberg, but the only scent the dogs picked up led straight out of the park towards Wollmar Yxkullsgatan. The plainclothes policemen in the protection squad were questioning possible witnesses, as yet without result. A number of people had been in the park and the allotment gardens, but no one had seen or heard anything that could be connected with the murder.

The time was ten minutes to five and on the sidewalk of Ringvägen a group of people stood staring inquisitively at the apparently aimless work of the police. Reporters and photographers had arrived in a stream; some of them had already returned to their editorial offices to supply readers with juicy descriptions of the second murder of a little girl in Stockholm within the space of three days, committed by a maniac who was still at large.

Martin Beck caught sight of Kollberg's round behind in the open door of a radio car that was parked on the gravel nearest Ringvägen. He broke away from a cluster of journalists and went up to Kollberg, who was leaning into the car and speaking on the radio. He waited until Kollberg had finished speaking and then pinched his behind. Kollberg backed out of the car and straightened up.

'Oh, it's you. I thought it was one of the dogs."

'Do you know if anyone has told the girl's parents?" Martin Beck asked.

'Yes," Kollberg replied. "We're spared that."

'I thought I'd go and talk to the boys who found her. They live over there in Tantogatan."

'Okay," Kollberg said. "Ill stay here."

'Fine. Be seeing you," Martin Beck said.

The boys lived in one of the big bow-shaped apartment houses in Tantogatan and Martin Beck found them both at home. They were suffering from shock after their awful experience, but at the same time could not hide the fact that they found it all very exciting.

They told Martin Beck how they had stumbled on the girl while playing in the park. They had recognized her at once, as she lived in the same apartment house as they did. Earlier in the day they had seen her in the playground behind the house where they lived. She had been skipping together with two girls of her own age. As one of them was in the same class as the boys, they could tell Martin Beck that her name was Lena Oskarsson, that she was ten years old and lived next door.

The next apartment block looked exactly like the one the boys lived in. He took the swift automatic elevator to the seventh floor and rang the doorbell. After a while the door was opened and then shut again immediately. He had not seen anyone through the crack of the door. He rang the bell a second time. The door was opened at once and he now realized why he had not seen anyone the first time. The boy standing inside looked about three years old and his flaxen-colored head was about a yard below the level of Martin Beck's eyes.

The lad let go the door handle and said in a high-pitched, clear voice:

'Hi, good afternoon."

Then he ran into the apartment and Martin Beck heard him call:

'Mommy! Mommy! Big man come."

About half a minute passed before his mother came to the door. She looked anxiously and questioningly at Martin Beck and he hastened to show his identity disk.

'I'd like a word with your daughter if she's at home," he said. "Does she know what has happened?"

'To Annika? Yes, we heard just now from a neighbor. It's horrible. How can such a thing happen in broad daylight? But come in. I'll get Lena."

Martin Beck followed Mrs. Oskarsson into the living room. Apart from the furniture, it was identical with the room he had just left. The little boy was standing in the middle of the floor, looking at him with expectant curiosity. He was holding a toy guitar.

'Go into your room and play, Bosse," his mother said.

Bosse took no notice, and she didn't seem to expect him to.

She went over and moved some toys off the sofa by the balcony window.

'It's rather untidy here," she said. "Won't you sit down, and I'll get Lena."

She left the room and Martin Beck smiled at the little boy. His own children were twelve and fifteen and he had forgotten how to make conversation with three-year-olds.

'Can you play that guitar?" he asked.

'Not lay," the boy said. "You lay."

'No, I can't play."

'Yes, you lay," the boy persisted.

Mrs. Oskarsson came in, picked up the boy and the guitar and carried him firmly out of the room. He screamed and kicked and his mother said over her shoulder:

'll1 be back in a minute. You can be talking to Lena."

The boys had said that Lena was ten years old. She was tall for her age and rather pretty, despite a slight pout. She was dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt and she bobbed shyly.

'Sit down," Martin Beck said. "We can talk better then."

She sat on the edge of one of the armchairs with her knees pressed together.

'Your name's Lena, isn't it," he said.

'Yes."

'And mine's Martin. You know what has happened?"

'Yes," the girl said, staring at the floor. "I heard… Mom told me."

'I know you must be upset, but I have to ask you one or two things."

'Yes."

'You were together with Annika earlier today, weren't you?"

'Yes, we played together. Ulla and Annika and I."

'Where did you play?"

She nodded towards the window.

'First in the yard down here. Then Ulla had to go home for lunch, so Annika and I came home here. Then Ulla called for us and we went out again."

'Where to?"

'To Tanto Park. I had to take Bosse with me and there are swings there and he likes that."

'Do you know what the tune was then?"

'Oh, half past one, getting on for two maybe. Mom might know."

'So then you went to Tanto Park. Did you see if Annika met anyone there? If a man spoke to her or anything?"

'No, I didn't see her talking to anyone."

'What did you do in Tanto Park?"

The girl stared out of the window for a while. She seemed to be thinking back.

'Let me see… we played. First we were on the swings because Bosse wanted it. Then we did some skipping. Then we went down to the stand and bought an ice cream."

'Were there any other children in the park?"

'Not just where we were. Oh yes, there were some small children in the sandpit. Bosse went and worried them. But they went away after a while with their mother."

'What did you do when you'd bought the ice cream?" Martin Beck asked.

From another room he heard Mrs. Oskarsson's voice and the boy's scream of rage.

'We just walked about. Then Annika got the sulks."

'Got the sulks? Why?"

'Oh, she just did. Ulla and I wanted to play hopscotch, but she didn't. She wanted to play hide-and-seek, but it's no good when Bosse's there. He runs about telling everyone where you've hidden. So she got cross and went off."

'Where to? Did she say where she was going?"

'No, she didn't say. She just went off, and Ulla and I were drawing the squares for the hopscotch so we didn't see when she left."

'You didn't see which way she went?"

'No, we never gave it a thought. We played hopscotch and after a while I noticed that Bosse had disappeared and then we saw that Annika had gone too."

'Did you go and look for Bosse?"

The girl looked down at her hands and it was some moments before she answered.

'No. I thought he was with Annika. He's always running after Annika. She has… she had no small brothers or sisters of her own and was awfully nice to Bosse, always."

'What happened then? Did Bosse come back?"

'Yes, after a while he came back. I suppose he'd been somewhere close by although we didn't see him."

Martin Beck nodded. He wanted to light a cigarette but saw no ashtrays in the room and refrained.

'Where do you think Annika was then? Did Bosse say anything about where he had gone?"

The girl shook her head and a lock of fair hair fell down over her forehead.

'No, we just thought she'd gone home. We didn't ask Bosse and he said nothing. Then he got so naughty that we came home."

'Do you know what the time was when Annika disappeared from the playground?"

'No, I had no watch. But it was three o'clock when we got home. And we didn't play hopscotch for long. Half an hour or so."

'Didn't you see anyone else in the park?"

Lena pushed back her hair and frowned.

'We never thought about it. At any rate I didn't. Yes, there was a lady there with her dog for a while. A dachshund. Bosse wanted to pat it so I had to go and get him."

She looked gravely at Martin Beck.

