The Laughing Policeman

There was a pause. Hjelm had kept the best till last. This was only a rhetorical pause.

'Yes,' he said at length. 'In the breast pocket of the jacket we found crumbs of hashish, and some grains in the right trouser pocket derived from crushed Preludin tablets. The analyses of certain tests from the autopsy confirm that the man was a junkie.'

New pause. Martin Beck said nothing.

'In addition, he had gonorrhea. In an advanced stage.'

Martin Beck finished making his notes, said thank you and put down the phone.

'Reeks of the underworld,' Kollberg declared.

He had been standing behind the chair eavesdropping.

'Yes,' Martin Beck said. 'But his fingerprints are not in our files.'

'Perhaps he was a foreigner.'

'Quite possibly,' Martin Beck agreed. 'But what shall we do with this information? We can hardly let it out to the press.'

'No,' Melander said. 'But we can let it circulate by word of mouth among snouts and known addicts. Via the drug squad and the community relations workers in the various police districts.'

'Mmm,' Martin Beck murmured. 'Do that then.'

Not much use, he thought. But what else was to be done? During the last few days the police had made two spectacular raids on the so-called underworld. The result was exactly what they expected. Meagre. The raids had been foreseen by all except those who were most broken-down and destitute. The majority of those who had been picked up by the police - about one hundred and fifty - had been in need of immediate care and had been passed on to various institutions.

The investigation had so tar produced nothing, and the detectives who handled the contacts with the dregs of society said they were convinced the snouts really didn't know anything.

Everything seemed to bear this out No one could reasonably gain anything by shielding this criminal.

'Except himself,' said Gunvald Larsson, who had a fondness for unnecessary remarks.

The only thing they could do was to work on the material they already had. Try to trace the weapon and go on interrogating all who had had any connection with the victims. These interviews were now carried out by the reinforcements - Månsson from Malmö and a detective inspector from Sundsvall by the name of Nordin. Gunnar Ahlberg could not be spared from his ordinary work. It didn't really matter; everyone was pretty sure that these interrogations would lead nowhere.

The hours dragged past and nothing happened. Day was added to day. The days formed a week, and then another week. Once again it was Monday. The date was 4 December and the nameday was Barbro. The weather was cold and windy and the Christmas rush grew more and more hectic. The reinforcements got the blues and began to feel homesick, Månsson for the mild climate of southern Sweden and Nordin for the clear, bright cold of the northern winter. Neither of them was used to a big city and they both felt miserable in Stockholm. A lot of things got on their nerves, mainly the rush and tear, the jostling crowds and the unfriendly people. And as policemen they were irritated by the rowdyism and the petty crimes that were rife everywhere.

'It beats me how you guys stand it in this town,' Nordin said.

He was a stocky, bald man with bushy eyebrows and screwed-up brown eyes.

'We were born here,' Kollberg said. ‘We've never known anything else.'

'I just came in on the underground,' Nordin said. 'Just between Alvik and Fridhemsplan I saw at least fifteen individuals the police would have nabbed on the spot if it had been at home in Sundsvall.'

'We're short of people,' Martin Beck said.

‘Yes, I know, but...'

'But what?'

'Have you ever thought of something? People are scared here. Ordinary decent people. If you ask for directions or ask them for a light, they practically turn and run. They're simply afraid. Feel insecure.'

'Who doesn't?' Kbllberg said.

'I don't,' Nordin replied. 'At least not as a rule. But I expect I’ll be the same before long. Have you anything for me just now?'

‘We have a weird sort of tip here,' Melander said. ‘What about?'

'The unidentified man on the bus. A woman in Hägersten. She called up and said she lives next door to a garage where a lot of foreigners collect.'

Uh-hunh.And?'

'It's usually pretty rowdy there, though she didn't put it like that "Noisy" is what she said. One of the noisiest was a small, dark man of about thirty-five. His clothes were not unlike the description in the papers, she said, and now there hasn't been any sign of him.'

"There are tens of thousands of people with clothes like that’ Nordin said sceptically.

'Yes,' Melander agreed, 'there are. And with ninety-nine per cent certainty this tip is useless. The information is so vague that there's really nothing to check. Moreover, she didn't seem at all sure. But if you've nothing else to do ...'

He left the sentence in midair, scribbled down the woman's name and address on his notepad and tore off the sheet The telephone rang and he lifted the receiver as he handed the paper to Nordin.

'Here you are,' he said.

'I can't read it,' Nordin muttered.

Melander's handwriting was cramped and almost illegible, at least to outsiders. Kollberg took the slip of paper and looked at it

'Hieroglyphics,' he said. 'Or maybe ancient Hebrew. It was probably Fredrik who wrote the Dead Sea Scrolls. Though he doesn't have that much of a sense of humour. I'm his chief interpreter, however.'

He copied out the name and address and said, 'Here it is in plain writing.'

'OK,' Nordin said. 'I can take a run out there. Is there a car?' 'Yes. But with the traffic as it is, and the state of the roads, you'd better stick to the underground. Take a number 13 or 23 southbound and get off at Axelsberg.' 'So long,' Nordin said and went out.

'He didn't seem particularly inspired today,' Kollberg remarked. 'Can you blame him?' Martin Beck replied, blowing his nose. 'Hardly,' Kollberg said with a sigh. 'Why don't we let these guys go home?'

'Because it's not our business,' said Martin Beck. "They're here to take part in the most intensive manhunt ever known in this country.'

'It would be nice to -' Kollberg began, and broke off, feeling it was superfluous to go on. It certainly would be nice to know whom one was hunting and where the hunt ought to be carried on.

'I'm merely quoting the Minister of Justice,' Martin Beck said innocently. '"Our keenest brains" - he's referring of course to Månsson and Nordin - "are working at high pressure to corner and capture an insane mass murderer; it is of prime importance to both the community and the individual that he be put out of action.'"

'When did he say that?'

'For the first time seventeen days ago. For the umpteenth time yesterday. But yesterday he was given only four lines on page 22. I bet that rankles. There's an election next year.'

Melander had finished his telephone conversation. He poked at the bowl of his pipe with a straightened paper clip and said quietly, 'Isn't it about time we took care of the insane mass murderer, so to speak?'

Fifteen seconds passed before Kollberg replied. 'Yes, it certainly is. It's also time to lock the door and shut off the telephones.'

'Is Gunvald here?' Martin Beck asked.

'Yes, Mr Larsson is sitting in there picking his teeth with the paper knife.'

'Tell them to put all calls through to him,' Martin Beck said. Melander reached for the phone.

'Tell them to send up some coffee, too,' Kollberg said. 'Three sweet rolls and a Mazarine for me, please.'

The coffee arrived after ten minutes. Kollberg locked the door.

They sat down. Kollberg slurped the coffee and started in on the sweet rolls.

'The situation is as follows,' he said with his mouth full 'The loony murderer with a lust for sensation is standing lugubriously in the police commissioner's closet. When he's needed we take him out again and dust him off. The working hypothesis is therefore this: A person armed with a Suomi submachine gun model 37 shoots nine people dead on a bus. These people have no connection with each other, they merely happen to be in the same place at the same time.'

"The gunman has a motive,' Martin Beck said.

'Yes,' Kollberg said, reaching for the Mazarine cupcake. 'That's what I've thought all along. But he can't have a motive for killing people who are together haphazardly. Therefore his real intention is to eliminate one of them.'

'The murder was carefully planned,' Martin Beck said.

'One of the nine,' Kollberg said. 'But which? Have you the list there, Fredrik?'

'Don't need it,' Melander said.

'No, of course not. Didn't think what I was saying. Let's go through it.'

Martin Beck nodded. The ensuing conversation took the form of a dialogue between Kollberg and Melander.

'Gustav Bengtsson,' Melander said. 'The bus driver. His presence on the bus was justified, we can say.'

'Undeniably.'

'He seems to have led an ordinary, normal life. No marital troubles. No convictions. Conscientious at work. Liked by his colleagues. We've also questioned some friends of the family. They say he was respectable and steady-going. He was a teetotaller. Forty-eight years old. Born here in the city.'

'Enemies? None. Influence? None. Money? None. Motive for killing him? None. Next.'

'I'm not following Rönn's numbering now,' Melander said. 'Hildur Johansson, widow, sixty-eight She was on her way home to Norra Stationsgatan from her daughter in Västmannagatan. Born at Edsbro. Daughter questioned by Larsson, Månsson and ... ha, it doesn't matter. She led a quiet life and lived on her old-age pension. There's not much more to say about her.'

'Well, just that she presumably got on at Odengatan and only went six stops. And that no one except her daughter and son-in-law knew she would ride that particular stretch at that particular time. Go on.'

'Johan Källstrom, who was fifty-two and born in Vasteras. Foreman at a garage, Gren's on Sibyllegatan. He had been working overtime and was on his way home, that's dear. He, too, was happily married. His chief interests, his car and summer cottage. No convictions. Earned good money, but no more. Those who know him say he probably took the underground from Östermalmstorg to Central Station, where he changed to the bus. Should therefore have come up at the Drottninggatan exit and boarded the bus outside Åhléns department store. His boss says he was a skilled workman and a good foreman. The mechanics at the garage say that he was -'

'... a slavedriver to those he could bully and a bootlicker to his bosses. I went and talked to them. Next'

'Alfons Schwerin was forty-three and born in Minneapolis, in the USA, of Swedish-American parents. Came to Sweden just after the war and stayed here. He had a small business that imported Carpathian spruce for sounding boards, but he went bankrupt ten years ago. Schwerin drank. He had two spells at Beckomberga in the alcoholic clinic and was sentenced to three months at Bogesund for drunken driving. That was three years ago. When his business went to pot he became a labourer. He was working for the local council. On the evening in question he had been at Restaurant Pilen on Bryggargatan and was on his way home. He hadn't had much to drink, presumably because he was broke. His lodgings were mean and shabby. He probably walked from the restaurant to the bus stop on Vasagatan. He was a bachelor and had no relations in Sweden, his fellow workers liked him. Say he was pleasant and good-tempered, could hold his liquor and hadn't an enemy in the world.'

'And he saw the killer and said something unintelligible to Rönn before he died. Have we had the expert's report on the tape?'

'No. Mohammed Boussie, Algerian, worked at a restaurant, thirty-six, born at some unpronounceable place the name of which I've forgotten.'

'Tsk, how careless.'

'He had lived in Sweden for six years and before that in Paris. Took no active part in politics. He had a savings account at the bank. Those who knew him say he was shy and reserved. He had finished work at ten thirty and was on his way home. Decent, but stingy and dull.'

"You're sitting there describing yourself.'

'Britt Danielsson, nurse, born 1940 at Eslöv. She was sitting beside Stenström, but there's nothing to show she knew him. The doctor she was going steady with was on duty that night at Southern Hospital. She presumably got on at Odengatan together with the widow Johansson and was on her way home. There are no time margins there. She finished work and went to the bus. Of course we don't know for sure that she was not together with Stenström.'

Kollberg shook his head.

'Not a chance,' he said. 'Why should he bother about that pale little thing? He had all he wanted at home.'

Melander looked at him blankly but let the question drop.

'Then we have Assarsson. A respectable exterior but not so pretty underneath.'

Melander paused and fiddled with his pipe. Then he went on:

'Rather shady figure, this Assarsson. Sentenced twice for tax evasion and also for a sexual offence at the beginning of the 1950s. Sexually exploited a fourteen-year-old errand girl. Prison all three times. Assarsson had plenty of money. He was ruthless in business and in everything else. A lot of people had reason to dislike him. Even his wife and his brother thought he was pretty nasty. But one thing is clear. His presence on the bus had a reason. He had come from some sort of club meeting on Narvavägen and was on his way to a mistress by the name of Olsson. She lives on Karlbergsvägen and works at Assarsson's office. He had called her up and told her he was coming. We have interrogated her several times.'

'Who questioned her?'

'Gunvald and Månsson. On different occasions. She says that

'Just a moment. Why did he take the bus?'

'Presumably because he'd had a lot to drink and didn't dare to drive his own car. And he couldn't get hold of a taxi because of the rain. The company's central switchboard was overloaded and there wasn't a vacant taxi in the whole of town.'

'OK. What does the kept woman say?'

"That she thought Assarsson was a dirty old man, and almost impotent That she did it for the money and to keep her job. Gunvald got the impression that she's a bit of a slut and has other men as well, and is rather backward.'

'Mr Larsson and women. I think I'll write a novel and call it that'

'She as much as admitted to Månsson that she used to oblige Assarsson's business acquaintances, as she put it. At his orders. Assarsson was born in Gothenburg and got on at Djurgårdsbron.'

'Thanks, old pal. That's exactly how I'll begin my novel. "He was born in Gothenburg and got on at Djurgårdsbron." Brilliant'

'All the times fit' Melander said, unperturbed.

Martin Beck broke into the conversation for the first time.

'So that leaves only Stenström and the unknown man?'

‘Yes,' Melander said. 'All we know about Stenström is that he came from Djurgården, oddly enough. And that he was armed. As regards the unidentified man, we know that he was a narcotics addict and between thirty-five and forty. Nothing more.'

'And all the others had a reason for being on the bus?' Martin Beck asked.

'Yes.'

'We have found out why they were there?' 'Yes.'

'The moment has come for the already classic question: What was Stenström doing on the bus?' Kollberg said.

'We must talk to the girl,' Martin Beck said.

Melander took his pipe out of his mouth.

'Åsa Torell? You've already talked to her, both of you. And since then we've questioned her again.'

'Who?' Martin Beck asked.

'Rönn, a little over a week ago.'

'No, not Rönn,' he murmured to himself.

'What do you mean?' said Melander.

'Rönn's right enough in his way,' Martin Beck said. 'But in this case he doesn't quite understand what it's all about Besides, he had very little contact with Stenström.'

Kollberg and Martin Beck looked at each other for a long time. Neither of them said anything, and at last it was Melander who broke the silence.

'Well? What was Stenström doing on the bus?'

'He was going to meet a girl,' Kollberg said unconvincingly. 'Or a mate.'

Kollberg's part in these discussions was always to contradict, but this time he didn't really believe in himself.

'One thing you're forgetting,' Melander said. 'We've been knocking at doors in that district for ten days. And not found a single person who has ever heard of Stenström.'

'That proves nothing. That part of town is full of odd little hideaways and shady boarding houses. At places like that the police are not very popular.'

'All the same, I think we can dismiss the girlfriend theory as far as Stenström is concerned,' Martin Beck said.

'On what grounds?' Kollberg asked quickly.

'I don't believe in it.'

'But you admit that it's quite possible?'

'Yes.'

'OK. Dismiss it then. For the time being.'

'The key question therefore seems to be: What was Stenström doing on the bus?' Martin Beck said.

'Wait a minute,' Kollberg objected. 'What was the unknown man doing on the bus?'

'Never mind the unknown man at the moment'

'Why? His presence is just as remarkable as Stenström's. Besides, we don't know who he was or what business he had there.'

'Maybe he was just riding the bus.' 'Just riding the bus?'

'Yes. Many homeless people do. "For one krona you can ride two trips. A couple of hours.'

'The underground is warmer,' Kollberg objected. 'What's more, there you can ride as long as you like, provided you don't pass through the gates but only change trains.'

'Yes, but -'

'And you're forgetting something important Not only did the unidentified man have crumbs of hash and amphetamines in his pockets. He also had more money than all the other passengers put together.'

'Which, incidentally, excludes the possibility of murder for the sake of robbery,' Melander put in.

'Furthermore,' added Martin Beck, 'as you yourself said, that district is full of hide-outs and shady boarding houses. Perhaps he lived in one of those fleapits. No, back to the basic question: What was Stenström doing on the bus?'

They sat silent for at least a minute. In the next room the telephones kept ringing. Now and then they could hear voices, Gunvald Larsson's or Rönn's. At last Melander said, ‘What could Stenström do?'

All three knew the answer to that question. Melander nodded slowly and answered himself. 'Stenström could shadow.'

'Yes,' Martin Beck said. 'That was his speciality. He was skilful and stubborn. He could go on shadowing a person for weeks.'

Kollberg scratched his neck and said, 'I remember when he drove that sex murderer from the Göta Canal boat mad four years ago.'

'Baited him,' said Martin Beck.

No one answered.

'He had the knack even then,' said Martin Beck. 'But he had learned a lot since then.'

'By the way, did you ask Hammar about that?' Kollberg said suddenly. 'I mean about what Stenström did last summer when we went through unsolved cases.'

'Yes,' Martin Beck replied. 'But I drew a blank. Stenström had discussed the matter with Hammar, who made one or two suggestions - which ones he didn't remember, but they were ruled out by age. Not because the cases were too old but because Stenström was too young. He didn't want anything that had happened when he was a boy of ten running around playing cops and robbers in Hallstahammar. At last he decided to look into that disappearance case that you too were working on.'

'I never heard anything from him,' Kollberg said.

'I suppose he just went through what was written.'

'Probably.'

Silence, and Melander was again the one to break it Getting up he said, 'Hm, where have we got to?' 'Don't quite know,' said Martin Beck.

'Excuse me’ Melander said and went out to the toilet When he had closed the door, Kollberg looked at Martin Beck and said, ‘Who's going to see Åsa?'

'You. It's a one-man job and of us two you're best fitted for it'

Kollberg made no answer.

'Don't you want to?' Martin Beck asked.

'No, I don't But I will all the same.'

'This evening?'

'I have two matters to attend to first One at Västberga and one at home. Call her up and say I'll be along about seven thirty.'

An hour later Kollberg entered his flat at Palandergatan. The time was five o'clock, but outside it had already been dark for a couple of hours.

His wife was busy painting the kitchen chairs in a pair of faded jeans and a checked flannel shirt It was his, and discarded long ago. She had rolled up the sleeves and tied it carelessly around her waist. She had paint on her hands and arms and feet, and even on her forehead.