'He's not to pat dogs, it's dangerous."

'You didn't notice anyone else in the park? Think back now, perhaps you can remember someone?"

She shook her head.

'No. We were playing and I had to keep an eye on Bosse, so I never thought about who was in the park. I suppose some people walked past, but I don't know."

There was silence now in the room next door and Mrs. Oskarsson came back. Martin Beck got up.

'Would you mind giving me Ulla's name and address?" he said to the girl. "Then I'll go, but I may have to talk to you again. If you happen to think of anything that happened or anything you saw in the park, will you ask your mother to call me?"

He turned to Mrs. Oskarsson.

'It might be some detail that seems unimportant," he said. "But I'd be glad if you'd call me in case she remembers anything more."

He gave her his card, and she wrote down the third girl's name, address and telephone number on a slip of paper and handed it to him.

Then he went back to Tanto Park.

The men from the technical division were still working in the hollow below the open-air theater. The sun was low in the sky and cast long shadows across the grass. Martin Beck stayed until the dead girl had been taken away. Then he drove back to police headquarters at Kungsholmsgatan.

'And he took the girl's pants with him this time too," Gunvald Larsson said.

'Yes," Martin Beck said. "White. Size 6."

'The bastard," Larsson said.

Poking at his ear with a pen he said:

'And what did your four-legged friends think of the case?"

Martin Beck looked at him with disapproval.

'What are we to do with this man Eriksson?" Rönn asked.

'Let him go," Martin Beck said.

After a few seconds he added:

'But not too far."

12

ON THE MORNING of Tuesday the thirteenth of June the situation was reviewed; the results of the investigation so far were anything but hopeful. The same could be said of the short statement released to the press. The areas around the scenes of the two crimes had been photographed from a helicopter; about a thousand tips had been received from the public and were now being followed up; all exhibitionists, Peeping Toms and other sexual deviates known to the police were being checked up on; one person had been detained and questioned about his doings at the time of the first crime; this person had now been set free.

Everyone seemed worn out from lack of sleep and overwork, even the journalists and photographers.

After the review Kollberg said to Martin Beck:

'There are two witnesses."

Martin Beck nodded. They both went into the office where Gunvald Larsson and Melander were working.

'There are two witnesses," Martin Beck said.

Melander didn't even look up from his papers but Larsson said:

'Hell, you don't say. And who would they be?"

'First, the boy in Tanto Park."

'Who is three years old?"

'Exactly."

'The girls in the vice squad have tried to talk to him, you know that as well as I do. He can't even talk. It's just about as clever as when you told me to question the dog."

Martin Beck ignored both the remark and the astonished look that Kollberg gave him.

'And secondly?" Melander asked, still without looking up.

'The mugger."

'He's my department," Gunvald Larsson said.

'Exactly. Get him."

Gunvald Larsson heaved himself back so that the swivel chair creaked. He stared from Martin Beck to Kollberg and said:

'Look here. What do you think I've been doing for three weeks, I and the protection squads of fifth and ninth? Playing Chinese checkers? Are you insinuating that we haven't tried?"

'You've tried all right. Now the position has changed. Now you must get him."

'And how the hell are we to do that? Now?"

'The mugger knows his job," Martin Beck said. "You said so yourself. Has he at any time attacked anyone who didn't have money?"

'No."

'Has he at any time gone for anyone who could defend himself?" Kollberg asked.

'No."

'Have the boys in the protection squad ever been anywhere near?" Martin Beck asked.

'No."

'And what can be the reason?" Kollberg asked again.

Gunvald Larsson did not answer at once. He poked his ear for a long time with the ball-point pen before saying:

'He knows his job."

'That's what you said."

Gunvald Larsson pondered again for a time. Then he asked:

'When you were up here ten days ago you started to say something but changed your mind. Why?"

'Because you interrupted me."

'What were you going to say?"

'That we ought to study the timetable for the robberies," Melander said, still without looking up. "The systematics. We've already done so."

'One more thing," Martin Beck said. "The same as Lennart here implied just now. The mugger is a skilled workman and knows his job, your own conclusion. He's so good at it that he recognizes the men in the protection squads. Perhaps even the cars."

'So what?" Gunvald Larsson said. "Do you mean we should change the whole goddam police force just because of this louse?"

'You could have got in men from outside," Kollberg said. "Policewomen as well. Other cars."

'It's too late now anyway," Larsson said.

'Yes," Martin Beck agreed. "It's too late now. On the other hand it's twice as urgent for us to get him."

'That guy's not even going to look at a park so long as the murderer goes free," Gunvald Larsson said.

'Exactly. At what time was the last robbery -committed?"

'Between nine and a quarter past."

'And the murder?"

'Between seven and eight. Look here, why do you stand there asking about things we all know?"

'Sorry. Perhaps I wanted to convince myself."

'What of?"

'Of the fact that the mugger saw the girl," Kollberg said. "And the man who killed her. The mugger wasn't the sort of guy to act haphazardly. Presumably he had to hang about the park for hours every time before he got his chance. Otherwise he had fantastic luck."

'Such luck doesn't exist," Melander said. "Not nine times in succession. Five perhaps. Or six."

'Get him," Martin Beck said.

'Appeal to his sense of justice, eh? So that he gives himself up?"

'Even that is possible."

'Yes," Melander said, speaking on the phone.

He listened for a moment and said:

'Send a radio patrol."

'Was it anything?" Kollberg asked.

'No," Melander said.

'Sense of justice," Gunvald Larsson said, shaking his head. "Your naive faith in the underworld is really… humph, words fail me."

'Just at the moment I don't give a damn what fails you," Martin Beck said heatedly. "Get that guy."

'Use the stoolies," Kollberg said.

'Do you think I don't…" Gunvald Larsson began, but was himself interrupted for once.

'Wherever he is," Martin Beck said. "Whether he's in the Canary Islands or is lying low in a junkie's pad on the south side. Use the stoolies, and do so much more than before. Use every single contact we have in the underworld, use the newspapers and the radio and the television. Threaten, bribe, coax, promise, do anything at all, but get that guy."

'Do you think I haven't the sense to grasp that myself?"

'You know what I think of your intelligence," Kollberg said gravely.

'Yes, I know," Gunvald Larsson said good-naturedly. "Well, let's clear the decks for action."

He grabbed the telephone. Martin Beck and Kollberg left the room.

'Maybe it'll work," Martin Beck said.

'Maybe," Kollberg replied.

'Gunvald is not as dumb as he looks."

'Isn't he?"

'Er… Lennart."

'Yes?"

'Just what's wrong with you?"

'The same as what's wrong with you."

'And that is?"

'I'm scared."

Martin Beck made no reply to this. Partly because Kollberg was right, partly because they had known each other for so long that words were not always necessary.

Impelled by the same thought they went downstairs and into the street. The car, a red Saab, had a provincial numberplate, but belonged nevertheless to the police headquarters in Stockholm.

'That little boy, whatever his name is," Martin Beck said thoughtfully.

'Bo Oskarsson. Known as Bosse."

'I met him just for a moment. Who was it that talked to him?"

'Sylvia, I think. Or maybe it was Sonja."