'Strip,' he said.

She stood quite still with the brush raised. Gave him a searching look.

'Is it urgent?' she asked mischievously. 'Yes.'

She grew serious at once.

'Must you go again?'

'Yes, I have an interrogation.'

She nodded and put the brush in the paint can. Wiped her hands.

'Åsa,' he said. 'It's going to be tricky in every way.'

'Do you need a vaccination?'

'Yes.'

'Mind you don't get paint all over you,' she said, unbuttoning the shirt.

₂₀

Outside a house on Klubbacken in Hägersten a snowy man stood looking thoughtfully at a scrap of paper. It was sopping wet and was coming apart; he had difficulty in making out the writing in the whirling snow and the dim light from the street lamps. However, it seemed as if he had at last found the right place. He shook himself like a wet dog and went up the steps. Stamped energetically on the porch and rang the doorbell. Knocked the wet white flakes off his hat and stood with it in his hand as he waited for something to happen.

The door was opened a few inches and a middle-aged woman peeped out She was wearing a cleaning smock and apron and had flour on her hands.

'Police,' he said raucously. Clearing his throat, he went on, 'Detective Inspector Nordin.'

The woman eyed him anxiously.

'Can you prove it?' she said at last 'I mean ...'

With a heavy sigh, he transferred his hat to his left hand and unbuttoned his overcoat and jacket Took out his wallet and showed his identification card.

The woman followed the procedure with alarm, as if expecting him to take out a bomb or a machine gun or a condom.

He kept hold of the card and she peered at it shortsightedly through the crack in the door.

'I thought detectives had badges,' she said doubtfully.

'Yes, madam, I have one,' he said gloomily.

He kept his badge in his hip pocket and wondered how he would get at it without laying down his hat or putting it on his head.

'Oh, I suppose this will do,' the woman said grudgingly. 'Sundsvall? Have you come all the way from the north to talk to me?'

'I did have some other business in town as well.' 'I'm sorry, but you see ... I mean...' she faltered. 'Yes, madam?'

'I mean you can't be too careful nowadays. You never know...'

Nordin wondered what on earth he was to do with his hat. The snow was lying thickly and the flakes were melting on his bald head. He could hardly go on standing with the identification card in one hand and his hat in the other. He might want to note something down. To replace the hat on his head seemed the most practical but might appear impolite. It would look silly putting it down on the steps. Perhaps he ought to ask if he might go inside. But then the woman would be faced with a decision. She would have to answer yes or no, and if he had judged her rightly, such a decision might take a long time.

Nordin came from a part of the country where it was customary to invite all strangers into the kitchen, offer them a cup of coffee and let them warm themselves by the stove. A nice, practical custom, he thought. Perhaps it wasn't suitable in big cities. Collecting his thoughts, he said, 'When you called you mentioned a man and a garage, didn't you?'

'I'm awfully sorry if I disturbed you ...'

'Oh, we couldn't be more grateful.'

She turned her head and looked in towards the flat, almost dosing the door as she did so. She was evidently worried about the ginger snaps in the oven.

'Delighted,' Nordin muttered to himself. 'Deliriously happy. It's almost unbearable.'

The woman opened the door again and said, 'What did you say?'

'Er, that garage -' 'It's over there.'

He followed her gaze and said, 'I don't see anything.' 'You can see it from upstairs,' the woman said. 'And this man?'

'Well, he seemed funny. And now I haven't seen him for a couple of weeks. A short, dark man.'

'Do you keep a constant watch on the garage?'

'Well, I can see it from the bedroom window.'

She flushed. What have I done wrong now, Nordin wondered.

'Some foreigner has it. All sorts of queer characters hang about there. And what I'd like to know is —'

It was impossible to know whether she broke off or went on talking in such a low voice that he couldn't catch the words.

'What was strange about this short, dark man?'

'Well... he laughed.'

'Laughed?'

‘Yes. Awfully loud.'

'Do you know if there's anyone in the garage now?' 'There was a light on not long ago. When I went up and had a look.'

Nordin sighed and put on his hat

'Well, I'll go and make inquiries,' he said. 'Thank you, madam.' ‘Won't you ... come in?' 'No thanks.'

She opened the door another few inches, gave him a quick glance and said graspingly, 'Is there any reward?' 'For what?' 'Er ... I don't know.' 'Good-bye.'

He trudged off in the direction she had indicated. It felt as if someone had put a poultice on his head. The woman had shut the door at once and had now presumably taken up her post at the bedroom window.

The garage, a small building standing by itself, had fibrous cement walls and a corrugated-iron roof. There was room for two cars at the most. Above the doors was an electric light

He opened one half of the double doors and went in.

The car standing inside was a green Skoda Octavia, 1959 model. It might fetch 400 kronor if the engine wasn't too worn out, thought Nordin, who had spent a great deal of his time as a policeman on stolen vehicles and shady car deals. It was propped up on low trestles and the bonnet was open. A man lay on his back under the chassis, quite still. All that could be seen of him was a pair of legs in blue overalls.

Dead, thought Nordin, going up to the car and poking the man with his right foot

The figure under the car started as though at an electric shock, crawled out and got to his feet. Stood with the hand lamp in his right hand staring in amazement at the visitor.

"The police,' Nordin said.

'My papers are in order,' the man said quickly.

'I don't doubt it,' Nordin retorted.

The garage owner was about thirty, a slender man with brown eyes, wavy dark hair and well-combed sideburns.

'Are you Italian?' Nordin asked. He was not much of an expert at foreign accents except Finnish.

'Swiss. From German Switzerland. The canton of Graubtinden.'

'You speak good Swedish.'

'I've lived here for six years. What is it you want?'

"We're trying to get in touch with a mate of yours.'

‘Who?'

'We don't know his name.'

Eyeing the man in the dungarees Nordin said, 'He's not quite as tall as you but a bit fatter. Dark hair, rather long, and brown eyes. About thirty-five.The other shook his head.

'I've no mate that looks like that. I don't meet much people.' 'Many people,' Nordin corrected amiably. 'Yes, of course. "Many people".'

'But I've heard there are usually a lot of people out here at the garage.'

'Guys come with cars. They want me to fix when there is something wrong.'

He thought hard, then said by way of information:

'I am a mechanic. Work at a garage in Ringweg... Ringvägen. Now only in the mornings. All these Germans and Austrians know that I have this garage. So they come out and want repair free. Many I do not know at all. There are many in Stockholm.'

'Well,' Nordin said, 'this man we want to get hold of might have been dressed in a black nylon coat and a beige suit'

'That tells me nothing. I do not remember anyone like that That’s certain.'

'Who are your chums?'

'Friends? A few Germans and Austrians.'

'Have any of them been here today?'

'No. They know all I am busy. I work day and night on this.'

He pointed to the car with an oily thumb and said, 'I get it fixed up by Christmas, so I can drive home and see my parents.'

'To Switzerland?'

'Yes’

'Some drive.'

'Yes. I pay only one hundred kronor for this car. But I get it ready. I good mechanic' ‘What's your name?' 'Horst Horst Dieke.' 'Mine's Ulf. Ulf Nordin.'

The Swiss smiled, showing perfect white teeth. He seemed a pleasant, steady-going young man.

'Well, Horst, so you don't know who I mean?' Dieke shook his head. 'No. I'm sorry.'

Nordin was in no way disappointed. He had simply drawn the blank that everyone expected. If there hadn't been such a scarcity of dues, this tip would never have been followed up at all. But he was not prepared to give in yet, and besides he didn't fancy the underground with its horde of unfriendly people in damp clothes. The Swiss was evidently trying to be helpful. He said, "There is nothing else? About that guy, I mean?'

Nordin considered. At last he said, 'He laughed. Loud.'

The man's face brightened at once.

'Ah, I think I know. He laughs like this.'

Dieke opened his mouth and emitted a bleating sound, shrill and harsh as the cry of a snipe.

It came as an utter surprise and about ten seconds passed before Nordin could say, 'Yes, perhaps.'

'Yes, yes,' Dieke said. 'I know now who you mean. Little dark guy.'

Nordin waited expectantly.

'He has been here four or five times. Maybe more. But his name, I do not know it. He came with a Spaniard who wanted to sell me spare parts. He came several times. But I did not buy.'

‘Why not?'

'Cheap. I think stolen.'

'What was this Spaniard's name?'

Dieke shrugged.

'Don't know. Paco. Pablo. Paquito. Something like that.' 'What sort of car did he have?' 'Good car. Volvo Amazon. White.' 'And this man who laughed?'

'Don't know at all. He was just in the car. He'd had a few drinks, I think. But of course he didn't drive.' 'Was he Spanish too?'

'I think not. I think Swedish. But I don't know.' 'How long ago he came here?'

That didn't sound right. Nordin pulled himself together. 'How long since he was here last?' 'Three weeks ago. Perhaps two. Exactly I do not know.' 'Have you seen this Spaniard since then? Paco or whatever his name is?'

'No. I think he was going back to Spain. Needed money, that why he wanted to sell. So he said anyway.' Nordin paused to consider.

'You said he seemed a bit drunk, this guy. Do you think he might have had a fix?' A shrug.

'Don't know. I think he had been drinking. But - dope? Well, why not? Nearly everybody here gets high. Lie in their junkie dens when they're not out stealing. No?'

'You've no idea what his name is or what they call him?'

'No. But a couple of times a girl was in the car. With him, I think. A big girl. Long fair hair.'

‘What's her name?'

'I don't know. But they call her -'

"Yes? What?'

'Blonde Malin, I think.'

'How do you know?'

'I have seen her before. In town.'

‘Whereabouts in town?'

'At a café on Tegnérgatan. Near Sveavägen. Where all foreigners go. She is Swedish.' 'Blonde Malin?' 'Yes.'

Nordin couldn't think of anything more to ask. He looked doubtfully at the green car and said, 'I hope you get home all right.

Dieke gave his infectious smile. 'Oh yes.'

'When are you coming back?'

'Never.'

'Never?'

'No. Sweden bad country. Stockholm bad city. Only violence, narcotics, thieves, alcohol.'

Nordin said nothing. With the last he was inclined to agree.

'Misery,' the Swiss said, slimming up. 'But easy to earn money for foreigner. Everything else hopeless. I live in a room with three others. Pay four hundred kronor a month. How do you say - extortion? Dirty trick. Just because there is a housing shortage. Only rich men and criminals can afford to go to restaurants. I have saved money. I'm going home, I get my own little garage and marry.'

'Haven't you met any girls here?'

'Swedish girls are not worth having. Maybe students and the like can meet nice girls. Ordinary workmen meet only one sort. Like this Blonde Malin.'

'What sort?'

'Whores.' He pronounced the 'w'.

'You mean you don't want to pay for girls?'

Horst Dieke pouted.

'Many cost nothing. Whores all the same. Free whores.'

Nordin shook his head.

'You've only seen Stockholm, Horst. Pity.'

'Is the rest any better?'

Nordin nodded emphatically. Then he said, 'And you don't remember anything more about this guy?' 'No. Only that he laughed. Like this.'

Dieke opened his mouth and again emitted the shrill, bleating cry.

Nordin nodded good-bye and left.

Under the nearest lamp post he stopped and took out his notebook.

'Blonde Malin,' he murmured. 'Junkie dens. Free whores. What a profession to have chosen.'

It's not my fault, he thought The old man forced me into it.

A man approached along the pavement Nordin raised his Tyrolean hat which was already covered with snow, and said, 'Excuse me, can you -'

With a swift, suspicious glance at him the man hunched his shoulders and hurried on.

'... tell me where the underground station is?' Nordin murmured to the whirling blobs of wet snow.

Shaking his head, he scribbled a few words on the open page. Pablo or Paco. White Amazon. Café Tegnérgatan-Sveavägen. Laughter. Blonde Malin, free whore.

Then, putting pen and paper in his pocket, he sighed and trudged away out of the circle of light.

₂₁

Kollberg stood outside the door of Åsa Torell’s flat in Tjärhovsgatan. The time was already eight o'clock in the evening and in spite of everything he felt worried and absent-minded. In his right hand he held the envelope they had found in the drawer out at Västberga.

The white card with Stenström's name was still on the door above the brass plate.

The bell didn't seem to be working and, true to habit, he pounded with his fist on the door. Åsa Torell opened it at once. Stared at him and said, 'All right, all right, here I am. For God's sake don't kick the door down.'

'Sorry,' Kollberg mumbled.

It was dark in the flat He took his coat off and switched on the hall light. The old police cap was lying on the hat rack, just as before. The wire of the doorbell had been wrenched loose and was dangling from the jamb.

Åsa Torell followed his gaze and muttered, 'A horde of idiots kept intruding. Journalists and photographers and God knows who. The bell never stopped ringing.'

Kollberg said nothing. He went into the living room and sat down in one of the safari chairs.

'Can't you put the light on so that at least we can see one another?'

'I can see quite well enough. All right, if you like, if you like, sure, I’ll put it on.'

She switched on the light, but did not sit down. She paced restlessly to and fro, as though she were caged in and wanted to get out

The air in the flat was stale and stuffy. The ashtrays had not been emptied for several days. The whole room was untidy and didn't seem to have been cleaned at all, and through the open door he saw that the bedroom too was in a mess and that the bed had certainly not been made. From the hall he had also glanced into the kitchen, where dirty plates and saucepans lay piled up in the sink.

Then he looked at the young woman. She walked up to the window, swung round and walked back towards the bedroom. Stood for a few seconds staring at the bed, turned again and went back to the window. Over and over again.

He had to keep moving his head from side to side to follow her with his eyes. It was almost like watching a tennis match.

Åsa Torell had changed during the nineteen days that had passed since he saw her last She had the same thick grey skiing socks on her feet, or at any rate similar ones, and the same black slacks. But this time they were spotted with cigarette ash and her hair was uncombed and matted. Her gaze was unsteady and she had dark rings under her eyes; the skin on her lips was dry and cracked. She could not keep her hands still and the insides of the forefinger and middle finger of her left hand were stained a virulent yellow with nicotine. On the table lay five opened cigarette packets. She smoked a Danish brand - Cecil. Åke Stenström had not smoked at all.

'What do you want?' she asked gruffly.

She walked up to the table, shook a cigarette out of one of the packets, lit it with trembling hands and dropped the burnt match on the floor. Then she said, 'Nothing, of course. Just like that idiot Rönn, who sat here mumbling and rolling his head for two hours.'

Kollberg didn't answer.

'I'll have the phone turned off,' she announced abruptly. 'Aren't you working?' ‘I’m on sick leave.' Kollberg nodded.

'Stupidly,' she said. The firm has its own doctor. He said I was to rest for a month in the country or preferably go abroad. Then he drove me home.'

She drew deeply at her cigarette and tapped off the ash; most of it fell beside the ashtray.

'That was three weeks ago,' she said. 'It would have been much better if I could have gone on working as usual'

She swung round and went over to the window, looked down into the street and plucked at the curtain.

'As usual,' she said to herself.

Kollberg squirmed in his chair, ill at ease. This was going to be worse than he'd expected.

‘What do you want,' she asked again, without turning her head. 'Answer me, for God's sake. Say something.'

Somehow he must break the isolation. But how?

He got up and went over to the big carved bookcase. Looked at the books and took one out It was rather an old one, Manual of Crime Investigation by Otto Wendel and Arne Svensson, printed in 1949. He turned over the title page and read:

This is a numbered and limited edition. This copy, No. 2080, is for Detective Lennart Kollberg. The book is intended as a guide for policemen in their often difficult and responsible work on the scene of the crime. The contents are of a confidential nature, and the authors therefore request everyone to see that the book does not fall into the wrong hands.

He himself had written in the words 'Detective Lennart Kollberg long ago. It was a good book and it had been very useful to him in the old days.

'This is my old book,' he said.

'Take it then,' she replied.

'No. I gave it to Åke a couple of years ago.'

'Oh. Then he hasn't stolen it at any rate.'

He dipped into it as he considered what ought to be said or done. Here and there he had underlined certain passages. In two places he noticed a stroke in the margin made with a ball-point pen. Both were under the chapter heading

Sex Murders.

The sex murderer (the sadist) is often impotent and his violent crime is in that case an abnormal act for the attainment of sexual satisfaction.

Someone - Stenström, without a doubt - had underlined this sentence. Beside it he had drawn an exclamation mark and written the words 'or the reverse'.

In the paragraph a little farther down the same page that began with the words In cases of sex murder the victim can have been killed, he had underlined two points: 4) after the sex act in order to prevent accusation and 5) because of the effect of shock.

In the margin he had made the following comment 6) to get rid of the victim, but is it then a sex murder?

'Åsa,' Kollberg said.

'Yes, what is it?'

'Do you know when Åke wrote this?' She came up to him, glanced swiftly at the book and said, 'No idea.'

'Åsa,' he said again.

She plunged her half-smoked cigarette into the overflowing ashtray and remained standing beside the table with her hands loosely clasped over her stomach.

'Yes, what the dickens is it?' she asked irritably.

Kollberg looked at her searchingly. She looked small and wretched. Today she was wearing a shortsleeved blue blouse instead of the knitted sweater. She had goosepimples on her arms and although the blouse hung like a loosely draped cloth over her thin body, her large nipples showed as distinct protrusions under the material.

'Sit down,' he commanded.

She shrugged, took a new cigarette and walked over to the bedroom door while she fumbled with the lighter. 'Sit down!' Kollberg roared.

She jumped, and looked at him. Her brown eyes almost glittered with hatred. Nevertheless, she went to the armchair and sat down opposite him. Stiff as a poker, with her hands on her thighs. In her right hand she held the lighter, in her left the still unlit cigarette.

'We have to put our cards on the table,' Kollberg said, stealing an embarrassed glance at the brown envelope.

'Splendid,' she said in an icy, clear voice. 'It's just that I haven't any cards to put'

'But I have.'

'Oh?'

‘When we were here last we weren't altogether frank with you.' She frowned. 'In what way?'

'In several ways. First let me ask you: Do you know what Åke was doing on that bus?'

'No, no, no and again no. I - do - not - know.' 'Nor do we,' said Kollberg.

He paused. Then, drawing a deep breath, he went on. 'Åke lied to you.'

Her reaction was violent. Her eyes flashed. She clenched her fists. The cigarette was crushed between her fingers and flakes of tobacco were strewn over her slacks.

'How dare you say that to me!'

'Because it's true. Åke was not on duty - either on the Monday when he was killed or on the previous Saturday. He had had an unusual amount of time off during the whole of October and the first two weeks of November.'

She stared at him without saying anything.

"That is a fact,' Kollberg went on. 'Another thing I would like to know: was he in the habit of carrying his pistol when he was not on duty?'

It was some time before she answered.

'Go to hell and stop tormenting me with your interrogation tactics. Why doesn't the Great Interrogator himself come? Martin Beck?'

Kollberg bit his lower lip. 'Have you cried a lot?' he asked. 'No. I'm not made that way.'

‘Well then, answer for Christ's sake. We must help each other.' ‘what with?'

'With getting hold of the man who killed him. And the others.' ‘Why?'

She sat quiet for a while. Then she said, so softly that he could hardly hear it: 'Revenge. Of course. To be revenged.' 'Did he usually carry his pistol?' 'Yes. Often at any rate.' 'Why?'

‘Why not? As it turned out, he needed it. Didn't he?' He made no reply. 'Though a lot of help it was.' Kollberg still said nothing. 'I loved Åke,' she said.

The voice was dear and matter-of-fact Her eyes were fixed on a point behind Kollberg. 'Åsa?' 'Yes?'

'He was away a lot, then. You don't know what he was up to and we don't know either. Do you think he might have been together with someone else? Some other woman, that is?'

'No:

‘You don't think so?'

'I don't think anything. I know.'

'How can you know?'

'That's my business. And I know.'

She looked him suddenly in the eye and said in astonishment, 'Did you get it into your heads that he had a mistress?' ‘Yes. We still haven't ruled out that possibility.' 'Then you can do so. It's completely out of the question.' 'Why?'

'I've said it's none of your business.' Kollberg drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. 'But you know for sure?' 'Yes, I know for sure.'

He took another deep breath, as though plucking up his courage.

'Was Åke interested in photography?'

‘Yes. It was about his only hobby after he stopped playing football. He has three cameras. And there's one of those enlarging gadgets in the loo. He used the bathroom as a darkroom.'

She looked at Kollberg in surprise.

'Why do you ask that?'

He pushed the envelope across to her side of the table. She put down the cigarette lighter and took out the pictures with trembling hands. Looked at the one on top and went scarlet.

'Where ... where did you get hold of these?'

'They were in his desk out at Västberga.'

'What! In his desk?’

She blinked hard and asked unexpectedly, 'How many have seen them? The entire police force?' 'Only three people.' 'Who?’

'Martin, myself and my wife.' 'Gun?'

‘Yes’

‘Why did you show them to her?'

'Because I was coming here. I wanted her to know what you ' looked like.'

'What I look like? And what we look like? Åke and -

'Åke is dead’ Kollberg said tonelessly.

Her face was still fiery red. So were her neck and arms. Tiny glistening beads of sweat had broken out on her forehead, just below her hairline.

"The pictures were taken in here?' he asked.

She nodded.

'When?'

Åsa Torell bit her lower lip nervously.

'About three months ago.'

'I presume he took them himself?'

'Naturally. He has ... had all sorts of photography gadgets. Self-timer and tripod and whatever they're called.' 'Why did he take them?'

She was still flushed and perspiring but her voice was steadier.

'Because we thought it was fun.'

'And why did he have them in his desk?'

Kollberg paused briefly.

'You see, he didn't have a single personal thing in his office,' he said, explaining. 'Apart from these photographs.'

A long silence. At last she shook her head slowly and said, 'No. I don't know.'

Time to change the subject, Kollberg thought Aloud he said, 'Did he always go about with a gun?' 'Nearly always.' 'Why?'

'He liked to. Lately. He was interested in firearms.'

She seemed to be thinking something over. Then she got up suddenly and walked quickly out of the room. Through the short passage he saw her go into the bedroom and up to the bed. Sticking her hand under one of the crumpled pillows, she said hesitantly, 'I've a thing here ... a pistol...'

Kollberg's relative obesity and phlegmatic appearance had deceived many in various situations. He was in extremely good trim and his responses were amazingly quick.

Åsa Torell was still bending over the bed when he stood beside her and wrenched the weapon from her hand.

'This is no pistol,' he said. 'It's an American revolver. A Colt .45 with a long barrel. Peacemaker it's called, absurdly enough. Besides which, it is loaded. And cocked.'

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

He opened the chamber and took out the cartridges.

'With cross-filed bullets, what's more,' he said. 'Forbidden even in America. The most dangerous small firearm imaginable. You can kill an elephant with it. If you shoot a human being at a range of five yards, the bullet makes a wound as big as a soup plate and hurls the body ten yards backward. Where the hell did you get it from?'

She shrugged bewilderedly. 'Åke. He's always had it' 'In bed?'

With a shake of her head she said quietly, 'No, no. It was I who ... now...'

Slipping the bullets into his trouser pocket he pointed the revolver at the floor and pulled the trigger. The click echoed in the silent flat.

'Moreover, the trigger has been filed,' he said. 'To make it quicker and more sensitive. Horribly dangerous. You'd only have had to turn over in your sleep to –‘

He fell silent.

'I haven't slept much lately,' she said.

'Hm,' Kollberg muttered to himself. 'He must have smuggled this away when he was confiscating weapons at some time. Swiped it in fact.'

He looked at the big, heavy revolver and weighed it in his hand Then he glanced at the girl's right wrist It was as slender as a child's.

'Well, I can understand him,' he mumbled. 'If you're fascinated by firearms ...'

Suddenly he raised his voice.

'But I'm not fascinated,' he shouted. 'I hate this sort of thing. Do you get that? This is a foul thing that shouldn't be allowed to exist No firearms should exist. The fact that they are still made and that all sorts of people have them lying about in drawers or carry them around in the street just shows that the whole system is perverted and crazy. Some bastard makes a fat profit by making and selling arms, just the way other people make a fat profit on factories that make narcotics and deadly pills. Do you get it?'

She looked at him with an entirely new expression; her eyes focused on him now with a clear, direct look.

'Go and sit down,' he said curtly. 'We're going to talk. This is serious.'

Åsa Torell said nothing. She went straight into the living room and sat down in the armchair.

Kollberg went out into the hall and put the revolver on the hat rack. Took off his jacket and tie. Unbuttoned his collar and rolled up his sleeves. Then he went into the kitchen, put some water on to boil and made some tea. Brought the cups in and set them on the table. Emptied the ashtrays. Opened a window. Sat down.

'First of all,' he said, 'I want to know what you meant by "lately". When you said that lately he liked to go armed.'

'Quiet,' said Åsa.

After ten seconds she added, ‘Wait'

She drew up her legs so that her feet in the big grey ski socks were resting against the edge of the armchair. Then she put her arms around her shins and sat quite still.

Kollberg waited

To be precise, he waited for fifteen minutes, and during the whole of this time she did not look at him once. Neither of them said a word. Then she looked him in the eye and said, 'Well?' 'How do you feel?'

'No better. But different Ask what you like. I promise to answer. Answer anything at all. There's only one thing I want to know first'

'Yes?'

'Have you told me everything?'

'No,' Kollberg replied. 'But I'm going to now. The reason why I'm here at all is that I don't believe in the official version - that Stenström merely chanced to fall victim to a crazy mass murderer. And quite apart from your assurances that he was not unfaithful to you or whatever you like to call it and what you base them on, I do not believe that he was on that bus for pleasure.'

'Then what do you believe?'

'That you were right from the outset. When you said that he was working. That he was busy with something in his capacity as policeman but for one reason or another didn't want to tell anybody, either you or us. One possibility, for instance, is that he had been shadowing someone for a long time, and that this someone at last grew desperate and killed him. Though I personally don't think that that theory is plausible.'

He paused briefly.

'Åke was very good at shadowing. It amused him.' 'Yes, I know.'

'You can shadow in two ways,' Kollberg went on. 'Either you follow a person as invisibly as possible, to find, out what he's up to. Or else you follow him quite openly, to drive him to desperation and make him do something rash and give himself away. Stenström had mastered the art of both methods better than anyone else I know.'

'Does anyone else besides you believe this?' Åsa Torell asked.

'Yes. Beck and Melander at least'

He scratched his neck.

'But there are several weaknesses in the argument. We needn't go into them now.' She nodded.

'What do you want to know?'

'I'm not sure. We'll have to feel our way. I haven't quite understood you on all points. What did you mean, for instance, when you said that lately he carried a gun because it amused him? Lately?'

'When I first met Åke over four years ago he was still a little boy,' she said calmly. . 'In what way?'

'He was shy and childish. When someone killed him three weeks ago he had grown up. That development took place not so much at his work together with you and Beck, but here. Here at home. The first time we were together, in that room and in that bed, the pistol was the last thing he took off.'

Kollberg raised his eyebrows.

'He kept his shirt on, you see,' she said. 'And he laid the pistol on the bedside table. I was staggered. To tell the truth, I didn't even know he was a policeman that time and I wondered what sort of madman had got into my bed.'

She looked gravely at Kollberg.

'We didn't fall in love that first time, but we did the next And then it dawned on me. Åke was twenty-five then and I had just turned twenty. But if either of us could be called grown up and more or less mature, it was I. He went about with a pistol because he thought it made him a tough guy. He was childish, as I said, and it gave him huge pleasure to see me lying there naked, staring idiotically at a man dressed in a shirt and shoulder holster. He soon grew out of all that, but by that time it had become a habit. Besides, he was interested in firearms — '

She broke off and asked, 'Are you brave? Physically brave?'

'Not especially.'

'Åke was physically a coward though he did everything to try and overcome it. The pistol gave him a feeling of security.'

Kollberg raised an objection.

'You said that he grew up. He was a policeman, and professionally it's not very grown up to let yourself be shot down from behind by the man you're shadowing. I said before, I find it hard to believe.'

'Exacdy,' Åsa Torell agreed. 'And I definitely don't believe it Something doesn't add up.'

Kollberg pondered this. After a while he said, 'The fact remains. He was working on something and no one knows what. I don't. Nor do you. Am I right?'

'Yes.'

'Did he change in any way? Before this happened?' She didn't answer. Raised her left hand and passed her fingers through her short dark hair. 'Yes,' she said at last 'How?'

'It isn't easy to say.'

'Have these pictures anything to do with the change?' 'Yes. I'll say they have.'

Stretching out her hand, she turned the photographs over and looked at them.

'To talk to anyone about this calls for a degree of confidence that I'm not sure I have in you,' she said. 'But I'll do my best'

Kollberg's palms had begun to sweat and he wiped them against the legs of his trousers. The roles had been reversed. She was calm and he was nervous.

'I loved Åke,' she said. 'From the start But we didn't suit each other very well sexually. We were different as regards tempo and temperament. We didn't have the same demands.'

Åsa gave him a searching look.

'But you can be happy just the same. You can learn. Did you know that?' 'No.'

‘We proved it. We learned. I think you understand this.'

Kollberg nodded.

'Beck wouldn't understand it,' she said. 'And certainly not Rönn or anyone else I know.' She shrugged.

'In any case, we learned. We adjusted ourselves to each other, and we had it good.'

Kollberg forgot, for a moment, to listen. This was an alternative that he had never even thought existed.

'It's difficult,' she said. 'I must explain this. If I don't, I can't explain in what way Åke changed. And even if I give you a lot of details pertaining to my private life, it's not certain you'll grasp it But I hope you will.'

She coughed and said in a matter-of-fact tone, 'I've been smoking far too much this last week or two.'

Kollberg could feel that something was about to change. Suddenly he smiled. And Åsa Torell smiled back, a trifle bitterly, but still.

'Anyway, let's get this over,' she said. "The quicker the better. Unfortunately, I'm rather shy. Oddly enough.'

'It's not in the least odd,' Kollberg replied. 'I'm as shy as hell. It's part of the rest of one's emotions.'

'Before I met Åke. I began to think I was a nymphomaniac or something,' she said swiftly. 'Then we fell in love and learned to adjust to each other. I really tried hard, and so did Åke, and we succeeded. We had it good together, better than I ever dreamed of. I forgot that I was more highly sexed than he was, we talked it over once or twice at the beginning, then we never talked any more about sexuality. There was no need. We made love when he felt like it, which was once or twice a week, three times at the most we did it very well and never needed anything else. That is, we were not unfaithful to one another, as you so wittily put it But then ...'

'... suddenly last summer,' Kollberg said.

She gave him a swift, approving glance.

'Exactly. Last summer we went to Mallorca on vacation. While we were away you all had a difficult and very nasty case here in town.'

'Yes. The park murders.'

'By the time we got home they had been cleared up. Åke was quite put out about it'

She paused, then went on, just as quickly and fluently, 'It sounds bad, but so does a lot of what I've said and am going to say. The fact is he got upset because he had missed the investigation. Åke was ambitious, almost to a fault I know that he always dreamed of coming upon something big that everyone else had overlooked. Moreover, he was much younger than the rest of you and in the early days, at any rate, he often felt pushed around at work. I know, too, that he thought you were one of those who bullied him most'

'He was right, I'm afraid.

'He didn't like you very much. He preferred Beck and Melander. I didn't but that's neither here nor there. About the end of July or beginning of August he changed - suddenly, as I said, and in a way that turned the whole of our life together upside down. That's when he took these pictures. Lots more, come to that, dozens of them. We had a sort of routine in our sex life, as I said, and it was fine. Now it was upset all of a sudden, and he was the one to upset it not I. We ... we were together ...'

'Made love, you mean,' Kollberg said.

'OK, we made love as many times in a day as we normally did in a month. Some days he wouldn't even let me go to work. There's no use denying that it was a pleasant surprise to me. I was amazed. You see, we'd been living together for over four years, but...'

'Go on,' Kollberg urged.

She took a deep breath.

'Sure, I thought it was just great. That he walked me about like a wheelbarrow and woke me up at four in the morning and wouldn't let me sleep or have any clothes on or go to work. That he wouldn't leave me alone even in the kitchen and took me on the sink and in the bathtub and from in front and from behind and upside down and in every chair there was. But he himself hadn't really changed and after a while I got the idea that he was trying out some sort of experiment on me. I asked him, but he only laughed.' 'Laughed?'

'Yes, he was in a very good mood all this time. Right up to ... well, until he was killed.' 'Why?'

'That's what I don't know. But one thing I did understand, as soon as I'd got over the first shock.' 'And that was?'

'That he was using me as a kind of guinea pig. He knew everything about me - everything. He knew that I'd get ridiculously horny if he made the slightest effort. And I knew all about him. For instance, that basically he wasn't particularly interested, other than now and again.'

'How long did this go on?'

'Until the middle of September. That's when he suddenly had so much to do and began to be away such a lot' 'Which doesn't fit in at all.'

Kollberg looked steadily at her, then added, 'Thanks. You're a great kid. I like you.'

She gave him a surprised and rather suspicious glance.

'And he didn't tell you what he was working on?'

She shook her head.

'Didn't even hint?'

Another shake of the head.

'And you didn't notice anything special?

'He was out a lot. I mean, out of doors. I couldn't help noticing that He would come home wet and cold.'

Kollberg nodded.

'More than once I was woken up in the small hours when he came home and got into bed, as cold as an icicle. But the last case he talked to me about was one he had in the first half of September. A man who had killed his wife. I think his name was Birgersson.'

'I remember it,' Kollberg said. 'A family tragedy. A very simple, ordinary story. I don't really know why we were brought into it -_ the case might have been taken out of the textbooks. Unhappy marriage, neuroses, quarrels, money troubles. In the end the man killed his wife more or less by accident. Was going to take his own life but didn't dare to and went to the police. But you're right, Stenström did have charge of it. He did the interrogating.'

'Wait - something happened during those interrogations.'

‘What?'

'I don't know. But one evening Åke came home very cheerful.'

'Not much to be cheerful about. Dreary story. Typical welfare-state crime. A lonely man with a status-poisoned wife who kept nagging at him because he didn't earn enough. Because they couldn't afford a motorboat and a summer cottage and a car as upmarket as the neighbours'.'

'But during the interrogations this man said something to Åke.'

'What?'

'I don't know. But it was something he considered very important I asked the same as you, of course, but he only laughed and said I'd soon see.'

'Did he say exactly that?'

'"You'll soon see, darling.'' Those were his exact words. He seemed very optimistic.' 'Odd.'

They sat in silence for a while. Then Kollberg shook himself, picked up the open book from the table and said, 'Do you understand these comments?'

Åsa Torell got up, walked round the table and put her hand on his shoulder as she looked at the book.

'Wendel and Svensson write that the sex murderer is often impotent and attains abnormal satisfaction from committing a crime of violence. And in the margin Åke has written "or the reverse"

Kollberg shrugged and said, 'He means, of course, that the sex murderer may also be oversexed.'

She took her hand away suddenly. Looking up at her, he noticed to his surprise that she was blushing again.

'No, he doesn't mean that,' she said.

'Then what does he mean?'

'The very opposite. That the woman - the victim, that is - may lose her life because she is oversexed.' 'How do you know that?'

'Because we once discussed the matter. In connection with that American girl who was murdered on the Göta Canal.' 'Roseanna,' Kollberg said.

He thought for a moment, then said, 'But I hadn't given him this book then. I remember that I found it when I was clearing out my drawers. When we moved from Kristineberg. That was much later.'