The streets were fairly empty and the heat was oppressive. They drove over the West Bridge, turned down to the Pålsund Canal and continued along Bergsundsstrand, listening the whole time to the chatter of the radio patrols on the 40-meter waveband.

'Any damned radio ham within a radius of fifty miles can poke his nose into that," Kollberg said irritably. "Do you know what it would cost to screen off a private radio transmitter?"

Martin Beck nodded. He had heard that the cost was in the region of 150,000 kronor. Money that wasn't there.

Actually they were thinking of something quite different. Last time they had made an all-out effort to catch a murderer it had taken forty days before he was seized. The last time they had had a case like this it had taken about ten days. Now the murderer had struck twice within less than four days. Melander had said that the mugger might have been lucky five or six times. Quite feasible. Applied to the present case this was no longer mathematics but a vision of horror.

They drove under Liljeholm Bridge, along Hornstull Strand, passed under the railroad bridge and turned up into the residential area where the old sugar mill had once been. Some children were playing in the gardens around the apartment houses, but not many.

They parked the car and took the elevator to the seventh floor. Rang the doorbell, but no one came to the door. After waiting a while Martin Beck rang the bell of the apartment next door. A woman opened the door a chink. Behind her he caught a glimpse of a little girl of five or six.

'The police," Kollberg said reassuringly, showing his identity disk.

'Oh," the woman said.

'Do you know if the Oskarsson family are at home?" Martin Beck asked.

'No, they went away this morning. To relations somewhere. That's to say the wife and children."

'Oh, I'm sorry to have…"

'But it's not everyone who can," the woman cut in. "I mean go away."

'Do you know where they went?" Kollberg asked.

'No. But they'll be back on Friday morning. Then I think they're leaving again right away."

She looked at them and said in explanation:

'Their vacation starts then."

'But the husband is at home?"

'Yes, this evening. You can call him up."

'Yes," Martin Beck said.

The little girl grew fretful and tugged at her mother's skirts.

'The children get so peevish," she said. "You can't let them out. Or is it all right?"

'Preferably not."

'But some people have to," the woman said. "And a lot of children won't obey."

'Yes, unfortunately."

Without a word they went down in the automatic elevator. Without a word they drove northwards through the city, aware of their powerlessness and of their ambivalent attitude to the society they were there to protect.

They swung up into Vanadis Park and were stopped by a uniformed police officer who recognized neither them nor the car. There was nothing to see in the park. Except a few children who were playing, in spite of everything. And the indefatigable snoopers.

When they got back to the intersection of Odengatan and Sveavägen Kollberg said:

'I'm thirsty."

Martin Beck nodded. They parked, went into the Metro-pole restaurant and ordered fruit juice.

Two other men were sitting at the bar. They had taken off then- coats and put them on the bar stools, an act of unconventionalism that showed how hot it really was. They were drinking whisky and soda, and talking earnestly between sips.

'It's because there's no proper punishment," the younger man said. "A lynching is what's needed."

'Yes," the older man agreed.

'I'm sorry to have to say it, but it's the only thing."

Kollberg opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind and drained his glass of fruit juice in one gulp.

Martin Beck was to hear much the same thing once more that day. In a tobacconist's, when he went in to buy a pack of cigarettes. The man in front of him was saying:

'… and do you know what they ought to do when they catch this bastard. They ought to execute him in public, they should show it on TV, and they shouldn't do it all at once. No, bit by bit for several days."

When the man had gone Martin Beck said:

'Who was that?"

'His name's Skog," the tobacconist said. "He has the radio workshop next door. Decent chap."

Back at headquarters Martin Beck reflected that it wasn't so long since they used to chop a thief's hands off. Yet people still went on stealing. Plenty of them.

In the evening he called up Bo Oskarsson's father.

'Ingrid and the children? I've sent them down to her mother and father in Öland. No, there's no phone there."

'And when will they be back?"

'On Friday morning. The very same evening we're going abroad. We don't damn well dare to stay here."

'No," Martin Beck said wearily.

This was what happened on Tuesday the thirteenth of June.

On Wednesday nothing at all happened. The weather grew hotter.

13

SOON AFTER eleven o'clock on Thursday something did happen. Martin Beck was standing in what had become his habitual position with his right elbow propped on the filing cabinet and heard the phone ring for what must have been the fiftieth time that morning. Gunvald Larsson answered:

'Larsson.

'What?

'Okay, I'll be down right away."

He stood up and said to Martin Beck:

'It was the doorman. There's a girl down there who says she knows something."

'About what?"

Larsson was already in the doorway.

'The mugger."

A minute later the girl was sitting by the desk. She could not have been more than twenty but looked older. She was wearing purple net stockings, high-heeled shoes with open toes and a mini-skirt. Her cleavage was remarkable, and so was the arrangement of her dyed hair; the eyelashes were false and the eyeshadow had been plastered on. Her mouth was small and pouting and her breasts stuck right up in the bra.

'What is it you know?" Gunvald Larsson said immediately.

'You wanted to know about him in Vasa Park and Vanadis Park and so on," she said pertly. "At any rate so I heard."

'What else did you come here for?"

'Don't rush me," she said with a toss of her head.

'What do you know?" Larsson said impatiently.

'I think you're being offensive," she said. "Funny the way all cops are so damn fresh."

'If it's the reward you're after, there isn't one," Larsson said.

'You can stuff your reward," the lady said.

'Why have you come?" Martin Beck asked as gently as he could.

'I've got all the bread I want," she said.

Obviously she had come to make a scene—at least that was partly the reason—and was not going to be put off. Martin Beck could see the veins swelling on Gunvald Larsson's forehead. The girl said:

'Anyway, I earn a damn sight more than you do."

'Yes, with your cu…" Larsson said, but checked himself and went on:

'I think the less said the better about the way you earn your money."

'One more word like that and I go," she said.

'You're not going anywhere," Larsson retorted.

'It's a free country, isn't it? A democracy or whatever it's called?"

'Why have you come here?" Martin Beck asked, only a fraction less gently than the time before.

'Yes, you sure do want to know, don't you? Your ears are flapping. I've a good mind to leave without saying a word."

Melander was the one who broke the deadlock. He raised his head, took the pipe out of his mouth, looked at her for the first time since she had entered the room and said quietly:

'Won't you tell us, my dear?"

'About him in Vanadis Park and Vasa Park and…"

'Yes, if you really know something," Melander said.

'And then I can go?"

'Of course."

'Word of honor?"

'Word of honor," Melander replied.

'And you won't tell him…"

She shrugged, speaking mostly to herself:

'Humph, he'll guess anyway."

'What's his name?" Melander said.

'Roffe."

'And his surname?"

'Lundgren. Rolf Lundgren."

'Where does he live?" Gunvald Larsson asked.

'Luntmakargatan 57."

'And where is he now?"

'There," she said.

'How do you know for sure he's the one?" Martin Beck asked.

He saw something glisten in the girl's eyes and realized with astonishment that it must be tears.

'As if I didn't know," she mumbled.

'So you're going steady with this guy," Larsson said.

She stared at him without answering.

'What's the name on the door?" Melander asked.

'Simonsson."

'Whose apartment is it?" Martin Beck asked.