'And that other comment of his seems rather illogical,' she said.

‘Yes. Aren't there any pads or diaries in which he used to write things down?'

'Didn't he have his notebook on him?'

'Yes. We've looked at it. Nothing of interest there.'

'I've searched the flat,' she said.

'And what have you found?'

'Nothing much. He wasn't in the habit of hiding things. Besides, he was very tidy. He had an extra notebook, of course. It's over there on the desk.'

Kollberg got up and fetched the notebook. It was of the same type as the one Stenström had had in his pocket

'There's hardly anything in that book,' Åsa Torell said.

She pulled the ski sock off her right foot and scratched herself under the instep.

Her foot was thin and slender and gracefully arched, with long straight toes. Kollberg looked at it. Then he looked inside the notebook. She was right. There was almost nothing in it The first page was covered with jottings about the poor wretch of a man called Birgersson who had killed his wife.

At the top of the second page was a single word. A name. Morris.

Åsa Torell looked at the pad and shrugged.

'A car’ she said.

'Or a literary agent in New York,' Kollberg replied.

She was standing by the table. Her eye caught the much-discussed photographs. Suddenly she slammed her hand down on the table and shouted, 'If at least I'd got pregnant!'

Then she lowered her voice.

'He said we had plenty of time. That we'd wait until he was promoted.'

Kollberg moved hesitantly towards the hall. 'Plenty of time,' she mumbled. And then: 'What's to become of me?' Turning around, he said, "This won't do, Åsa. Come.' Whirling around, she snarled at him, 'Come? Where? To bed? Oh, sure.'

Kollberg looked at her.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand would have seen a pale, thin, undeveloped girl who held herself badly, who had a delicate body, thin nicotine-stained fingers and a ravaged face. Unkempt and dressed in baggy, stained clothes and with one foot covered by a skiing sock many sizes too large.

Lennart Kollberg saw a physically and mentally complex young woman with blazing eyes and a promising width between her thighs, provocative and interesting and worth getting to know.

Had Stenström also seen this, or had he been one of the nine hundred and ninety-nine and merely had a stroke of luck?

Luck.

'I didn't mean that,' Kollberg said. 'Come home with me. We have plenty of room. You've been alone long enough.' She was hardly in the car before she started to cry.

₂₂

A cutting wind greeted Nordin as he emerged from the underground at the corner of Sveavägen and Rådmansgatan. It was blowing from behind him and he walked briskly south along Sveavägen. When he turned into Tegnérgatan he was sheltered and slowed his steps. About twenty yards from the street corner lay a cafe\ He stopped outside the window and peered in.

Behind the counter sat a red-haired woman in a pistachio-green uniform, talking on the phone. The café was otherwise empty.

Nordin walked on, crossed Luntmakargatan and regarded an oil painting that was hanging inside the glass door of a secondhand bookshop. While he stood puzzling as to whether the artist had meant the picture to represent two elks, two reindeer or perhaps an elk and a reindeer, he heard a voice behind him.

'Aber Mensch, bist Du doch ganz verrückt?’

Nordin turned around and saw two men crossing the street Not until they reached the pavement on the other side did he see the café. When Nordin entered, the two men were on their way down a curving staircase beyond the counter. He followed them.

The place was full of young people and the music and the buzz of voices were deafening. He looked around for a vacant table, but there didn't seem to be one. For a moment he wondered whether he ought to take off his hat and coat, but decided not to risk it. You couldn't trust anyone in Stockholm, he was convinced of that.

Nordin studied the female guests. There were several blondes in the room but none who fitted the description of Blonde Malin.

German seemed to be the predominant language. Beside a thin brunette, who was obviously Swedish, there was a vacant chair. Nordin unbuttoned his coat and sat down. Put his hat in his lap, thinking that his coat of lodencloth and his Tyrolean hat probably made him look a good deal like one of the many Germans there.

He had to wait a quarter of an hour before the waitress came up to him. Meanwhile he looked about him. The brunette's girlfriend on the other side of the table eyed him guardedly from time to time.

He stirred his cup of coffee and stole a glance at the girl in the chair next to him. In the faint hope of being taken for a regular customer he took pains to utter the words in the Stockholm dialect when he turned to her and said, 'Do you know where Blonde Malin is this evening?'

The brunette stared at him. Then she smiled, bent over the table and said to her girlfriend, 'Eva, this guy from the north is asking after Blonde Malin. Do you know where she is?'

The friend looked at Nordin, then she called to someone at a table farther off. "There's a cop here who's asking where Blonde Malin is. Do any of you know?'

'No-o-o,' came a chorus from the other table.

As Nordin sipped his coffee he wondered gloomily how they could see he was a policeman. He couldn't make these Stockholmers out.

When he had mounted the stairs to the shop floor where the pastries were sold, the waitress who had brought his coffee came up to him.

'I heard you're looking for Blonde Malin,' she said. 'Are you really a policeman?'

Nordin hesitated. Then he nodded lugubriously.

'If you can run that tart in for something, I couldn't be more pleased. I think I know where she is. When she isn't here, she's usually at a café on Engelbrektsplan.'

Nordin thanked her and went out into the cold.

Blonde Malin was not at the other café either; all its regular customers seemed to have deserted it Nordin, reluctant to give in, went up to a woman who was sitting by herself and reading a thumbed and grubby magazine. She didn't know who Blonde Malin was, but suggested that he should look in at a wine bar on Kungsgatan.

Nordin trudged on along the odious Stockholm streets, wishing he were at home in Sundsvall again.

This time he was rewarded for his pains.

He shook his head at the cloakroom attendant who came forward to take his coat, stood in the doorway of the bar and looked around. He caught sight of her almost at once.

She was big-framed, but didn't seem fat Her fair hair, bleached by the look of it, was piled up on top of her head.

Nordin didn't doubt for a moment that this was Blonde Malin.

She was sitting on a wall-seat with a wineglass in front of her. Beside her sat a much older woman, whose long black hair, hanging in unruly curls to her shoulders, didn't make her look any younger. Sure to be a free whore, Nordin thought

He observed the two women for a while. They were not talking to each other. Blonde Malin was staring at the wineglass, which she twiddled between her fingers. The black-haired woman kept looking around the room, now and then flinging her long hair aside with a coquettish toss of the head.

Nordin turned to the cloakroom attendant.

'Excuse me, but do you know the name of that blonde lady sitting over by the wall?'

The man looked across the room.

'Lady!' he snorted. 'Her! No, I don't know her name, but I think they call her Malin. Fat Malin or something like that' Nordin gave him his hat and coat

The black-haired woman looked at him expectantly as he came up to their table.

'Pardon my intrusion,' Nordin said. 'I'd like a word with Miss Malin if she doesn't mind.'

Blonde Malin looked at him and sipped her wine.

‘What about?' she said.

'About a friend of yours,' Nordin said. 'Perhaps we could move to another table and have a quiet talk?'

Blonde Malin looked at her companion and he hastened to add, 'If your friend doesn't mind, of course.'

The black-haired woman filled her glass from the carafe on the table and got up.

'Don't let me disturb you,' she said huffily.

Blonde Malin said nothing.

'I'll go and sit with Tora,' the woman said. 'So long, Malin.' She picked up her glass and went over to a table farther down the room.

Nordin drew out a chair and sat down. Blonde Malin looked at him expectantly.

'I'm Detective Inspector Ulf Nordin,' he said. 'It's possible that you can help us with something.'

'Oh yeah?' Blonde Malin said. 'And what would that be? You said it was about a friend of mine.'

'Yes,' Nordin replied. 'We'd like some information about a man you know.'

Blonde Malin looked at Ulf Nordin contemptuously. 'I'm not grassing on anybody,' she said. Nordin took out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to her. She took one and he lit it for her.

'It's not a question of being a grass,' he said. 'A few weeks ago you rode with two men in a white Volvo Amazon to a garage in Hägersten. The garage is on Klubbacken and is owned by a Swiss named Horst. The man who drove the car was a Spaniard. Do you remember that occasion?'

'Supposing I do,' Blonde Malin said. 'What of it? Nisse and I only went with this Paco so Nisse could show him the way to the garage. Anyway, he's gone back to Spain now.'

'Paco?'

'Yes.'

She drained her glass and poured out the rest of the wine in the carafe.

'May I offer you something?' Nordin asked. 'A little more wine?' She nodded and Nordin beckoned to the waitress. He ordered half a carafe of wine and a stein of beer. 'Who's Nisse?' he asked

'The guy with me in the car, of course. You said so yourself just now.'

'Yes, but what's his other name besides Nisse? What does he do?' 'His name's Göransson. Nils Erik Göransson. I don't know what he does. I ain't seen him for a couple of weeks.' 'Why?' Nordin asked. 'Eh?'

‘Why haven't you seen him for a couple of weeks? Didn't you meet quite often before that?'

'We ain't married, are we? We're not even going steady. We just went together sometimes. Maybe he's met some girl. How do I know. I haven't seen him for a while at any rate.'

The waitress brought the wine and Nordin's beer. Blonde Malin immediately filled her glass.

'Do you know where he lives?' Nordin asked.

'Nisse? No, he sort of didn't have anywhere to live. He lived with me for a time and then with a mate on the South Side, but I don't think he's there now. I don't know, really. And even if I did, I'm not too sure I'd tell a cop. I'm not going to inform on anybody.'

Nordin took a draught of beer and looked amiably at the large, fair girl opposite him.

'You don't have to, Miss — Pardon me, but what's your name besides Malin?'

'My name ain't Malin at all,' she said. 'My name's Magdalena Rosén. People call me Blonde Malin because I'm so blonde.' She stroked her hair.

'What do you want Nisse for, anyway? Has he done something? I ain't going to sit here answering a lot of questions if I don't know what it's all about'

'No, of course not I'll tell you what it is you can help us with,' Ulf Nordin said.

He finished his beer and wiped his mouth.

'May I ask just one more question?' he said.

She nodded.

'How was Nisse usually dressed?'

She frowned and thought for a moment.

'Most of the time he wore a suit,' she said. 'One of them light beige ones with covered buttons. And shirt and shoes and underpants, like all other guys.'

- 'Didn't he have an overcoat?'

'Well, I'd hardly call it an overcoat One of them thin black things - nylon, you know. Why?'

She looked inquiringly at Nordin.

'Well, Miss Rosen, it's possible that he is dead.'

'Dead? Nisse? But... why... why do you say it's possible? How do you know he's dead?'

Ulf Nordin took out his handkerchief and wiped his neck. It was very warm in the bar and his whole body felt sticky.

'The thing is,' he said, 'we've a man out at the morgue we haven't been able to identify. There's reason to suspect that the dead man is Nils Erik Göransson.'

'How's he supposed to have died?' Blonde Malin asked suspiciously.

'He was one of the passengers on that bus that you've no doubt read about He was shot in the head and must have been killed outright Since you're the only person we've traced who knew Göransson well, we'd be grateful if you'd come out to the morgue tomorrow and see if it's him.'

She stared at Nordin in horror.

'Me? Come out to the morgue? Not on your life!'

The time was nine o'clock on Wednesday morning when Nordin and Blonde Malin got out of a taxi outside the institute for forensic medicine on Tomtebodavägen. Martin Beck had been waiting for them for a quarter of an hour and together they entered the morgue.

Blonde Malin was pale under her carelessly applied make-up. Her face was bloated and her fair hair was not arranged as neatly as it had been the evening before.

Nordin had had to wait in her hall while she got ready. When at last they came out into the street, he noted that she showed up considerably more to her advantage in the dimness of the bar than in the bleary morning light

The staff of the morgue were prepared and the superintendent showed them into the cold-storage room.

A cloth had been laid over the corpse's bullet-shattered face, but the hair had been left free.

Blonde Malin gripped Nordin's arm and whispered, 'Jesus Christ'

Nordin laid his arm around her broad back and led her closer.

'Take a good look,' he said quietly. 'See if you recognize him.'

She put her hand to her mouth and looked at the naked body.

'What's wrong with his face?' she asked. 'Can't I see his face?'

'You can be glad you're spared it,' Martin Beck said. ‘You should be able to recognize him just the same.'

Blonde Malin nodded. Then she took her hand away from her mouth and nodded again.

'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, that's Nisse. Them scars and... yes, it's him all right'

'Thank you, Miss Rosén,' Martin Beck said. 'Now what about a cup of coffee with us at police headquarters?'

Blonde Malin, pale and quiet, sat beside Nordin in the back of the taxi. Now and then she mumbled, 'Jesus Christ, how awful.'

Martin Beck and Ulf Nordin treated her to coffee and sweet rolls and after a while Kollberg and Melander and Rönn joined them.

She soon recovered and it was obvious that not only the coffee, but also the attention shown her, cheered her up. She answered their questions obligingly and before leaving she pressed their hands and said, 'Imagine, I never would have thought that co-police could be such sweethearts.'

When the door had closed behind her they considered this for a moment Then Kollberg said, 'Well, sweethearts? Shall we sum up?'

They summed up: Nils Erik Göransson. Age: 38 or 39.

Since 1965 or earlier, no permanent employment

March 1967-August 1967, lived with Magdalena Rosen (Blonde Malin), Arbetargatan 3, Stockholm K.

Thereafter and until some time in October lived with Sune Björk on the South Side.

The weeks prior to his death whereabouts unknown.

Drug addict, smoking, swallowing and mainlining whatever he could get hold of.

Possibly also a pusher.

Had gonorrhea.

Last seen by Magdalena Rosen 3 or 4 November outside Restaurant Damberg. Then in same suit and coat as 13 November. Usually had plenty of money.

₂₃

Of all the men who were working on the bus murders, Nordin was thus the first to show something which, with a little good will, could be called a constructive result. But even on this point, opinions were divided.

'Well,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'Now we know the name of that vagrant So what?'

'Mmm... er... mnyaa...' Melander murmured thoughtfully.

'What are you mumbling about?'

'He was never picked up for anything, that Göransson. But I seem to remember the name.' 'Oh?'

‘I think he cropped up in connection with an investigation at some time.'

'You mean you once interrogated him?'

'No. I would remember that I have never spoken to him and doubt if I've seen him either. But the name. Nils Erik Göransson. I've come across it at some time or other.'

Melander stared abstractly out into the room, puffing at his pipe.

Gunvald Larsson waved his big hands in front of his face. He was opposed to people using tobacco and was irritated by the smoke.

‘I’m more interested in that swine Assarsson’ he said.

'I expect I'll think of it,' Melander said.

'Not a doubt. If you don't die of lung cancer first'

Gunvald Larsson got up and went in to Martin Beck's office.

'Where did this Assarsson get his money from?' he asked.

'Don't know.'

'What does the firm do?'

'Imports a lot of junk. Presumably anything that pays. From cranes to plastic Christmas trees.' 'Plastic Christmas trees?'

'Yes, they sell a lot of them nowadays. Unfortunately.' 'I took the trouble to find out what these gentlemen and their firm have paid in taxes during the last few years.' 'And?'

'About one third of what you or I fork out And when I think of what it looked like at the widow's place ...' 'Yes?'

'I've a damn good mind to ask for permission to raid their office.'

'On what grounds?' 'Don't know.'

Martin Beck shrugged. Gunvald Larsson walked towards the door. Stopped in the doorway and said, 'An ugly customer, that Assarsson. And his brother is probably no better.'

Shortly afterward Kollberg appeared in the doorway. He looked tired and dejected, and his eyes were bloodshot

'What are you busy at?' Martin Beck asked.

'I've been playing back the tapes from Stenström's interrogation with Birgersson. The guy who killed his wife. It took all night'

'And?'

‘Nothing. Nothing at all, Unless I've overlooked something.' 'It's always possible.'

'Kind of you to say so,' Kollberg snapped, slamming the door behind him.

Martin Beck propped his elbows on the edge of the desk and put his head in his hands.

It was already Friday and the eighth of December. Twenty-five days had passed and the investigation was getting nowhere. In fact, it showed signs of falling to pieces. Everyone was clinging to his own particular straw.

Melander was puzzling over where and when he had seen or heard the name of Nils Erik Göransson.

Gunvald Larsson was wondering how the Assarsson brothers had made their money.

Kollberg was trying to make out how a mentally unbalanced wife-killer by the name of Birgersson could conceivably have cheered up Stenström.

Nordin was trying to establish a connection between Göransson, the mass murder and the garage in Hagersten.

Ek had made such a technical study of the red doubledecker bus that nowadays it was practically impossible to talk to him about anything except electric circuits and windscreen-wiper controls.

Månsson had taken over Gunvald Larsson's diffuse ideas that Mohammed Boussie must have played some sort of leading role because he was Algerian; he had systematically interrogated the entire Arab colony in Stockholm.

Martin Beck himself could think only of Stenström, what he had been working on, whether he had been shadowing someone and whether this someone had shot him. The argument seemed far from convincing. Would a comparatively experienced policeman really let himself get shot by the man he was shadowing? On a bus?

Rönn could not tear his thoughts away from what Schwerin had said at the hospital during the few seconds before he died.

On this very Friday afternoon he had a talk with the sound expert at the Swedish Broadcasting Corporation who had tried to analyse what was said on the tape.

The man had taken his time, but now he seemed ready with his report.

'Not very copious material to work with,' he said. 'But I've come to certain conclusions. Like to hear them?' 'Yes, please,' Rönn said.

He transferred the receiver to his left hand and reached for the notepad.

‘You're from the North yourself, aren't you?' Yes.'

'Well, it's not the questions that are interesting, but the answers. First of all I've tried to eliminate all the background noise like whirring and dripping and so on.'

Rönn waited with his pen at the ready.

'As regards the first answer, referring to the question as to who did the shooting, one can clearly distinguish four consonants - d, n, r, and k!

'Yes,' Rönn said.