'His. Roffe's. I think."

'It doesn't add up," Larsson said.

'I suppose he rents it on a sublet. Do you think he's fool enough to have his own name on the door?"

'Is he wanted?"

'I don't know."

'On the run?"

'I don't know."

'Oh yes, you do," Martin Beck said. "Has he broken out of prison?"

'No, he hasn't. Roffe has never been caught."

'This time he's going to be," Gunvald Larsson said.

She stared at him spitefully, her eyes moist. Larsson hurled questions at her.

'Luntmakargatan 57?"

'Yes. That's what I said, didn't I?"

'The house facing the street or the one across the yard?"

'Across the yard."

'Which floor?"

'Second."

'How big is the apartment?"

'One room."

'And kitchen?"

'No, no kitchen. Only one room."

'How many windows?"

'Two."

'Facing the yard?"

'No, sea view!"

Gunvald Larsson bit his lip in annoyance. The veins in his forehead swelled once more.

'Well now," Melander said. "He has a one-room apartment on the second floor with two windows facing the yard. Do you know for sure that he's there now?"

'Yes," she said. "I do."

'Have you a key?" Melander asked kindly.

'No, there is only one."

'And he's locked the door after him?" Martin Beck.

'Bet your sweet life he has."

'Does the door open inwards or outwards?" Gunvald Larsson asked.

She thought hard.

'Inwards."

'Quite sure?"

'Yes."

'How many stories in the house facing the yard?" Martin Beck asked.

'Oh, four or so."

'And what's on the main floor?"

'A workshop."

'Can you see the entrance from the windows?" Larsson asked.

'No, the Baltic," the girl retorted. "A bit of the city hall too. And the royal palace."

'That'll do," Larsson snapped. "Take her away."

The girl made a violent gesture.

'One moment," Melander said.

There was silence in the room. Gunvald Larsson looked expectantly at Melander.

'Can't I go?" the girl asked. "You did promise."

'Yes," Melander answered. "Of course you can go. We just have to check up first that you're right. For your own sake. Oh, one thing more."

'Yes. What?"

'He's not alone in the room, eh?"

'No," the girl said very quietly.

'What's your name, by the way?" Gunvald Larsson asked.

'None of your damn business."

'Take her away," Gunvald Larsson said.

Melander got up, opened the door to the next room and said:

'Rönn, we have a lady here, do you mind if she sits with you for a while?"

Rönn appeared in the doorway. His eyes and nose were red. He took in the scene.

'Not at all."

'Blow your nose," Larsson said.

'Shall I give her some coffee?"

'Good idea," Melander said.

He held the door for her and said politely:

'This way, please."

The girl got up and went out. In the doorway she stopped and gave Gunvald Larsson and Martin Beck a cold, hard stare. Evidently they had not succeeded in making her like them. Something wrong with our basic psychological training, Martin Beck thought.

Then she looked at Melander and said slowly:

'Who's going to get him?"

'We are," Melander said kindly. "That's what the police are for."

She didn't move, but went on looking at Melander. At last she said:

'He's dangerous."

'How dangerous?"

'Very dangerous. He shoots. He'll probably shoot me too."

'Not for a long time," Gunvald Larsson said.

She ignored him.

'He has two submachine guns in the room. Loaded. And an ordinary pistol. He has said…"

Martin Beck said nothing, but waited for Melander's reply, hoping that Gunvald Larsson would keep quiet.

'What has he said?" Melander asked.

'That he'll never let himself be taken alive. I know he means it."

She still went on standing there.

'That's all," she said.

'Thank you," Melander said, closing the door after her.

'Huh," Gunvald Larsson said.

'Fix the warrant," Martin Beck said as soon as the door was shut. "And out with the town plan."

The blueprint of the town plan was on the desk before Me lander had finished making the short phone call that gave them the legal right to do what they were about to do.

'It might be pretty tough," Martin Beck said.

'Yes," Gunvald Larsson agreed.

He opened a drawer, took out his service pistol and weighed it for a moment in his hand. Martin Beck, like most Swedish plainclothes policemen, carried a pistol in a shoulder holster in case he had to use it when on duty. Gunvald Larsson, on the other hand, had got himself a special clip with which he could fasten the holster to the waistband of his trousers. Slinging the pistol so that it hung by his right hip he said:

'Okay, I'll grab him myself. Coming?"

Martin Beck looked thoughtfully at Gunvald Larsson, who was a good half head taller than himself and looked gigantic now that he was standing up.

'It's the only way," Larsson said. "How else can we do it? Just imagine a horde of guys with submachine guns and tear-gas bombs and bullet-proof vests running in through that entrance and across the yard with him firing like a madman through the windows and out onto the staircase. Or are you yourself or the police commissioner or the prime minister or the king going to stand and shout through a megaphone, 'You're surrounded. Better give yourself up.'"

'Tear gas through the keyhole," Melander said.

'That's an idea," Gunvald Larsson said. "But it doesn't appeal to me. Presumably the key's on the inside. No, plain-clothes men in the street and two men go in. Coming?"

'Sure," Martin Beck said.

He would rather have had Kollberg with him, but the mugger was without doubt Gunvald Larsson's man.

Luntmakargatan lies in the part of Stockholm known as Norrmalm. A long narrow street with mainly old buildings. It stretches from Brunnsgatan in the south to Odengatan in the north, with a lot of workshops on the street level and shabby dwellings in the houses across the yard.

They were there in less than ten minutes.

14

'PITY YOU DON'T have the computer with you," Gunvald Larsson said. "You could break the door down with it."

'Yes," Martin Beck said.

They parked the car in Rådmansgatan, went around the corner and saw several colleagues on the sidewalks near the entrance to number 57.

The arrival of the police did not seem to have attracted anyone's attention.

'We'll go in…" Gunvald Larsson began, and checked himself.

Perhaps he remembered his lower rank, for he looked at his wrist watch and said:

'I suggest I go in with you half a minute behind me."

Martin Beck nodded, crossed the street, stood in front of the shop window of Gustaf Blomdin's jeweler's shop and watched an unusually beautiful old grandfather clock tick away thirty seconds. Then he turned on his heel, crossed the road diagonally without bothering about the traffic and entered the main doorway of number 57.

He crossed the yard without looking up at the windows, opened the door onto the staircase and went swiftly and quietly up the stairs. From the workshop on the main floor came the muffled pounding of machinery.

The paint had flaked off the door of the apartment; sure enough, it bore the name Simonsson. Not a sound could be heard from inside, nor from Gunvald Larsson, who was standing, quite still and straight, to the right of the door. He passed his fingers lightly across the cracked paneling.

Then he glanced inquiringly at Martin Beck.

Martin Beck regarded the door for a second or two and nodded. He stood to the left of it, tense and with his back to the wall.

Despite his height and weight, Gunvald Larsson moved very quickly and silently in his rubber-soled sandals. Supporting himself with his right shoulder against the wall opposite the door, he stood tensed for a few seconds. He had evidently made sure that the key was in the lock on the inside, and it was obvious that Rolf Lundgren's private world would not remain private much longer. Martin Beck barely had time to think this before Gunvald Larsson flung his two hundred pounds against the door, crouching slightly and with his left shoulder forward.