'A closer analysis reveals certain vowels and diphthongs between and after these consonants. For example, an e or an i sound between d and n.

'Dinrk,' Rönn said.

'Yes, that's more or less how it sounds to an untrained ear,' the expert said. 'Furthermore, I think I can hear the man say a very faint oo after the consonant k'

'Dinrk oo,' Rönn said.

'Something like that, yes. Though not such a marked oo.' The expert paused. Then he went on reflectively, 'This man was in pretty bad shape, wasn't he?' 'Yes.'

'And he was probably in pain.' 'Very likely,' Rönn agreed.

'Well,' the expert said lightly, 'that could explain why he said oo.' Rönn nodded and made notes. Poked at the tip of his nose with the pen. Listened.

'However, I'm convinced that these sounds form a sentence, composed of several words.'

'And how does the sentence go?' Rönn asked, putting pen to paper.

'Very hard to say. Very hard indeed. For example "dinner reckon" or "dinner record, oo".'

'"Dinner record, oo"?' Rönn asked in astonishment.

'Well, just as an example, of course. As to the second reply -'

'"Koleson"?'

'Oh, you thought it sounded like that? Interesting. Well, I didn't. I've reached the conclusion that there's an ‘l’ before the ‘k’, and that he says two words: "like," repeating the last word of the question, and "oleson".'

'"Oleson"? And what does that mean?'

'Well, it might be a name ...'

'"Like Oleson"?'

‘Yes, exactly. You have the same thick ‘l’ in the word "Oleson" too. Perhaps a similar dialect'

The sound technician was silent for a few seconds. Then he went on: 'That's about the lot then. I'll send over a written report, of course, together with the bill. But I thought I'd better call up in case it was urgent'

'Thanks very much,' Rönn said.

Putting the receiver down, he regarded his notes thoughtfully. After careful consideration he decided not to take the matter up with the investigation chiefs. At any rate not at present

Although the time was only a quarter to three in the afternoon, it was already pitch-dark when Kollberg arrived at Långholmen. He felt cold and miserable, and the prison surroundings didn't exactly cheer him up. The bare visitors' room was shabby and bleak, and he paced gloomily up and down while waiting for the prisoner he had come to see. The man, whose name was Birgersson and who had killed his wife, had undergone a thorough mental examination at the clinic of forensic psychiatry. In due course, he would be exempted from punishment and transferred to some institution.

After about fifteen minutes the door opened and a prison guard in a dark-blue uniform admitted a small, thin-haired man of about sixty. The man stopped just inside the door, smiled and bowed politely. Kollberg went up to him. They shook hands.

'Kollberg.'

'Birgersson.'

The man was pleasant and easy to talk to. 'Inspector Stenström? Oh yes indeed, I remember him. Such a nice man. Please give him my kind regards.' 'He's dead.'

'Dead? I can't believe it ... He was just a boy. How did it happen?'

'That's just what I want to talk to you about.'

Kollberg explained in detail why he had come.

'I've played back the whole tape and listened carefully to every word. But I presume that the tape recorder was not going when you sat talking over coffee and so on.'

'That's right.'

'But you did talk then, too?'

'Oh yes. Most of the time, anyway.'

‘What about?'

'Well, everything really.'

'Can you recall anything that Stenström seemed specially interested in?'

The man thought hard and shook his head. 'We just talked about things in general. This and that But something special? What would that have been?' 'That's exactly what I don't know.'

Kollberg took out the notebook he had brought from Åsa's apartment and showed it to Birgersson.

'Does this convey anything to you? Why has he written "Morris"?'

The man's face lit up at once.

'We must have been talking about cars. I had a Morris 8, the big model, you know. And I think I mentioned it on one occasion.'

'I see. Well, if you happen to think of anything else, please call me up at once. At any time.'

'It was old and didn't look much, my Morris, but it went well. My ... wife was ashamed of it. Said she was ashamed to be seen in such an old rust bucket when all the neighbours had new cars -'

He blinked rapidly and broke off.

Kollberg quickly wound up the conversation. When the guard had led the prisoner away a young doctor in a white coat entered the room.

'Well, what did you think of Birgersson?' he asked. 'He seemed nice enough.'

'Yes,' the doctor said. 'He's OK. All he needed was to be rid of that bitch he was married to.'

Kollberg looked hard at him, put his papers into his pocket and left.

The time was eleven thirty on Saturday evening and Gunvald Larsson felt cold in spite of his heavy winter coat, his fur cap, ski trousers and ski boots. He was standing in the doorway of Tegnérgatan 53, as still as only a policeman can stand. He was not there by chance, and it was not easy to see him in the dark. He had already been there for four hours and this was not the first evening, but the tenth or eleventh.

He had decided to go home as soon as the light went out in certain windows he was watching. Shortly before midnight a grey Mercedes with foreign licence plates stopped outside the door of the flats nearly opposite across the street. A man got out opened the boot and lifted out a suitcase. Then he crossed the pavement, unlocked the door and went inside. Two minutes later a light was switched on behind lowered Venetian blinds in two windows on the ground floor.

Gunvald Larsson strode swiftly across the street He had already tried out a suitable key to the street door two weeks ago. Once inside the entrance hall, he took off his overcoat, folded it neatly and hung it over the handrail of the marble staircase, placing his fur cap on top. Unbuttoned his jacket and gripped the pistol that he wore clipped to his waistband.

He had known for a long time that the door opened inward. Looked at it for five seconds and thought: If I break in without a valid reason, I'm overstepping my authority, and I'll probably be suspended or sacked.

Then he kicked in the door.

Ture Assarsson and the man who had alighted from the foreign car were standing one on either side of the desk. To use a hackneyed phrase, they looked thunderstruck. They had just opened the suitcase and it was lying between them.

Gunvald Larsson waved them aside with the pistol, following up the train of thought he had begun out in the hall: But it doesn't matter because I can always go to sea again.

Gunvald Larsson lifted the receiver and dialled 90 000. With his left hand and without lowering his service pistol. He said nothing. The other two said nothing either. There was not much to say.

The suitcase contained 250,000 of a brand of dope tablets called Ritalina. On the black market they were worth about one million Swedish kronor.

Gunvald Larsson got home to his flat at Bollmora at three o'clock on Sunday morning. He was a bachelor and lived alone. As usual he spent twenty minutes in the bathroom before putting on his pyjamas and getting into bed. He picked up the novel by Övre

Richter-Frich that he was reading, but after only a minute he put it down and reached for the telephone.

The phone was a white Ericofon. Turning it upside down, he dialled Martin Beck's number.

Gunvald Larsson made it a rule never to think of his work when he was at home, and he could not recall ever before having made an official call after he had gone to bed.

Martin Beck answered after only the second ring.

'Hi. Did you hear about Assarsson?'

'Yes.'.

'Something has just occurred to me.' 'What?'

'That we might have been making a mistake. Stenström was of course shadowing Gösta Assarsson. And the murderer killed two birds with one stone - Assarsson and the man who was shadowing him.'

'Yes,' Martin Beck agreed. 'There may be something in what you say'

Gunvald Larsson was wrong. Nevertheless, he had just put the investigation on to the right track.

₂₄

For three evenings in succession Ulf Nordin trudged about town trying to make contact with Stockholm's underworld, going in and out of the beerhalls, coffeehouses, restaurants and dance halls that Blonde Malin had given as Göransson's haunts.

Sometimes he took the car, and on Friday evening he sat in the car staring out over Mariatorget without seeing anything of more interest than two other men sitting in a car and staring. He didn't recognize them but gathered they belonged to the district's patrol of plainclothesmen or drug squad.

These expeditions did not provide one new fact about the man whose name had been Nils Erik Göransson. In the daytime, however, he managed to supplement Blonde Malin's information by consulting the census bureau, parish registers, seamen's employment exchanges and the man's ex-wife, who lived in Borås and said she had almost forgotten her former husband. She had not seen him for nearly twenty years.

On Saturday morning he reported his lean findings to Martin Beck. Then he sat down and wrote a long, melancholy and yearning letter to his wife in Sundsvall, now and then casting a guilty look at Rönn and Kollberg, who were both hard at work at their typewriters.

He had not had time to finish the letter before Martin Beck entered the room.

'What idiot sent you out into town,' he said fretfully.

Nordin quickly slipped a copy of a report over the letter. He had just written '... and Martin Beck gets more peculiar and grumpy every day.'

Pulling the paper out of the typewriter, Kollberg said, You.’

'What? I did?'

‘Yes, you did. Last Wednesday after Blonde Malin had been here.'

Martin Beck looked disbelievingly at Kollberg.

'Funny, I don't remember that. It's idiotic all the same to send out a northerner who can hardly find his way to Stureplan on a job like that.'

Nordin looked offended, but had to admit to himself that Martin Beck was right

'Rönn,' Martin Beck said. 'You'd better find out where Göransson hung out, whom he was with and what he did. And try and get hold of that guy Björk, the one he lived with.'

'OK,' Rönn said.

He was busy making a list of possible interpretations of Schwerin's last words. At the top he had written: Dinner record. At the bottom was the latest version: Didn't reckon.

Each was busier than ever with his own particular job.

Martin Beck got up at six thirty on Monday morning after a practically sleepless night He felt slightly sick and his condition was not improved by his drinking cocoa in the kitchen with his daughter. There was no sign of any other member of the family. His wife slept like a log in the mornings, and the boy had evidently taken after her; he was nearly always late for school But Ingrid rose at six thirty and shut the front door behind her at a quarter to eight. Invariably. Inga used to say that you could set the clock by her.

Inga had a weakness for cliches. You could make a collection of the expressions she used in daily speech and sell it as a phrase-book for budding journalists. A kind of pony. Call it, of course, If You Can Talk, You Can Write. Thought Martin Beck.

'What are you thinking about, Daddy?' Ingrid asked.

'Nothing,' he said automatically.

'I haven't seen you laugh since last spring.'

Martin Beck raised his eyes from the Christmas brownies dancing in a long line across the oilcloth table cover, looked at his daughter and tried to smile. Ingrid was a good girl, but that wasn't much to laugh at either. She left the table and went to get her books. By the time he had put on his hat and coat and galoshes she was standing with her hand on the door handle, waiting for him. He took the Lebanese leather bag from her. It was the worse for wear and had gaudy FNL labels stuck all over it

This, too, was routine. Nine years ago he had carried Ingrid's bag on her first day at school, and he still did so. On that occasion he had taken her hand. A very small hand, which had been warm and moist and trembling with excitement and anticipation. When had he given up taking her hand? He couldn't remember.

'On Christmas Eve you're going to laugh, anyway,' she said. 'Really?'

‘Yes. When you get my Christmas present'

She frowned and said, 'Anything else is out of the question.'

'What would you like yourself, by the way?'

'A horse.'

'Where would you keep it?'

'I don't know. I'd like one all the same.'

'Do you know what a horse costs?'

'Yes, unfortunately.'

They parted.

At Kungsholmsgatan Gunvald Larsson was waiting, and an investigation which didn't even deserve to be called a guessing game. Hammar had been kind enough to point this out only two days ago.

'How is Ture Assarsson's alibi?' Gunvald Larsson asked.

"Ture Assarsson's alibi is one of the most watertight in the history of crime,' Martin Beck replied. 'At the time in question he was at the City Hotel in Södertälje making an after-dinner speech to twenty-five people.'

'Hmm,' Gunvald Larsson muttered darkly.

'What's more, if I may say so, it's not very logical to imagine that Gösta Assarsson would not notice his own brother getting on the bus with a submachine gun under his coat.'

'Yes, the coat,' said Gunvald Larsson. 'It must have been pretty wide if he could have an M-37 under it If he wasn't carrying it in a case, that is.'

'You're right, there,' Martin Beck said.

'It does sometimes happen that I'm right'

'Lucky for you,' Martin Beck retorted. 'If you'd been wrong the night before last we'd have been sitting pretty now, I don't think.'

Pointing his cigarette at the other man he said, 'You're going to get it one of these days, Gunvald.'

'I doubt it'

And Gunvald Larsson stomped out of the room. In the doorway he met Kollberg, who stepped aside quickly, stole a glance at the broad back and said, 'What's wrong with the walking battering ram? Got the hump?'

Martin Beck nodded. Kollberg went over to the window and looked out.

'Jesus Christ,' he growled.

'Is Åsa still staying with you?'

'Yes,' Kollberg replied. 'And don't say, "Have you got yourself a harem?" because Mr Larsson has already asked that' Martin Beck sneezed.

'Bless you,' Kollberg said. 'I very nearly tossed him out of the window.'

Kollberg was about the only one who could have done it, Martin Beck thought. Aloud he said, 'Thanks.' 'What are you thanking me for?' 'For saying "bless you".'

'Oh yes. Not many people nowadays have the courtesy to say thank you. I had a case once. A press photographer who beat his wife black and blue and then flung her out in the snow naked because she hadn't thanked him when he said "bless you". On New Year's Eve. He was drunk, of course.'

He stood silent for a while, then said doubtfully, 'I doubt if I can get anything more out of her. Åsa, I mean.'

'Well, never mind, we know what Stenström was working on,' Martin Beck said.

Kollberg gaped at him. 'Do we?'

'Sure. The Teresa murder. Clear as daylight'

'The Teresa murder?'

'Yes. Hadn't you realized that?'

'No,' Kollberg said. 'I hadn't. And I've thought back over everything from the last ten years. Why didn't you say anything?'

Martin Beck looked at him and bit his ball-point pen thoughtfully. They both had the same thought and Kollberg put it into words.

'One can't communicate merely by telepathy.'

'No,' Martin Beck said. 'Besides, the Teresa case is sixteen years old. And you had nothing to do with the investigation. The Stockholm police had charge of it from start to finish. I think Ek is the only one left here from that time.'

'So you've already gone through all the reports?'

'By no means. Only skimmed through them. There are several thousand pages. All the papers are out at Västberga. Shall we go out and have a look?'

'Yes, let's. My memory needs refreshing.'

In the car Martin Beck said, 'Perhaps you remember enough to realize why Stenström took on the Teresa case?'

Kollberg nodded.

'Yes, because it was the most difficult one he could tackle/

'Exactly. The most impossible of all things impossible. He wanted to show what he was capable of, once and for all.'

'And then he went and got himself shot,' Kollberg said. 'Christ, how stupid. And where's the connection?'

Martin made no reply and nothing more was said until, after various difficulties and delays, they had threaded their way out to Västberga and parked in the sleet outside the southern police headquarters. Then Kollberg said, 'Can the Teresa case be solved? Now?'

'Shouldn't think so for a moment,' Martin Beck replied.

₂₅

Kollberg sighed unhappily, as he listlessly and irrationally turned the pages of the reports piled in front of him.

'It will take a week to wade through all this,' he said.

'At least. Do you know the actual circumstances?

'No, not even in broad outline.'

'There's a resume" somewhere. Otherwise I can give you a rough idea.'

Kollberg nodded. Martin Beck picked out one or two sheets and said, 'The facts are clear-cut. Very simple. Therein lies the difficulty.' 'Fire away,' Kollberg said.

'On the morning of 10 June 1951, that's to say more than sixteen years ago, a man who was looking for his cat found a dead woman in some bushes near Stadshagen sports ground on Kungsholmen here in town. She was naked, lying on her stomach with her arms by her sides. The forensic medical examination showed that she had been strangled and that she had been dead for about five days. The body was well preserved and had evidently been lying in a cold-storage room or something similar. All available evidence pointed to a sex murder, but as such a long time had elapsed, the doctor who did the postmortem could not find any definite signs that she had been sexually assaulted.'

'Which on the whole means a sex murder,' Kollberg said.

‘Yes. On the other hand, the examination of the scene of the crime showed that the body could not have been lying there for more than twelve hours at the most; this was also confirmed later by witnesses, who had passed the shrubbery the previous evening and who could not have helped seeing the body if it had been there then. Further, fibres and textile particles were found indicating that she had been transported there wrapped in a grey blanket It was therefore quite clear that the crime had not been committed in the place where the body was found, and that the body had just been slung into the bushes. Little or no attempt had been made to hide it with the help of moss or branches. Well, that's about all... No, I was forgetting. Two more things: She had not eaten for several hours before she died. And there was no trace of the murderer in the way of footprints or anything.'

Martin Beck turned over the pages and skimmed through the typewritten text.

'The woman was identified the very same day as one Teresa Camarão. She was twenty-six years old and born in Portugal. She had come to Sweden in 1945 and the same year had married a fellow countryman called Henrique Camarão. He was two years older than she and had been a radio officer in the merchant marine but had gone ashore and got a job as radio technician. Teresa Camarão was born in Lisbon in 1925. According to the Portuguese police she came from a good home and a very respectable family. Upper middle class. She had come to study, rather belatedly because of the war. That's as far as her studies got She met this Henrique Camarão and married him. They had no children. Comfortably off. lived on Torsgatan.'

'Who identified her?'

'The police. That's to say the vice squad. She was well known there and had been for the last two years. On 15 May 1949 -circumstances were such that it was in fact possible to determine the exact date - she had completely changed her way of life. She had run away from home - so it says here - and since then she had circulated in the underworld. In short, Teresa Camarão had become a whore. She was a nymphomaniac and during these two years she had gone with hundreds of men.' Yes, I remember,' Kollberg said.

'Now comes the best part of it Within the space of three days the police found no less than three witnesses who, at half-past eleven the evening before, had seen a car parked on Kungsholmsgatan by the approach to the path beside which the body was found. All three were men. Two of them had passed in a car, one of them on foot. The two witnesses who had been driving had also seen a man standing by the car. Beside him on the ground lay an object the size of a body, wrapped in something that seemed to be a grey blanket. The third witness walked past a few minutes later and saw only the car. The descriptions of the man were vague. It was raining and the person had stood in the shade; all that could be said for sure was that it was a man and that he was fairly tall. Pressed for what they meant by tall, they varied between 5 feet 9 and 6 feet 1 inches, which included ninety per cent of the country's male population. But...'

'Yes? But what?'

'But as regards the vehicle, all three witnesses were agreed. Each said that the car was French, a Renault model CV-4, which was put on the market in 1947 and which turned up year after year with no changes to speak of.'

'Renault CV-4,' Kollberg said. 'Porsche designed it while the French kept him prisoner as a war criminal They shut him up in the gatekeeper's house at the factory. There he sat designing. Then, I think, he was acquitted. The French made millions out of that car.'

'You have a staggering knowledge of the most widely differing subjects,' Martin Beck said drily. 'Can you tell me now what connection there is between the Teresa case and the fact that Stenström was shot dead by a mass murderer on a bus four weeks ago?'

'Wait a bit,' Kollberg said. ‘What happened then?'

'The police here in Stockholm carried out the most extensive murder investigation ever known in this country. It swelled to gigantic proportions. Well, you can see for yourself. Hundreds of individuals who had known and been in touch with Teresa Camarão were questioned, but it could not be established who had last seen her alive. All trace of her came to an abrupt end exactly one week before she was found dead. She had spent the night with a guy in a hotel room on Nybrogatan and parted from him at twelve thirty next day outside a wine bar on Master Samuelsgatan. Period. After that every single Renault CV-4 was tracked down. First in Stockholm, since the witnesses said that the car had an A licence plate. Then every car in the whole country of that make and model was checked, with the idea that it might have had a false licence plate. It took almost a year. And at last it could be proved, actually proved, that not one of all those cars could have stood at Stadshagen at eleven thirty on the evening of 9 June 1951.'

'Hm. And at that moment...' Kollberg said.

'Precisely. At that moment the entire investigation was as dead as a doornail. It was completed. Wound up. The only thing wrong with it was that Teresa Camarão had been murdered and it was not known who had done it. The last twitch of life in the Teresa investigation was in 1952, when the Danish, Norwegian and Finnish police informed us that the damn car could not have come from any of those countries. At the same time the Swedish customs confirmed that it could not have come from anywhere else abroad. As you probably remember, there were not so many cars at that time, and it involved an awful lot of red tape if you wanted to get a motor vehicle across a frontier.'

'Yes, I remember. And these witnesses ...'

'The two in the car were friends from work. One was foreman at a garage and the other a car mechanic. The third witness was also very well informed in the matter of cars. By profession he was - guess.'

'Manager of the Renault factories?'

'No. Police sergeant Specialist in traffic questions. Carlberg his name was - he's dead now. But not even this point was overlooked - we had started trying out witness psychology even then. These three men were made to undergo a series of tests. One at a time they were asked to identify silhouettes of different types of cars, projected on slides. All three recognized every current model, and the foreman even knew the most exotic makes, like Hispano-Suiza and Pegaso. They couldn't even trick him when they drew a car that didn't exist. He said "the front is a Fiat 500, and the back is from a Dyna Panhard."'

'What did the guys in charge of the investigation think? Privately?' Kollberg asked.

'The inside talk was something like this: The murderer is to be found among all the papers, it's one of the countless men who have slept with Teresa Camarão and who, in a fit of whatever it is that comes over sex maniacs, has strangled her. The investigation has collapsed because someone had bungled over the check-up on all these Renault cars. So let's check them once again. And once again. Then they thought, quite rightly, that after all that time the scent had grown cold. They still thought that at some point or other the run-down of the cars had slipped up and that it was too late to do anything about it. I'm sure that Ek, for instance, who was in on it, thinks so to this day. And on the whole I agree. I can't see any explanation.'

Kollberg sat silent for a while. Then he said, 'What happened to Teresa on that day you mentioned? In May 1949?'

Martin Beck studied the papers and said, 'She received a kind of shock, which led to a psychological phenomenon and a mental and physical state which is comparatively rare but by no means unique. Teresa Camarão had grown up in an upper-middle-class family. Her parents were Catholics like herself. She was a virgin when she married at the age of twenty. She lived for four years together with her husband in a typical Swedish manner, although both were foreigners, and in the environment that was, and is, typical of the comfortable upper middle class. She was reserved, sensible and had a quiet disposition. Her husband considered the marriage a happy one. She was, a doctor says here, a pure product of these two environments, strict Catholic upper class and strict Swedish bourgeoisie, with all the moral taboos inherent in each, to say nothing of the combined result On 15 May 1949, her husband was away on a job in the north. She went to a lecture with a woman friend. There they met a man whom the friend had known for years. He accompanied them back to the Camarãos' apartment on Torsgatan, where the friend was to spend the night, as she too was a grass widow. They had tea and then sat talking about the lecture over a glass of wine. This guy was feeling a bit down because he had been out with a girl - whom incidentally he married not long afterward. He was at a loose end. He thought Teresa was attractive, which she was, and started making a pass at her. The woman friend, who knew that Teresa was the most moral person imaginable, went off to bed - she slept on a sofa in the hall, within earshot. The guy said about a dozen times to Teresa that they should go to bed, but she kept saying no. At last he simply lifted her out of the chair, carried her into the bedroom, undressed her and made love to her. As far as is known, Teresa Camarão had never before shown herself naked to anybody, not even to women. Teresa Camarão had never had an orgasm. That night she had about twenty. Next morning the guy said "so long", and off he went. She kept calling him up ten times a day for the next week, and after that he never heard from her again. He made it up with his girl and married her, and got on very well. There are a dozen different interrogations with him in this pile. He was really grilled, but he had an alibi and did not have a car; moreover, he was a good, decent guy who was happily married and was never unfaithful to his wife.'

'And Teresa started running about like a bitch in heat?'

'Yes. Literally. She left home, her husband would have nothing more to do with her, and she was dropped by all her friends and acquaintances. For two years she lived for short periods with a score of different men and had sexual relations with ten times as many.

She was a nymphomaniac ready for anything. At first she did it for nothing, but towards the end she did accept money occasionally. Of course, she never met anyone who could put up with her for any length of time. She had no women friends. She tumbled right down the social ladder. Within less than six months the only people she mixed with were those who belonged to what we then called the underworld. She also started drinking. The vice squad knew of her but could never quite keep up with her. They were going to pick her up for vagrancy, but before they could do anything she was dead.'

Pointing to the bundle of reports, Martin Beck went on.

'Among all these papers are a lot of interrogations with men who fell prey to her. They say she never left them alone and was impossible to satisfy. Most of them got scared to death the very first time, especially those who were married and were just out for a bit of fun on the side. She knew a large number of shady characters and semi-gangsters, thieves and con men and black market swindlers and the like. Well, you remember the clientele from that time.'

'What happened to her husband?'

'Not unnaturally, he considered himself scandalized. He changed his name and became a Swedish citizen. Met a girl of good family from Stocksund, remarried, had two children and lived happily ever after in a house of his own on Lindingö. His alibi was as watertight as Captain Cassel's raft.'

'As what?'

'The only thing you know nothing about is boats,' Martin Beck said. 'If you look through that folder you'll understand where Stenström got some of his ideas.'

Kollberg looked inside it.

'Jesus Christ! That's the hairiest little broad I've ever seen. Who took these pictures?'

'A man interested in photography who had a perfect alibi and who had nothing to do with a Renault car. But unlike Stenström, he sold his pictures at a fat profit As you remember, we didn't have the same profusion of advanced pornography then as we have now.'

They sat silent for a while. At last Kollberg said, 'What possible connection can this have with the fact that Stenström and eight other people are shot dead on a bus sixteen years later?'

'None at all,' Martin Beck replied. 'We're simply on our way back to the mentally deranged sensation murderer.'

'Why did he say nothing -'Kollberg began, and broke off.

'Exactly,' Martin Beck said. 'All that is explained now. Stenström was going through unsolved cases. As he was very ambitious and still rather naive he picked the most hopeless one he could find. If he solved the Teresa murder it would be a fantastic detective feat And he said nothing to us because he knew that some of us would laugh at him. When he told Hammar he didn't want to tackle anything too old, he had already decided on this. When Teresa Camarão lay in the morgue Stenström was twelve and probably didn't even read the newspapers. He considered he could look at it in quite an unbiased way. He combed right through this investigation.'

'And what did he find?'

'Nothing. Because there's nothing to find. There's not one loose thread.'

'How do you know?'

Martin Beck looked gravely at Kollberg and said, 'I know because I did exactly the same thing eleven years ago. I didn't find anything either. And I didn't have any Åsa Torell to carry out sexual-psychological experiments on. The minute you told me that about her, I knew what he had been working on. But I forgot that you didn't know as much about Teresa Camarão as I did. Come to that, I should have realized it when we found those pictures in his drawer.'

'So he was trying out a kind of psychological method?'

'Yes. That's all there is left. Find a person who resembles Teresa in some respect and see how she reacts. There's a certain amount of sense in it, especially if you already happen to have such a person at home. The investigation as such has no gaps. Otherwise ...'

‘What?'

'I was going to say that otherwise we'd have to turn to a clairvoyant But some bright guy has already done that It's there somewhere in the file.'

'But this doesn't tell us what he was doing on the bus.'

'No. It doesn't tell us a damn thing.'

'I'll check a couple of things anyway,' Kollberg said.

‘Yes, do,' Martin Beck said.

Kollberg sought out Henrique Camarão, who now called himself Hendrik Caam, a corpulent, middle-aged man who sighed and stole an unhappy glance at his blonde upper-class wife and a thirteen-year-old son with velvet jacket and Beatles hair-do, and said, 'Am I never to be left in peace? Only last summer there was a young detective here and ...'

Kollberg also checked Caam's alibi for the evening of 13 November. It was faultless.

He also tracked down the man who had taken the pictures of Teresa eighteen years earlier, and found a toothless old alcoholic in a cell in the long-term wing of the central prison. The man, who had been a burglar, screwed up his mouth and said, 'Teresie. I'll say I remember her. She had nipples the size of beer-bottle tops. Funny thing, there was another cop here a few months ago and...'

Kollberg read every word of the report. It took him exactly a week. On the evening of Tuesday, 18 December 1967, he read the last page. Then he looked at his wife, who had been asleep for some hours; her head, with its dark ruffled hair, was burrowed into the pillow. She was lying on her stomach with her right knee drawn up and the quilt had slipped down to her waist. He heard the sofa creak in the living room as Åsa Torell got up and tiptoed out to the kitchen for a drink of water. She still slept badly.

There's no missing part in this, Kollberg thought No loose ends. All the same, tomorrow I'll make a list of all the people who were interrogated or who are known to have been with Teresa Camarão. Then we'll see who's still left and what they're doing now.

₂₆

A month had passed since the sixty-seven shots were fired in the bus on Norra Stationsgatan, and the ninefold murderer was still at large.

The police board, the press and the general public were not the only ones who showed their impatience. There was yet another category who were particularly anxious for the police to find the guilty man as soon as possible. This category comprised what is popularly known as the underworld.

Most of the people who usually busied themselves with crime had been forced into inactivity during the last month. So long as the police were on the alert, it was best to lie low. There was not a thief, junkie, dealer, mugger, bootlegger or pimp in the whole of Stockholm who didn't hope that the mass murderer would soon be seized so that the police could once more devote their time to Vietnam demonstrators and parking offenders and they themselves could get back to work.

One result of this was that for once they made common cause with the police, and most of them had no objections to helping in the hunt

Rönn's work in his search for the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle called Nils Erik Göransson was also made much easier by this willingness. He was quite well aware of the motives behind the unusual good will shown to him, but he was nonetheless grateful for it.

He had spent the last few nights contacting people who had known Göransson. He had found them in squats, restaurants, bars, billiard halls and common boarding houses. Not all were willing to give information, but many did.

On the evening of 13 December, on a barge moored at Söder Mälarstrand, he met a girl who promised to put him in touch the next evening with Sune Björk, the man who had let Göransson share his flat for a week or two.

The next day was a Thursday and Rönn, who had snatched only a few hours in bed during the last few days, spent half the day sleeping. He got up at one o'clock and helped his wife to pack. He had persuaded her to go up to her parents at Arjeplog over the Christmas holidays, as he suspected that he himself would not have much spare time for celebrating Christmas this year.

Having seen his wife off on the train, he drove home again and sat down at the kitchen table with paper and pen. He laid Nordin's report and his own notebook in front of him, put on his glasses and began to write.

Nils Erik Göransson.

Born in the Finnish parish, Stockholm, 4.10.1929.

Parents: Algot Erik Göransson, electrician, and Benita Rantanen.

Parents divorced 1935, mother moved to Helsinki and father given custody of the child.

G. lived with father at Sundbyberg till 1945.

Went to school for 7 years, thereafter 2 years at trade school learning house-painting.

1947 moved to Gothenburg, where he worked as painter's apprentice. Married Gudrun Maria Svensson in Gothenburg 1.12.1948. Divorced 13.5.1949.

From June 1949 to March 1950 deckhand on boats of the Svea Steamship Company. Baltic coastal trade. Moved in the summer of 1950 to Stockholm. Employed by the painting firm of Amandus Gustavsson until November 1950, when he was dismissed for being drunk at work. From then on he seems to have gone downhill. He got odd jobs, as night porter, errand boy, porter, warehouseman etc., but probably made a living mainly out of petty thieving and other minor crimes. Was never apprehended, however, as suspected of any crime but on several occasions was charged with being drunk and disorderly. For a time he called himself by his mother's maiden name, Rantanen. Father died 1958 and between 1958 and 1964 he lived in father's apartment at Sundbyberg. Evicted 1964 because he was three months in arrears with rent.

He seems to have started using narcotics some time during 1964. From that year until his death he had no fixed residence. In January 1965, he moved in with Gurli Löfgren, Skeppar Karlsgränd 3, and lived with her until the spring of 1966. During this time neither he nor Löfgren had any regular work. Löfgren was registered with the vice squad but considering her age and appearance, she cannot have earned much from prostitution during this time. Löfgren too was addicted to drugs. Gurli Löfgren died of cancer at the age of 47 on Christmas Day, 1966. At the beginning of March 1967 he met Magdalena Rosen (Blonde Malin) and lived with her at Arbetargatan 3 until 29.8.1967. From beginning of September until middle of October this year he had a temporary domicile with Sune Björk.

Was treated for venereal disease (gonorrhea) twice during October-November at St Göran's Hospital

The mother has remarried. She still lives in Helsinki and has been notified by letter of her son's death.

Rosén says that Göransson was never without money and that she doesn't know where this money came from. To her knowledge, he was not a pusher and did not carry on any other form of business.

Rönn read through what he had written. His handwriting was so microscopic that it all fitted on to less than one sheet of legal-sized paper. Putting the paper in his briefcase and the notebook in his pocket, he went off to see Sune Björk. The girl from the barge was waiting for him by the newspaper kiosk on Mariatorget

'I'm not coming with you,' she said. 'But I've talked to Sune, so he knows you're coming. Hope I haven't done anything stupid.'

She gave him an address on Tavastgatan and made off down towards Slussen.

Sune Björk was younger than Rönn had expected, he couldn't have been more than twenty-five. He had a blond beard and seemed nice enough. There was nothing about him to indicate that he was an addict, and Rönn wondered what he could have had in common with the much older and seedier Göransson.

The flat consisted of one room and kitchen and was poorly furnished. The windows looked on to an untidy courtyard. Rönn sat down in the only chair and Björk sat on the bed.

'I heard you wanted to know about Nisse,' Björk said. 'I must confess I don't know much about him myself, but I thought you could perhaps take care of his things'

He bent down and fished out a shopping bag from under the bed and gave it to Rönn.

'He left this here when he cleared out He took some stuff with him - that's mostly clothes. Worthless crap.'

Rönn took the bag and placed it beside the chair.

'Can you tell me how long you knew Göransson, where and how you met and how you came to let him stay here with you?'

Björk settled down on the bed and crossed his legs.

'I can if you like,' he said. 'Can I cadge a cigarette?'

Rönn took out a pack of Prince and shook out a cigarette for . Björk, who lit it after nipping off the filter.

'It was like this, see. I was down at Zum Franziskaner having a beer and Nisse was sitting at the next table. I'd never seen him before but we started talking and he stood me a glass of wine. I thought he seemed a nice guy so when they closed and he said he had no pad, I brought him back here. We got pretty loaded that night and the next day he stood me a couple of drinks and some grub at Södergard. This must have been the third or fourth of September, I don't remember exactly.'

'Did you notice he was an addict?' Rönn asked.

Björk shook his head.

'No, not at once. But after a couple of days he gave himself a fix in the morning as soon as we woke up and then, of course, I realized it He asked if I wanted one, by the way, but I don't dig that sort of thing.'

Björk had rolled his sleeves up above his elbows. Rönn cast a practised eye at the bends of his arms and noted that he was evidently telling the truth.

'You haven't much room here,' he said. 'Why did you let him stay here for so long? Did he pay for his keep, by the way?'

'I thought he was OK. He didn't actually pay any rent, but he had plenty of money and always brought home grub and booze and so on.'

‘Where did he get his money from?'

Björk shrugged.

'I dunno. It wasn't my business anyway. But he didn't have any job, I know that'

Rönn looked at Björk's hands, which were black with ingrained dirt

'What's your job?'

'Cars,' Björk replied. 'I've got a date with a bird in a while, so you'd better get a move on. Anything more you wanted to know?'

‘What did he talk about? Did he tell you anything about himself?'

Björk rubbed his forefinger quickly to and fro under his nose and said, 'He said he'd been to sea, though I think that was years ago. And he used to talk about birds. Especially one he'd been living with who had kicked the bucket not long before. She was like mum, he said, only better.'

Pause.

'You can't screw your mum, you know,' Björk said gravely. 'Otherwise he wasn't so keen on talking about himself.' 'When did he clear out of here?'