The door flew open with a crash, wrenched off both lock and upper hinge, and Gunvald Larsson followed it into the room through a cascade of dry splinters. Martin Beck was only half a yard behind him, striding smoothly and swiftly. His pistol was raised.

The mugger was lying on his back in bed with his right arm locked under a woman's neck, but he managed to get free, spin around and fling his upper body towards the floor and thrust his hand under the bed. When Gunvald Larsson struck him he was already kneeling with the submachine gun resting on the floor but with his right hand closed around the extended metal frame.

Gunvald Larsson struck him only once, with open hand and not very hard, but it was enough to make the mugger drop the weapon and tumbled backwards against the wall, where he remained sitting with his left arm over his face.

'Don't hit me," he said.

He was naked. The woman, who had leaped up from the bed a second later, was wearing a wrist watch with a tartan strap. She stood stock still with her back to the wall on the other side of the bed, staring from the submachine gun on the floor to the gigantic fair man in the tweed suit. She made not the slightest attempt to cover herself. She was a pretty girl with short hair and long, slim legs. She had young breasts with large, pale-brown nipples and a prominent dark line from the navel to the moist, dark-brown patch of hair around her private parts. She also had dark, bushy hair in her armpits. There was already goose-flesh on her thighs, arms and breasts.

A man from the workshop on the ground floor was gaping through the broken door.

Martin Beck was struck by the absurdity of the situation and for the first time in weeks he felt the corners of his mouth twitch. He was standing in the middle of a room in broad daylight pointing a 7.65-millimeter Walther at two naked people while a man in a blue carpenter's apron and with a foot-rule in his right hand stared at him in amazement.

He put his pistol away. A policeman appeared outside the door and told the workman to get a move on. "What!" the girl exclaimed.

Gunvald Larsson looked at her with distaste and said: "Get your clothes on." After a moment he added: "If you have any."

He was standing with his right foot on the submachine gun. With a glance at the mugger he said: "You too. Get your clothes on."

The mugger was a muscular, well-built young man with a fine suntan, apart from a narrow white band across his thighs, and with long fair hair on his arms and legs. He straightened up slowly, holding his right hand in front of his genitals, and said:

'That goddam stinking little slob."

Another policeman entered the room and stared. The girl still stood motionless with her palms pressed against the wall and her fingers wide apart, but the expression in her brown eyes showed that she was pulling herself together.

Martin Beck looked around the room and saw a blue cotton dress slung over the back of a kitchen table. On the chair were also a pair of panties, a bra and a string bag. Under it, on the floor, was a pair of sandals. Handing her the dress he said:

'Who are you?"

The girl stretched out her right hand and took the dress but did not put it on. Looking at him with her clear brown eyes she said:

'My name's Lisbeth Hedvig Maria Karlström. Who are you?"

'A policeman."

'I'm reading modern languages at Stockholm University and have passed my finals in English."

'And this is what you learn at the university?" Gunvald Larsson said without turning his head.

'I came of age a year ago and I'm wearing a diaphragm."

'How long have you known this man?" Martin Beck asked.

The girl still made no attempt to get dressed. Instead, she looked at her wrist watch and said:

'For exactly two hours and twenty-five minutes. I met him at the Vanadis Baths."

In the other part of the room the man was fumbling putting on his underpants and khaki trousers.

'That's nothing much to show the ladies," Gunvald Larsson said.

'You're a boor," the girl said.

'Think so?"

Gunvald Larsson said this without taking his eyes off the mugger. He had looked at the girl only once.

'On with your shirt now," he urged paternally. "Now your socks. And shoes. That's a good boy."

Two uniformed radio policemen had entered the room; they admired the scenery for a moment, then led the mugger away.

'Get dressed, please," Martin Beck said to the girl.

At last she drew the dress over her head, went over to the chair, put on her panties and slipped her feet into the sandals. Rolled up the bra and put it in the string bag.

'What has he done?" she asked.

'Sex maniac," Gunvald Larsson said.

Martin Beck saw her turn pale and swallow. She looked at Mm inquiringly. He shook his head. She swallowed again and said uncertainly:

'Shall I…"

'There's no need. Just give your name and address to the officer outside. Good-bye."

The girl went out.

'You let her go!" Gunvald Larsson said in amazement.

'Yes," Martin Beck said.

Then he shrugged and said:

'Let's go through things, shall we?"

15

FIVE HOURS later the time was half past five and Rolf Evert Lundgren had still admitted nothing but the fact that his name was Rolf Evert Lundgren.

They had stood around him, and sat opposite him, and he had smoked their cigarettes, and the tape recorder had turned and turned, and his name was still Rolf Evert Lundgren and anyway, it was on his driver's license.

They had asked and asked and asked him questions, Martin Beck, and Melander, and Gunvald Larsson, and Kollberg, and Rönn, and even Hammar, who was now chief superintendent, had been in and looked at him and said one or two well-chosen words. His name was still Rolf Evert Lundgren and anyway it was on his driver's license and the only thing that seemed to annoy him was when Rönn sneezed without holding a handkerchief to his mouth.

The absurd thing was that had it concerned only himself he could have pleaded not guilty for all they cared, right through every interrogation and every conceivable court of appeal and his entire prison sentence, for in the one-room apartment across the yard and in the built-in wardrobe they had found not only two submachine guns and a Smith and Wesson 38 Special but also objects which definitely bound him to four of the robberies, plus the bandanna handkerchief, the tennis shoes, the nylon pullover with the monogram on the breast pocket, two thousand preludin pills, the brass knuckles and several stolen cameras.

At six o'clock Rolf Evert Lundgren sat drinking coffee with Superintendent Martin Beck of the homicide squad and Detective Inspector Fredrik Melander. All three took two lumps of sugar and all three were equally glum and exhausted as they sipped at their paper mugs.

'The absurd thing is that if this had concerned only yourself we could have called it a day now and gone home," Martin Beck said.

'I don't know what you're getting at," Lundren said.

'I mean what's so silly is…"

'Oh, stop nagging."

Martin Beck made no reply; he sat quite still, staring at the arrested man. Melander said nothing either.

At six fifteen Martin Beck drank up his coffee, which was now stone cold, crumpled up the mug and dropped it into the wastepaper basket.

They had tried persuasion, kindness, severity, logic, shock tactics; they had tried to get him to engage a lawyer and they had asked him ten times if he wanted anything to eat. In fact, they had tried everything except striking him. Martin Beck had noticed that Gunvald Larsson had been several times on the point of resorting even to this forbidden method but had realized that it wouldn't do to hit suspects, especially while superintendents and commissioners were running in and out of the room. At last this had annoyed Gunvald Larsson so much that he had gone home.

At half past six Melander also went home. Rönn came in and sat down. Rolf Evert Lundgren said:

'Put that filthy handkerchief away. I don't want your germs."

Rönn, who was a mediocre policeman with mediocre imagination and a mediocre sense of humor, considered for a moment the possibility of being the first interrogator in the history of crime to extract a confession by sneezing, but refrained.

Of course the normal thing, Martin Beck thought, was to let the accused sleep on the matter. But was there time to sleep on the matter? The man in the green T-shirt and khaki trousers did not seem particularly sleepy and had not even mentioned the matter. Oh well, sooner or later they would have to let him rest.

'That lady who came here this morning," Rönn said by way of introduction, and sneezed.

'That goddam stinking little slob," the accused muttered, sinking into a dejected silence.

After a while he said:

'She loves me, so she says. She says I need her."

Martin Beck nodded. Another minute or so passed before the man went on:

'I don't love her. I need her about as much as I need dandruff."

Don't nag, Martin Beck thought. Say nothing.

'I like to have decent girls," Lundgren said. "What I'd really like is one decent girl. Then to get picked up thanks to that jealous slob."

Silence.

'Slob," Lundgren muttered to himself.

Silence.

'She's good for only one thing."

Sure, thought Martin Beck, but this time he was wrong. Thirty seconds later the man in the green T-shirt said:

'Okay."

'Let's talk now," Martin Beck said.

'Okay. But I want one thing straight first. That slob can give me an alibi for that business last Monday. In Tanto Park. I was with her then."

'We know that already," Rönn said.

'You do? Oh, so she did tell you that."

'Yes," Rönn said.

Martin Beck stared at him; so Rönn had not bothered to mention this simple fact to anyone else in the department. He could not help saying:

'That's nice to know. It absolves Lundgren here from suspicion."

'Yes, it does," Rönn said calmly.

'Let's talk now," Martin Beck said.

Lundgren eyed him narrowly.

'Not us," he said.

'What do you mean?"

'Not you, I don't want to talk to you," Lundgren explained.

'Who then?" Martin Beck asked patiently.

'With the guy that nabbed me. The tall one."

'Where's Gunvald?" Martin Beck asked.

'Gone home," Rönn replied with a sigh.

'Phone for him."

Rönn sighed again. Martin Beck knew why. Gunvald Larsson lived at Bollmora, a suburb far to the south.

'He needs rest," Rönn said. "He's had a tiring day. Nabbing a big gangster like this."

'Shut up," Lundgren said.

Rönn sneezed and reached for the phone.

Martin Beck went into another room and called up Ham-mar, who said at once:

'Can this Lundgren be considered cleared of suspicion as regards the murder?"

'Rönn questioned his mistress earlier today. She seems able to give him an alibi for the murder in Tanto Park. As for Vanadis Park last Friday, of course, he hasn't one."

'I grasp that," Hammar said. "What do you think yourself?"

Martin Beck hesitated before replying.

'I don't think he's the one."

'You consider he's not the murderer?"

'I don't see how he can be. Nothing fits. Quite apart from the alibi for Monday, he's the wrong type. Sexually he seems quite normal."

'I see."

Even Hammar had seemed a trifle irritable. Martin Beck went back to the other two. Rönn and Lundgren were sitting in stony silence.

'Don't you really want anything to eat?" Martin Beck asked.

'No," Lundgren said. "When's that guy coming?"

Rönn sighed and blew his nose.

16

GUNVALD LARSSON entered the room. Exactly thirty-seven minutes had passed since he had been called up and the taxi receipt was still in his hand. Since they had last seen him he had shaved and put on a clean shirt. He sat down at the desk opposite Rolf Lundgren, folded the receipt and put it in the top righthand drawer. He was now ready for some of the two million four hundred thousand hours of overtime that the Swedish police have to put in annually. But in view of his rank it was uncertain if he would ever be paid for his work during the next few hours.

It was some little while before Gunvald Larsson said anything. He busied himself with the tape recorder, the note pad and his pencils. There was no doubt some sort of psychological reason for this, Martin Beck thought as he regarded his colleagues. He disliked Gunvald Larsson and had no high opinion of Rönn. He had no high opinion of himself either for that matter. Kollberg made out he was scared and Ham-mar had seemed irritated. They were all very tired, added to which Rönn had a cold. Many of the men in uniform on patrol duty, either on foot or in radio cars, were also working overtime and were also worn out. Some of them were scared and Rönn was certainly not the only one with a cold.

And in Stockholm and its suburbs by this time there were over a million frightened people.

The hunt was entering its seventh abortive day.

And they were the bulwarks of society.

Some bulwarks.

Rönn blew his nose.

'Well," Gunvald Larsson said, laying one of his huge hairy hands on the tape recorder.

'It was you who picked me up," Rolf Evert Lundgren said in a tone that was almost reluctant admiration.

'Yes," Gunvald Larsson said, "that's correct. But it's nothing I feel particularly proud of. It's my job. I pick up scum like you every day. By next week I'll probably have forgotten you."

This of course was a qualified truth, but the bombastic opening evidently had some effect. The man called Rolf Evert Lundgren seemed to droop.

Gunvald Larsson switched on the tape recorder,

'What's your name?"

'Rolf Evert Lundgren."

'Born?"

'Yes."

'No insolence."

'Fifth of January nineteen forty-four.''

'Where?"

'In Gothenburg."

'Which parish?"

'Lundby."

'What are your parents' names?"

Come on now, Gunvald, Martin Beck thought. You've several weeks for that. There's only one thing that really interests us.

'Any previous convictions?" Gunvald Larsson asked.

'No."

'Have you been at an approved school?"

'No."

'We're chiefly interested in one or two details," Martin Beck put in.

'Didn't I damned well say I'd only talk to him there?" Rolf Evert Lundgren said.

Gunvald Larsson looked stonily at Martin Beck and said:

'What's your occupation?"

'Occupation?"

'Yes, you have one, I presume?"

'Well…"

'What do you call yourself?"

'Businessman."

'And what kind of business do you consider you do?"

Martin Beck and Rönn exchanged a resigned look. This was going to take time.

It took time.

One hour and forty-five minutes later Gunvald Larsson said:

'We're chiefly interested in one or two details."

'So I gather."

'You've already admitted having been in Vanadis Park on the evening of the ninth of June, that is, Friday of last week?"

'Yes."

'And that you committed robbery with violence there at 9.15 P.M.?"

'Yes."

'Against Hildur Magnusson, shopkeeper?"

'Yes."

'What time did you get to the park?" Rönn asked.

'Shut up," Lundgren said.

'No insolence," Gunvald Larsson said. "What time did you get to the park?"

'About seven. A little after maybe. I left home when the rain eased off."

'And you were in Vanadis Park from seven o'clock up to the time when you assaulted and robbed this lady, Hildur Magnusson?"

'Well, I was in the neighborhood. Keeping an eye open."

'Did you notice any other persons in the park during that time?"

'Yes, a few."

'How many?"

'Ten maybe. Or twelve. Ten more likely."

'I presume that you observed these persons closely?"

'Yes, pretty closely."

'To see if you dared attack them?"

'Rather to see if they were worth the trouble."

'Can you recollect any of these persons you saw?"

'Well, one or two anyway."

'Which ones?"

'I saw two cops."

'Policemen?"

'Yes."

'In uniform?"

'No."

'Then how did you know they were policemen?"

'Because I'd already seen them twenty or thirty times. They work at the cop-shop at Surbrunnsgatan and drive a red Volvo Amazon and sometimes a green Saab."