'On the eighth of October. I remember because it was a Sunday and it was his nameday. He took his things, all except them there. He didn't have many, they all went into an ordinary bag. He said he had got himself another pad but that he'd come by and say hello in a day or two.'

He paused and stubbed out his cigarette in a coffee cup that was standing on the floor.

'After that I never saw him again. And now he's dead, Sivan said. Was he really one of those on the bus?'

Rönn nodded.

'Do you know where he went to from here?'

'Haven't a clue. He never looked me up and I didn't know where he was. He met several of my mates here, but I never met any of his. So I really know bugger all about him.'

Björk got up, went over to a mirror hanging on the wall and combed his hair.

'Do you know who it was?' he asked. The guy on the bus?' 'No’ Rönn replied. 'Not yet’ Björk pulled off his sweater. 'I have to change now; he said. 'My bird's waiting.' Rönn stood up, took the shopping bag and walked towards the door.

'So you've no idea what he did with himself after the eighth of October?' he asked. 'I said no, didn't I?'

He took a clean shirt out of the chest of drawers and tore off the laundry's paper strip.

'I only know one thing’ he said, ‘What?'

'He was as nervy as hell for a week or two before he cleared out Seemed to have something on his mind.' 'But you don't know what?' 'No, I don't'

When Rönn got home to his empty flat he went out into the kitchen and emptied the contents of the shopping bag on to the table. Then he picked the objects up cautiously and studied them before dropping them back into the bag, one at a time.

A spotted, threadbare cap, a pair of underpants that had once been white, a wrinkled tie with red and green stripes, an artificial leather belt with a yellow brass buckle, a pipe with a chewed stem, a wool-lined pigskin glove, a pair of yellow crepe nylon socks, two dirty handkerchiefs and a crumpled light-blue poplin shirt.

Rönn held the shirt up and was just going to put it back in the bag when he noticed a scrap of paper sticking out of the breast pocket Putting the shirt down, he unfolded the paper. It was a bill for Kr. 78:25 from Restaurant Pilen. It was dated 7 October and according to the sums stamped by the cash register, one was for food, six were for alcohol and three for soda water.

Rönn turned the bill over. In the margin on the back someone had written with a ball-point pen:

10.8 bf

3000

Morph

500

Owe ga

100

Owe mb

50

Dr P

650

1700

Bal

1300

Rönn thought he recognized Göransson's handwriting, of which he had seen several examples at Blonde Malin's. He took the jottings to mean that Göransson, on 8 October - the same day he left Sune Björk - was to get 3,000 kronor from somewhere, perhaps from a person with the initials BF. Out of this money he would buy morphine for 500, pay 150 in debts and give a Dr P 650, for drugs or something else. That would leave him 1,700. When he was found dead in the bus over a month later he had had over 1,800 kronor in his pocket So he must have received more money after 8 October. Rönn wondered whether this, too, had come from the same source, bf or BF. It needn't be a person, it could just as well be an abbreviation for something else.

Brought forward? Göransson didn't seem the type that would have a bank account The most likely thing after all was that bf was a person. Rönn looked at his notebook, but none of those he had talked to or heard about in connection with Göransson had the initials BF.

Rönn picked up the bag and went out into the hall. He put the bill in his briefcase and placed bag and briefcase on the hall table. Then he went to bed.

He lay wondering where Göransson had got his money from.

₂₇

On the morning of Thursday, 21 December, it was no fun being a policeman. The evening before, in the midst of the Christmas hysteria in the city centre, an army of police in uniform and plainclothes had got caught up in a spectacular and utterly chaotic fight with a large number of workmen and intellectuals who were streaming out of a Vietnam meeting in the Trades Union Hall. Opinions as to what really happened were divided and would probably remain so, but there were very few laughing policemen on this dismal and chilly morning.

The only one to have derived any profit from the incident was Månsson. He had unsuspectingly said that he had nothing to do and had immediately been sent out to help keep order. At first he had hidden in the shadows around Adolf Fredrik's Church on Sveavägen in the hope that disturbances, if any, would not spread in that direction. But the police pressed in on all sides, unsystematically, and the demonstrators, who had to go somewhere, began also to force their way towards Sveavägen. Månsson retired swiftly northward and came at last to a restaurant. He went in to warm himself and do a little investigating. On his way out he took a toothpick from the cruet stand on one of the tables. It was wrapped in paper and tasted of menthol.

Presumably he was the only one in the entire police force who was happy on this miserable morning. He had already called up the stock-keeper of the restaurant and got the address of the supplier.

Einar Rönn was not happy. He stood in the wind on Ringvägen, gazing at a hole in the ground and a taurpaulin; some of the highway department's trestles had been placed around about them. The hole was quite uninhabited. Not so the service truck which was parked over fifty yards away. Rönn knew the four men who sat inside fiddling with their thermos flasks and merely said, 'Hello, there.'

'Hello. Shut the door. But if you were the one who clubbed my boy on the head on Barnhusgatan last night, then I'm not talking to you.'

'No,' Rönn said. 'It wasn't me. I was at home looking at TV. The wife has gone up north.'

'Sit down, then, like some coffee?' 'Thanks, don't mind if I do.'

After a while one of the men said, 'Want anything special?'

'Yes... A man named Schwerin - he was born in America. Was it noticeable when he talked?'

'Was it! He had an accent just like Anita Ekberg's. And when he was drunk he spoke English.'

'When he was drunk?'

‘Yes. And when he lost his temper. Or forgot himself.'

Rönn took No. 54 back to Kungsholmen. It was a red doubledecker Leyland Atlantean model with a cream-coloured top and a grey-lacquered roof. Despite Ek's assertion that the doubledeckers took only seated passengers, the bus was packed with people who stood clutching for support with one hand and grasping packages and shopping bags with the other.

He thought hard all the way. Then he sat down at his desk for a while. Went into the next room and said, 'He didn't recognize him,' and went out again.

'Now he's gone crazy too,' Gunvald Larsson growled.

'Wait a second,' Martin Beck said. 'I think he's got something there.'

He got up and went after Rönn. The room was empty. Hat and coat were gone.

Half an hour later Rönn once again opened the door of the truck on Ringvagen. The men who had been Schwerin's co-workers were sitting in exactly the same place as before. The hole in the road looked untouched by human hands.

'Christ, you scared me,' one of them said. 'I thought it was Olsson.'

'Olsson?'

‘Yes. Or "Oleson", as Alf used to say.'

Rönn did not produce his results until the next morning, two days before Christmas Eve.

Martin Beck stopped the tape recorder and said, 'So you think it should go like this: You say, "Who did the shooting?" And he answered in English, "Didn't recognize him.'"

Yes.'

'And then you say, "What did he look like?" And Schwerin answers, "Like Olsson."'

'Yes. And then he died.'

'Splendid, Einar,' Martin Beck said.

'Who the hell is Olsson?' Gunvald Larsson asked.

'A sort of inspector. He goes around between the different working sites and checks that the men aren't loafing.

'And what the hell does he look like?'

'He's next door in my office,' Rönn said modestly.

Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson went in and stared at Olsson. Gunvald Larsson for only ten seconds, then he said, 'Uh-huh.'

And went out Olsson stared after him, mouth agape.

Martin Beck stayed for thirty seconds while he said, 'I gather you've taken all the particulars, Einar?'

'Yes,' Rönn said.

"Thank you, Mr Olsson.'

Martin Beck went out. Olsson looked more puzzled than ever.

When Martin Beck returned from lunch, having managed to get down only a glass of milk, two pieces of cheese and a cup of coffee, Rönn had put a sheet of paper on his desk. It bore the brief title: Olsson.

Olsson is 46 years old and is an inspector for the highway department.

He is 6 feet tall and weighs 170 pounds stripped.

He has ash-blond wavy hair and grey eyes. He is lankily built His face is long and lean with distinct features, prominent nose, rather crooked, wide mouth, thin lips and good teeth.

Shoe size: 9.

Rather dark complexion, which he says is due to his work, which forces him to be so often out of doors.

Clothing, neat: grey suit, white shirt and tie and black shoes. Out-of-doors while at work, wears a waterproofed, knee-length raincoat wide and loose-fitting. Colour, grey. He has two such coats and always wears one of them in winter. On his head he has a black leather hat with narrow brim. He has heavy black shoes with deep-ribbed rubber soles on his feet. In rain or snow, however, he usually wears black rubber boots with reflex tape. Olsson has an alibi for the evening of 13 November. At the time in question, from 10 p.m. to midnight, he was at premises belonging to a bridge club of which he is a member. He took part in a competition and his presence is confirmed by the competition score card and the testimonies of the three other players.

Regarding Alfons (Alf) Schwerin, Olsson says that he was easy to get on with but lazy and given to strong drink.

'Do you think Rönn stripped him and weighed him?' Gunvald Larsson said.

Martin Beck did not answer.

'Nice logical conclusions,' Gunvald Larsson went on. 'He had the hat on his head and the shoes on his feet He wore only one overcoat at a time. And is it his nose or his mouth that's-rather crooked? What are you going to do with that?'

'Don't know. It's a sort of description.'

'Yes, of Olsson.'

'What about Assarsson?'

'I was talking to Jacobsson just now,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'An ugly customer.' 'Jacobsson?'

‘Yes, him too,' Gunvald Larsson replied. 'I suppose he's put out because they can't pull off their own drug seizures and we have to do their job for them.'

'Not "we". You.'

'Even Jacobsson admits, of course, that Assarsson was the biggest wholesale dealer in dope they've ever laid hands on. They must have made money by the sackful, those brothers'

'And that other shady type? The foreigner?'

'He was just a courier. Greek. The bastard had a diplomatic passport. He was an addict himself. Assarsson thinks he was the one who squealed. Says it's very dangerous to confide anything to pot-heads. He's not at all pleased. Probably because he didn't get rid of the courier long ago in some suitable way.'

He paused briefly.

'That Göransson on the bus was also an addict. I wonder ...'

Gunvald Larsson did not finish the sentence, but he had given Martin Beck something to think about.

Kollberg plodded away with his lists but preferred not to show them to anyone. He began more and more to understand how Stenström had felt while he was working on his old case. As Martin Beck had rightly pointed out, the Teresa investigation was unassailable. Some incorrigible stickler for form had even made the comment that 'technically the case was solved and the investigation was a model of perfectly carried out police work'.

The consequences of this should be the much talked-of perfect crime.

The work with the list of men who had associated with Teresa Camarão was by no means easy. It was amazing how many people managed to die, emigrate or change their names in sixteen years. Others had become incurably insane and awaited the end in some institution. Still others were in prison or in homes for chronic alcoholics. A number had simply disappeared, either at sea or in some other way. Many had long since moved to distant parts of the country, made a new life for themselves and their families and could in most cases be written off after a quick routine check-up. By this time Kollberg had twenty-nine names on his list. Individuals who were at large and still lived in Stockholm or at any rate in the vicinity of the city. Up to now he had collected only summary information about these people. Present age, profession, postal address and civil status. At the moment the list was as follows, numbered from one to twenty-nine and arranged in alphabetical order:

Sven Ahlgren, 41, shop assistant, Stockholm NO, married

Karl Andersson 63, ?, Stockholm SV (Högalid institution), unmarried

Ingvar Bengtsson, 43, journalist, Stockholm Va, divorced

Rune Bengtsson, 56, businessman, Stocksund, married

Jan Carlsson, 46, second-hand dealer, Upplands Vasby, unmarried

Rune Carlsson, 32, engineer, Nacka 5, married

Stig Ekberg, 83, former labourer, Stockholm SV (Rosenlund Home for the Aged), widower

Ove Eriksson, 47, car mechanic, Bandhagen, married

9. Valter Eriksson, 69, former docker, Stockholm SV (Hogalid institution), widower.

Stig Ferm, 31, house painter, Sollentuna, married

Bjorn Forsberg, 48, businessman, Stocksund, married

Bengt Fredriksson, 56, artist, Stockholm C, divorced

Bo Frostensson, 66, actor, Stockholm 0, divorced

Johan Gran, 52, former waiter, Solna, unmarried

JanSke Karlsson, 38, clerk, Enkdping, married

Kenneth Karlsson, 33, lorry driver, Skalby, unmarried

Lennart Lindgren, 81, former bank manager, Lidingö 1, married

Sven Lundstrom, 37, warehouseman, Stockholm K, divorced

Tage Nilsson, 61, lawyer, Stockholm SO, unmarried

Carl-Gustaf Nilsson, 51, former mechanic, Johanneshov, divorced

Heinz Ollendorf, 46, artist, Stockholm K, unmarried

Kurt Olsson, 59, civil servant, Saltsjobaden, married

Bernhard Peters, 39, commercial artist, Bromma, married (Negro)

Vilhelm Rosberg, 71, ?, Stockholm SV, widower

Bernt Turesson, 42, mechanic, Gustavsberg, divorced

Ragnar Viklund, 60, major, Vaxholm, married

Bengt Wahlberg, 38, buyer (?), Stockholm K, unmarried

Hans Wennstrom, 76, former assistant fishmonger, Solna, unmarried

Lennart Oberg, 35, civil engineer, Enskede, married

Kollberg sighed and looked at the list. Teresa Camarão had included all social groups in her activities. She had also operated within different generations. When she died the youngest of these men had been fifteen and the eldest sixty-seven. On this list alone there was everything from bank managers in Stocksund to alcoholic old burglars at the Hogalid institution.

'What are you going to do with that?' Martin Beck asked.

'Don't know,' Kollberg replied despondently but truthfully.

Then he went in and laid the papers on Melander's desk.

'You remember everything. When you have a moment to spare, will you see if you recall anything extraordinary about any of these men?'

Melander cast a blank look at the list and nodded.

On the twenty-third Månsson and Nordin flew home, missed by nobody. They were to return immediately after Christmas.

Outside, the weather was cold and horrible.

The consumer society creaked at the joints. On this particular day everything could be sold, at any price. Very often upon presentation of credit cards and dud cheques.

On his way home that evening, Martin Beck thought that Sweden now had, not only its first mass murder, but also its first unsolved police murder.

The investigation had stuck fast. And technically - unlike the Teresa investigation - it looked like a pile of rubbish.

₂₈

Christmas Eve arrived.

Martin Beck got a Christmas present which, despite all speculations to the contrary, did not make him laugh.

Lennart Kollberg got a Christmas present which made his wife cry...

Both had resolved not to give a thought either to Åke Stenström or Teresa Camarão, and both failed in their intention.

Martin Beck woke up early but stayed in bed reading the book about the Graf Spee until the rest of the family began to show signs of life. Then he got up, put away the suit he had worn the day before and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater. His wife, who thought people ought to be dressed up on Christmas Eve, frowned as she eyed his clothes but for once said nothing.

While she paid her traditional visit to her parents' grave, Martin Beck decorated the tree together with Rolf and Ingrid. The children were noisy and excited, and he did his best not to dampen their spirits. His wife returned from her ritual call on the dead and he gamely joined in a custom that he didn't care for - dipping bread into the pot in which the ham had been cooked.

Before long the dull pain in his stomach made itself felt Martin Beck was so used to these attacks that he paid no attention to them any more, but he had an idea that they had been occurring more frequently and more violently of late. Nowadays he never told Inga that he was in pain. At one time he had done so, and she had nearly been the death of him with her herbal potions and incessant fussing. For her, illness was an event on a par with life itself.

The Christmas dinner was colossal, considering it was meant for only four, one of whom very seldom managed to get down a normal portion of cooked food, one was dieting and one was too exhausted by the work of preparing it to eat. That left Rolf, who, on the other hand, ate all the more. He was twelve years old and Martin Beck never ceased to be amazed that his son's spindly body was able to dispose of as much food in a day as he himself forced himself to eat in a week.

They all lent a hand with the washing-up, this too something that happened only on Christmas Eve.

Then Martin Beck lit the candles on the tree, thinking of the Assarsson brothers who imported plastic Christmas trees as a cover for their drugs traffic. Then came the hot punch and the gingerbread biscuits and Ingrid who said, 'Now I think it's time to lead in the horse.'

As usual they had all promised to give only one present to each and as usual they had all bought a lot more.

Martin Beck had not bought a horse for Ingrid, but as a substitute he gave her some riding breeches and paid for her riding lessons for the next six months.

His own presents included a model construction kit of the clipper ship Cutty Sark and a scarf two yards long, knitted by Ingrid.

She also gave him a flat package, watching him expectantly as he unwrapped the paper. Inside was a 45 r.p.m. EP record. On the sleeve was a photograph representing a fat man in the familiar uniform and helmet of the London bobby. He had a large, curling moustache and knitted mittens on his hands, which he held spread out over his stomach. He was standing in front of an old-fashioned microphone and to judge from his expression he was roaring with laughter. His name was apparently Charles Penrose and the record was called The Adventures of the Laughing Policeman.

Ingrid brought the record player and put it on the floor beside Martin Beck's chair.

'Just wait till you hear it,' she said. 'It'll kill you.'

She took the record out of the sleeve and looked at the label.

'The first song is called "The Laughing Policeman". Pretty appropriate, eh?'

Martin Beck knew very little about music, but he heard at once that the recording must have been made in the twenties or even earlier. Each verse was followed by long bursts of laughter, which were evidently infectious, as Inga and Rolf and Ingrid howled with mirth.

Martin Beck was left utterly cold. He couldn't even manage a smile. So as not to disappoint the others too much he got up and turned his back, pretending to adjust the candles on the tree.

When the record was finished he went back to his chair. Ingrid wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at him.

'Why, Daddy, you didn't laugh,' she said reproachfully.

'I thought it was awfully amusing,' he said as convincingly as he could.

'Listen to this, then,' Ingrid said, turning the record over. '"Jolly Coppers on Parade".'