Now don't say 'The police station, you mean?" thought Martin Beck.

'The police station in ninth district, you mean?" said Larsson.

'Yes, if that's the one in Surbrunnsgatan."

'What was the time when you saw these policemen?"

'About eight thirty, I should think. I mean, that's when they came."

'How long did they stay?"

'Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Then they drove to Lill-Jans Wood."

'How do you know?"

'They said so."

'Said so? Do you mean you spoke to them?"

'Like hell I did. I was standing near and heard what they

Gunvald Larsson made a pregnant pause. It was not hard to imagine what he was thinking. At last he said:

'Who else did you see?"

'A guy and a girl. Pretty young. About twenty."

'What were they doing?"

'Petting."

'What?"

'Petting. He shoved his fingers up her cunt."

'Mind your language."

'What's wrong with it? I'm telling you just how it was."

Gunvald Larsson was again silent for a moment. Then he said stiffly:

'Are you aware that a murder was committed in the park while you were there?"

Lundgren put his hand to his face. For the first time in many hours he seemed nervous and at a loss for an answer.

'I read about it," he said at last.

'And?"

'It wasn't me. I swear. I'm not that sort."

'You have read about this girl. She was nine years old and her name was Eva Carlsson. She was dressed in a blue skirt, striped T-shirt…"

Gunvald Larsson consulted his notes.

'… and black wooden-soled sandals. Did you see her?"

Lundgren did not answer. After about half a minute Larsson repeated the question.

'Did you see this girl?"

After a long hesitation Lundgren said:

'Ye-es, I think so."

'Where did you see her?"

'In the playground down by Sveavägen. At any rate there was a kid there. A girl."

'What was she doing?"

'Swinging."

'Who was she with?"

'No one. She was solo."

'What time was this?"

'Just after… soon after I got there."

'And that was?"

'I'd say about ten past seven. Or a bit later."

'And you're sure she was alone?"

'Yes."

'And she had a blue skirt and striped T-shirt, you're sure of that?"

'No. I mean, I don't know. But…"

'But what?"

'I think so."

'And you saw no one else? No one talking to her?"

'Wait," Lundgren said. "Wait, wait. I read about that in the paper. I've thought no end about it."

'What have you thought?"

'Well, that I…"

'Did you speak to her yourself?"

'No, no, for Christ's sake."

'She sat there all alone on the swings. Did you go up to her?"

'No, no…"

'Let him tell us himself, Gunvald," Martin Beck said. "He must have thought a lot about this."

Lundgren glanced resignedly at Martin Beck. He looked tired and rather scared. No truculence now.

Keep quiet, Gunvald, Martin Beck thought.

Gunvald Larsson kept quiet.

The mugger sat silent for a minute or two, his head in his hands. Then he said:

'I've thought about this. Every day since then."

Silence.

'I've tried to think back. I know that I saw that kid in the playground and that she was alone and that it must have been just after I got there. About ten or a quarter past seven. I didn't pay much attention, see. Only a kid, and anyway I wasn't going to work down there by the playground. Too near the street, Sveavägen. So I didn't think much about her. Then. It would have been different if she'd been in the playground up there by the water tower."

'Did you see her there too?" Gunvald Larsson asked.

'No, no…"

'Did you follow her?"

'No, no, try and get this. I wasn't in the least interested in her, but…"

'But what?"

'There weren't many people in the park that evening. It was stinking weather, could have poured at any minute. I was about to give up and go home when that old bag… when that lady came. But…"

'But what?"

'What I want to say is that I saw that girl. And the time must have been nearly seven fifteen."

'You've already said that. Who did you see with her?"

'No one. She was solo. What I mean is that I saw about a dozen people the whole time. I'm… I'm very careful. When I work I don't want to get caught. So I watch out. And what I mean is that maybe one of those I saw…"

'Well, whom did you see?"

'I saw those two cops…"

'The policemen."

'Yes, for Chrissake. One was red-haired and had a trench-coat and the other had a cap and jacket and trousers, lean face sort of."

'Axelsson and Lind," Rönn said to himself.

'You're very observant," Martin Beck said.

'Yes, you are," Gunvald Larsson said. "Out with the rest now."

'Those two cops… no, don't interrupt, for Chrissake… they went into the park from different directions and were in there about a quarter of an hour. But it was much later than when I saw the girl. Must have been an hour and a half later."

'And?"

'And then those other two. The guy that felt the girl up. That was earlier again. I followed them, was nearly going to have a go…"

'Have a go?"

'Yes, at… no, for Chrissake, I don't mean sex. The girl had on a mini-skirt, black and white, and the guy was wearing a blazer. Looked upper class, but she had no handbag."

He was silent. Gunvald Larsson, Martin Beck and Rönn waited.

'She had white lace panties."

'How could you see that without her seeing you?"

'She didn't see a goddam thing, neither did the guy. They wouldn't have seen a hippopotamus. They didn't even see each other. And they must have come about…"

He paused. Then said:

'What time were the cops there?"

'Eight thirty," Martin Beck said quickly.

The mugger looked almost triumphant as he said:

'Exactly. And by then those two had been gone at least a quarter of an hour. And the two of them were in the park for at least half an hour. From a quarter to eight until a quarter past, that is. I followed them at first, but then I shoved off. Stand there watching their petting. Christ no. But when they came the little girl wasn't there. She wasn't in the playground, either when they came or when they left. I'd have seen her if she'd been there. I'd have noticed."

He was really trying to help now.

'So she was in the playground at seven fifteen but had gone by seven forty-five?" Gunvald Larsson said.

'Exactly."

'And what did you do in the meantime?"

'Kept an eye open, so to speak. I hung about the corner, between Sveavägen and Frejgatan. So that I could see people entering the park from those directions."

'Just a moment. You say you saw about ten persons altogether?"

'In the park? Yes, roughly."

'Two policemen, this young couple, the lady you robbed, the little girl. That's six."

'I also followed a man with a dog. I followed him the whole time, but he only walked about by Stefan's Church and near the street. Probably waiting for the dog to shit or something."

'What direction did this man come from?" Martin Beck asked.

'He came in from Sveavägen, by the candy stand."

'What time?" Rönn asked.

'It was soon after I came. He was the only one I considered before that guy with the girl. He… wait, he came in by the candy stand and had one of those skinny little dogs. The girl was in the playground then."

'Are you sure?" Gunvald Larsson said.

'Yes. Wait a sec now. I followed him the whole time. He was there for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. And when he left, the girl must have gone."

'What other people did you see?"

'Only a few bums."

'Bums?"

'Yes. I never even considered them. Two or three of them. They went through the park."

'Try and remember now, for God's sake," Gunvald Larsson said.

'I am trying. I saw two walking together. They came from Sveavägen and went up towards the water tower. Hobos. Pretty old."

'Are you sure they were together?"

'Almost. I'd seen them before. I remember now thinking they had a bottle of liquor or a few beers they wanted a swig at up in the park. But that happened while those two were still there, the girl with the lace pants and her guy, the ones who were petting. And…"

'Yes?"

'I saw another one. He came from the other direction."

'A bum too, as you call it?"

'Well, it wasn't anyone worth noticing anyway, not as far as I was concerned. He came from up by the water tower. I remember quite plainly now, I remember thinking he must have come up the steps from Ingemarsgatan. Hell of a steep pull, climbing up that way and then just going down again."

'Down again?"

'Yes. He went out into Sveavägen."

'When did you see him?"

'Soon after the man with the dog had gone."

There was silence in the room. It dawned on them one by one what Lundgren had just said.

It dawned on Lundgren himself last of all. Raising his eyes, he looked Gunvald Larsson straight in the face.

'Christ, yes!"

Martin Beck felt a nerve tingle somewhere in his system. And Gunvald Larsson said:

'To sum up, we can say this: An elderly, well-dressed man with a dog entered Vanadis Park from Sveavägen some time between seven fifteen and seven thirty. He walked past the candy stand and the playground, where the girl still was. The man with the dog stayed for about ten minutes, fifteen at the most, in that part of the park that lies between Stefan's Church and Frejgatan. You shadowed him the whole time. When he came back and went out of the park, again past the candy stand and the playground, the girl was no longer in the playground. A few minutes later a man appeared from the direction of the water tower and went out into Sveavägen. You presumed that he had come from Ingemarsgatan and climbed the steps behind the water tower and then came down through the park in the direction of Sveavägen. But this man could just as well have come from the direction of Sveavägen a quarter of an hour earlier, while you were shadowing the man with the dog."

'Yes," Lundgren said, gaping.

'He could have passed the playground and lured the girl with him up to the water tower. He could have killed her there and thus been on the way back when you saw him."

'Yes," Lundgren said, gaping wider.

'Did you see which way he went?" Martin Beck asked.

'No, all I thought was he'd left the park and that was that."

'Did you see him at close quarters?"

'Yes, he went right past me. I was standing behind the candy stand."

'Good, let's have his description," Gunvald Larsson said. "What did he look like?"

'He wasn't very tall, not small either. Rather shabby. He had a big nose."

'How was he dressed?"

'Shabbily. Light-colored shirt, white I should think. No tie. Dark trousers, gray or brown, I think."

'And his hair?"

'A bit thin. Brushed straight back."

'Hadn't he a coat?" Rönn put in.

'No. Neither jacket nor overcoat."

'Color of eyes?"

'What?"

'Did you see the color of his eyes?"

'No. Blue, I imagine. Or gray. He was that type. Fair."

'How old could he have been?"

'Oh, between forty and fifty. Nearer forty, I should think."

'And his shoes," Rönn said.

'Don't know. Though probably those ordinary black shoes that bums usually have. But that's only a guess."

Summing up, Gunvald Larsson said:

'A man aged about forty, normal build, average height, with thin hair brushed back and big nose. Blue or gray eyes. White or light-colored shirt, unbuttoned. Brown or dark-gray trousers, probably black shoes."

Martin Beck was vaguely reminded of something, but the thought vanished as soon as it came. Larsson went on:

'Presumably black shoes, oval face… Good. Only one thing more. You're to look at some pictures. Bring the vice squad's album."

Rolf Evert Lundgren looked through the pages of photographs of known sexual perverts. He examined each picture carefully and shook his head each time.

He could find nobody resembling the man he had seen in Vanadis Park.

Moreover, he was quite sure that the man he had seen was not among the photographs in the register.

It was already midnight when Gunvald Larsson said:

'Now well see that you get something to eat and then you can sleep. See you tomorrow. That's all for today."

He seemed almost jaunty.

The last thing the mugger said before being led away was:

'Just think, I saw the bastard!"

He too seemed almost jaunty.

Yet he himself had been very near to killing several people, and as recently as twelve hours earlier he had been ready to shoot down both Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson, if only he had had the chance.

Martin Beck pondered this.

He also reflected that they had a description—and a poor one at that—which fitted many thousands of people. Still, it was something.

And the hunt entered its seventh day.

There was something else at the back of Martin Beck's mind, but he didn't know what it was.

He had coffee with Rönn and Gunvald Larsson before they went home.

They exchanged some concluding remarks.

'Do you think it took a long time?" Gunvald Larsson asked.

'Yes," Martin Beck said.

'Yes, I did," Rönn agreed.

'Well, you see," Gunvald Larsson said pompously, "you have to go carefully and start at the beginning. Establish a confidential relationship."

'Yes," Rönn said.

'Frankly, I thought it took a hell of a long time all the same," Martin Beck said.

Then he drove home. Had another cup of coffee and went to bed.

Lay awake in the dark, thinking.

Of something.

17

MARTIN BECK felt anything but rested when he awoke on Friday morning. In fact he felt more tired than he had done when, after far too many cups of coffee, he had at last got to sleep late the night before. He had slept fitfully, tossing and turning, and had had one nightmare after the other. He woke up with a dull ache in his midriff.

At breakfast he had a violent quarrel with his wife about something so trivial that he had already forgotten the cause of it when he closed the front door behind him five minutes later. Anyway, his part in the quarrel had been somewhat passive; his wife had been the one to take the offensive.

Tired, dissatisfied with himself, his eyelids smarting, he took the subway to Slussen, changed trains and went on to Midsommarkransen to pay a short visit to his office in Västberga Allé. He disliked using the subway, and although it was quicker to go by car from Bagarmossen to the southern police headquarters, he refused obstinately to become a motorist. This was one of the seeds of dissension between him and Inga, his wife. Moreover, since finding out that the state pays a policeman who uses his own car forty-six ore a kilometer, she had raised the question more and more often.

He took the elevator to the third floor, pressed the buttons of the numerical code on the dial outside the glass doors, nodded to the doorman and went into his office. From the pile on his desk he sorted out the papers he was to take along to the headquarters in Kungsholmsgatan.

On the desk was also a postcard in vivid colors with a picture of a donkey in a straw hat, a chubby little dark-eyed girl with a basket of oranges and a palm tree. It had been posted in Mallorca, where the youngest man in the department, Åke Stenström, was on holiday, and it was addressed to "Martin Beck and the boys." It took Martin Beck some time to decipher what he had written with a smeary ball-point pen:

Are you wondering what has become of all the pretty chicks? They have found out my whereabouts! How are you managing without me? Badly, I presume. But hold out, maybe I'll come back! Åke

Martin Beck smiled and put the postcard in his pocket. Then he sat down, looked up the number of the Oskarsson family and reached for the phone.

The husband answered. He said that the rest of the family had just come home and that if Martin Beck wanted to see them he had better come as soon as possible, as they had a lot to do before going away.

He ordered a taxi and ten minutes later he rang the doorbell of the Oskarssons' apartment. The husband opened the door and showed him to the sofa in the bright living room. The children were not there, but he heard their voices from one of the other rooms. Their mother stood by the window ironing, and when Martin Beck came in she said:

'Excuse me, but I've nearly finished."

'I'm so sorry I have to disturb you," Martin Beck said. "But I'd very much like to talk to you once more before you go away."

The husband nodded and sat down in a leather armchair on the other side of the low coffee table.

'Naturally we want to do all we can to help," he said. "My wife and I know nothing, but we've talked to Lena and it seems as if she doesn't know any more than what she has already told you. Unfortunately."