Ingrid had evidently played the record many times and she joined in the song as though she had done nothing else but sing duets with the laughing policeman:

There's a tramp, tramp, tramp

At the end of the street.

It's the jolly coppers walking on parade.

And their uniforms are blue

And the brass is shining too.

A finer lot of men were never made...

The candles burned with a steady flame, the fir tree gave out its scent in the warm room, the children sang and Inga curled up in her new dressing gown and nibbled the head off a marzipan pig. Martin Beck sat leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees and his chin in his hands, staring at the laughing policeman on the record sleeve.

He thought of Stenström.

And the telephone rang.

Somewhere inside him Kollberg felt far from content and least of all off duty. But as it was hard to say exactly what he was neglecting, there was no reason to spoil his Christmas Eve with unnecessary brooding.

He therefore mixed the punch with care, tasting it several times before he was satisfied, sat down at the table and regarded the deceptively idyllic scene surrounding him. Bodil lying on her stomach beside the Christmas tree, making gurgling noises. Åsa Torell sitting with crossed legs on the floor, playfully poking at the baby. Gun sauntering about the flat with a soft, indolent nonchalance, barefoot and dressed in some mysterious garment which was a cross between pyjamas and a tracksuit.

He helped himself to a serving of fish, prepared especially for Christmas Eve. Sighed happily at the thought of the large, well-deserved meal he was about to gobble up. Tucked the napkin into his shirt and draped it over his chest Poured out a big drink of akvavit Raised the glass. Looked dreamily at the clear, ice-cold liquid and the mist forming on the glass. And at that moment the phone rang.

He hesitated a moment then drained the glass in one gulp, went into the bedroom and lifted the receiver.

'Good evening, my name is Fröjd, from Långholmen prison.' "Well, that's cheering.'

Said Kollberg in the secure knowledge that he was not on the emergency list and that not even a new mass murder could drive him out into the snow. Capable men were detailed for such things, for example Gunvald Larsson, who was in fact on call, and Martin Beck, who had to take the consequences of his higher rank.

'I work at the mental clinic here,' the man said. 'And we have a patient who insists on talking to you. His name's Birgersson. Says he has promised and that it's urgent and -'

Kollberg frowned.

'Can he come to the phone?'

'Sorry, no. It's against the rules. He's undergoing ...'

Kollberg's face took on a sorrowful expression. The A-l team was obviously not on duty on Christmas Eve.

'OK, I'll come,' he said and put down the phone.

His wife had heard these last words and stared at him wide-eyed.

'Have to go to Langholmen,' he said wearily. 'How the hell do you get a taxi at this hour on Christmas Eve?'

'I can drive you,' Åsa said. 'I haven't drunk anything.'

They did not talk on the way. The guard at the entrance peered suspiciously at Åsa Torell.

'She's my secretary,' Kollberg said.

'Your what? Just a moment, I must take another look at your identification card.'

Birgersson had not changed. If possible he seemed even more gende and polite than he had been two weeks earlier.

'What do you want to tell me?' Kollberg said gruffly.

Birgersson smiled.

'It seems silly,' he said. 'But I just remembered something this evening. You were asking about the car, my Morris. And -' ‘Yes? And?'

'Once when Inspector Stenström and I had a break and sat having something to eat, I told him a story. I remembered we had boiled pickled pork and mashed turnips. It's my favourite dish, and today when we had Christmas dishes ...'

Kollberg regarded the man with massive disapproval.

'A story?’ he asked.

'A story about myself, really. From the time we lived on Roslagsgatan, my -

He broke off and looked doubtfully at Åsa Torell. The prison guard over by the door yawned.

'Well, go on,' Kollberg growled.

'My wife and I, that is. We had only one room and when I was at home I always used to feel nervous and shut-in and restless. I also slept badly.'

'Un-huh,'Kollberg grunted.

He felt hot and slightly dizzy. He was very thirsty and above all hungry. Moreover, his surroundings depressed him and he longed for home. Birgersson went on talking, quietly but long-windedly.

'... so I used to go out of an evening, just so as to get away from home. This was nearly twenty years ago. I walked and walked the streets for hours, sometimes all night. Never spoke to anyone, just wandered about so as to be left in peace. After a while I'd calm down, it usually took an hour or so. But I had to occupy my thoughts with something, you see, in order to keep from worrying about everything else. Being at home and my wife and all that So I used to find things to do. To divert myself, you might say, take my mind off my troubles and keep myself from brooding.'

Kollberg looked at his watch.

'Yes, yes, I see,' he said impatiently. ‘What did you do?'

'I used to look at cars.'

'Cars?'

'Yes. I used to walk along the street and through car parks, looking at the cars that stood there. Actually I wasn't at all interested in cars, but in that way I got to know all the makes and models there were. After a time I became quite an expert. It was satisfying, somehow. I could do something. I could recognize all cars forty or fifty yards away, from whichever side I saw them. If I could have taken part in one of those quiz programmes on TV, you know when they ask you questions on one special subject, I'd have won first prize. From in front or from behind or from the side, it made no difference.'

'What about if you saw them from above?' Åsa Torell asked.

Kollberg looked at her in astonishment. Birgersson's face darkened slightly.

'Well, I never got much practice in that I mightn't have been so good at that'

He pondered for a while. Kollberg shrugged resignedly.

'But you can get a lot of pleasure out of a simple occupation like that,' Birgersson went on. 'And excitement. Sometimes I saw very rare cars like a Lagonda or Zim or EMW. That cheered me up.'

'And you told Inspector Stenström about this?' 'Yes, I'd never told anyone else.' 'And what did he say?' 'He said he thought it was interesting.' 'I see. And this is what you brought me here to say? At nine thirty in the evening? On Christmas Eve?' Birgersson looked hurt.

‘Yes,' he replied. 'You did say I was to tell you anything I remembered ...'

‘Yes, sure,' Kollberg said wearily. 'Thank you.' He stood up.

'But I haven't told you the most important part yet,' the man murmured. 'It was something that interested Inspector Stenström very much. It occurred to me since we'd been talking about a Morris.'

Kollberg sat down again.

'Yes? What?'

'Well, it had its problems, this hobby, if I may call it that. It was very hard to distinguish certain models when it was dark or if they were a long way off. For instance, Moskvitch and Opel Kadett or DKW and IFA.'

He paused, and then said emphatically, 'Very, very hard. Just small details.'

'What has this to do with Stenström and your Morris 8?'

'No, not my Morris,' Birgersson replied. 'What interested the Inspector so much was when I told him that the hardest of all was to see the difference between a Morris Minor and a Renault CV-4 from in front. Not from the side or the back, that was easy. But from straight in front or obliquely in front - that was very difficult indeed. Though I learned in time and seldom made a mistake. It did happen, of course.'

‘Wait a moment,' Kollberg said. 'Did you say Morris Minor and Renault CV-4?'

'Yes. And I remember that Inspector Stenström gave quite a start when I told him. All the time I was talking he had just sat there nodding, and I didn't think he was listening. But when I said that he was terribly interested. Asked me about it several times.'

'From in front, you said?'

'Yes. He asked that too, several times. From in front or obliquely in front. Very difficult'

When they were sitting in the car again, Åsa Torell asked, 'What's this all about?'

'I don't know yet. But it might mean quite a lot'

'About the man who killed Åke?'

'Don't know. At any rate it explains why he wrote down the name of that car in his book.'

'I've also remembered something,' she said. 'Something Åke said a couple of weeks before he was killed. He said that as soon as he could take two days off he'd go down to Smaland and investigate something. To Eksjö, I think. Does that tell you anything?'

'Not a thing,' Kollberg replied.

The city lay deserted. The only signs of life were two ambur lances, a police car, and a few Santa Clauses staggering about, delayed in the exercise of their profession and handicapped by far too many glasses in far too many hospitable homes. After a while Kollberg said, 'Gun told me you're leaving us in the new year.'

'Yes. I've exchanged the flat for a smaller one at Kungsholms Strand. I'm selling the furniture, lock, stock and barrel, and buying new stuff. I'm going to get a new job, too.'

'Where?'

'I haven't quite decided. But I've been thinking it over.' She was silent for a few seconds. Then she said, 'What about the police force? Are there any vacancies?' 'I'll say there are,' Kollberg replied absendy. Then he started and said, 'What! Are you serious?' 'Yes,' she replied. 'I am serious.'

Åsa Torell concentrated on her driving. She frowned and peered out into the whirling snow.

When they got back to Palandergatan, Bodil had fallen asleep, and Gun was curled up in a armchair reading. There were tears in her eyes.

'What's wrong?' he asked.

'That damn dinner,' she said. 'It's ruined.'

'Not at all. With your appearance and my appetite you could put a dead cat on the table and make me overjoyed.'

'And that hopeless Martin called up. Half an hour ago.'

'OK,' Kollberg said jovially. 'I'll give him a bell while you're getting the grub.'

He took off his jacket and tie and went to the phone.

'Hello. Beck.'

'Who's doing all that howling?' Kollberg asked suspiciously.

'The laughing policeman.'

'What?'

'A phonograph record.'

'Oh yes, now I recognize it. An old music hall tune. Charles Penrose, isn't it? Goes back to before the First World War.' A roar of laughter was heard in the background.

'It makes no difference,' Martin Beck said joylessly. 'I called you because Melander called me.' 'What did he want?'

'He said that at last he had remembered where he had seen the name Nils Erik Göransson.' ‘Where?'

'In the investigation concerning Teresa Camarão.'

Kollberg unlaced his shoes. Thought for a moment. Then said, 'Then you can tell him from me that he's wrong for once. I've just read the whole pile, every damn word. And I'm not so dumb that I wouldn't have noticed a thing like that'

'Have you the papers at home?'

'No. They're at Västberga. But I'm sure. Dead sure.'

'OK. I believe you. What did you do at Långholmen?'

'Got some information. Too vague and complicated for me to explain now, but if it's right -'

'Yes?'

'Then you can use every single sheet of the Teresa investigation as toilet paper. Merry Christmas.' He put down the phone.

'Are you going out again?' his wife asked suspiciously. 'Yes. But not until Wednesday. Where's the akvavit?'

₂₉

It took a lot to depress Melander, but on the morning of the twenty-seventh he looked so miserable and puzzled that even Gunvald Larsson brought himself to ask, 'What's with you?'

'It's just that I don't usually make a mistake.'

'There's always a first time,' Rönn said consolingly.

'Yes. But I don't understand, all the same.'

Martin Beck had knocked on the door and before anyone had time to react he was in the room, standing there tall and grave, coughing slightly.

'What is it you don't understand?'

'About Göransson. That I could make a mistake.'

'I've just been out at Västberga,' said Martin Beck. 'And I know something that might cheer you up.'

'What is that?'

'There's a page missing from the Teresa investigation. Page 1244, to be exact.'

At three o'clock in the afternoon Kollberg was standing outside a car showroom in Södertälje. He had already got through a lot this day. For one thing, he had made sure that the three witnesses who had observed a car at Stadshagen sports ground sixteen and a half

years earlier must have seen the vehicle from in front or possibly from obliquely in front For another, he had supervised some photographic work, and rolled up in his inside pocket he had a dark-toned, slightly retouched advertising picture of a Morris Minor 1950 model Of the three witnesses two were dead, the police sergeant and the mechanic. But the real expert, the workshop foreman, was still hale and hearty. And he worked here in Södertälje. He was not a foreman any more but something grander and sat in an office with glass walls, talking on the phone. When the call was finished Kollberg went in to him, without knocking and without in any way saying who he was. He merely laid the photograph on the desk in front of the man and said, 'What make of car is this?'

'A Renault CV-4. An old job.'

'Are you sure?'

'Bet your life, I'm sure. I'm never wrong.' 'Positive?'

The man glanced again at the picture.

'Yes,' he said. 'It's a CV-4. Old model.'

'Thanks,' Kollberg said, reaching for the photograph.

The man gave him a puzzled look and said, 'Wait a sec. Are you trying to trick me?'

He examined the picture thoroughly. After a good fifteen seconds he said slowly, 'Na. This isn't a Renault. It's a Morris. A Morris Minor model '50 or '51. And there's something wrong with the picture.'

'Yes,' Kollberg said. 'It has been touched up and made to look as if it were taken in a bad light and in the rain, for instance on a summer evening.'

The man stared at him.

'Look here, who are you anyway?'

'Police,' Kollberg replied.

'I might have known it,' the man said. 'There was a policeman here early last autumn who ..

* * *

Shortly before five thirty the same afternoon Martin Beck had assembled his immediate colleagues for a briefing at investigation headquarters. Nordin and Månsson had returned from Christmas leave, and the force was complete. The only one missing was Hammar, who had gone away for the holidays. He knew how little had happened during forty-four intensive days of investigation and thought it unlikely that there would be any new development between Christmas and New Year, a time when both hunters and hunted mostly sit at home belching and wondering how to make ends meet until January.

'Oh, so a page was missing’ Melander said with satisfaction. 'Who can have taken it?'

Martin Beck and Kollberg exchanged a quick glance.

'Does anyone consider himself a specialist in house-searches?' Martin Beck asked.

‘I’m good at searching’ Månsson said listlessly from his seat over by the window. 'If there's anything to be found, I'll find it'

'Good’ Martin Beck said, 'I want you to comb through Åke Stenström's flat on Tjärhovsgatan.'

'What shall I look for?'

'A page out of a police report/ Kollberg said. 'It should be numbered 1244 and it's possible that the name Nils Erik Göransson occurs in the text'

'Tomorrow’ Månsson said. 'It's always easier in daylight'

'OK, that's fine’ Martin Beck said.

'I’ll give you the keys in the morning’ Kollberg informed him.

He already had them in his pocket but wanted to remove one or two traces of Stenström's photography before Månsson set to work.

At two o'clock the next afternoon the phone on Martin Beck's desk rang.

'Greetings. It's Per.'

'Per who?'

'Månsson.'

'Oh, it's you. Well?'

'I'm in Stenström's flat. The sheet of paper isn't here.'

'Are you sure?'

'Sure?'

Månsson sounded deeply offended.

'Of course I'm bloody sure. But are you sure he's the one who took that page?'

'We think so, anyway.'

'Oh, well, I'd better go on looking somewhere else.'

Martin Beck massaged his scalp.

'What do you mean by somewhere else?' he asked.

But Månsson had already put the phone down.

'There must be a copy in the central files, for Christ's sake,' Gunvald Larsson growled.

'Yes,' Martin Beck said, pressing a button on the telephone and dialling an inter-office number.

In the room next door, Kollberg and Melander were discussing the situation.

'I've been looking through your list.'

'Did you find anything?'

'Yes, a lot. But I don't know whether it's of any use.' 'I'll soon tell you.'

'Several of those guys are recidivists. For example, Karl Andersson, Vilhelm Rosberg and Bengt Wahlberg. Thieves all three. Sentenced dozens of times. They're too old to work now.'

'Go on.'

'Johan Gran was a fence then and no doubt still is. That waiter business is sheer bluff. He did time only a year ago. And this Valter Eriksson - do you know how he became a widower?'

'No.'

'He killed his wife with a kitchen chair during a drunken brawl. Was convicted of manslaughter and got five years.' 'Well, I'll be damned.'

"There are other troublemakers besides him in this collection. Both Ove Eriksson and Bengt Fredriksson have been sentenced for assault and battery. Frederiksson no less than six times. A couple of the charges should have been for attempted manslaughter, if you ask me. And the second-hand dealer, Jan Carlson, is a shady figure. He has never been caught, but it was a close shave a couple of times. I remember Bjorn Forsberg, too. He was up to quite a few crooked dealings at one time and was fairly well known in the underworld in the last half of the forties. Then he turned over a new leaf and made a nice career for himself. Married a wealthy woman and became a respected businessman. He has only one old sentence for swindling from 1947. Hans Wennstrom also has a first-rate list of crimes, everything from shoplifting to safecracking. That's quite a CV?

'Former assistant fishmonger,' Kollberg said, looking at the list.

'I think he had a stall in the marketplace at Sundbyberg twenty-five years ago. Well, he's another one of the real old-timers. Ingvar Bengtsson calls himself a journalist nowadays. He was one of the pioneers in cheque forging. He was a pimp too, come to that. Bo Frostensson is a third-rate actor and a notorious junkie.'

'Didn't this girl ever take it into her head to sleep with any decent guys?' Kollberg said plaintively.

'Oh yes, sure. You have several on this list. For example, Rune Bengtsson, Lennart Lindgren, Kurt Olsson and Ragnar Viklund. Upper class, the whole bunch. Not a shadow on them.'

Kollberg had a good grasp of the investigation.

'No,' he said. 'They were married too, all four of them. Had a hell of a time, I expect, explaining this to their wives.'

'On that point the police were pretty discreet. When it comes to these youngsters, who were about twenty or even younger, there was nothing much wrong with them. Out of six of that age on your list there's only one, actually, that hasn't made the grade. Kenneth Karlsson, he's been picked up once or twice. Borstal and so on. Though that's some time ago and nothing very serious. Do you want me to start delving seriously in these people's past?'

'Yes, please. You can weed out the old 'uns, for instance those who are over sixty now. Likewise the youngest, from thirty-eight downward.'

'That makes eight plus seven. Fifteen. That leaves fourteen. The field is shrinking.' 'What field?'

'Hm,' said Melander. 'All these men, of course, have an alibi for the Teresa murder.'

'Bet your life they have,' Kollberg said. 'At least for the time when the body was placed at Stadshagen.'

The search for copies of the report of the Teresa investigation had been started on 28 December, but New Year's Eve and 1968 arrived before it showed any result

Not until the morning of 5 January was there a dusty pile of papers lying on Martin Beck's desk. He didn't need to be a detective to see that it had come from the innermost recesses of the files and that several years had passed since it had last been opened by human hand.

Martin Beck flicked through quickly until he came to page 1244. The text was brief. Kollberg leaned over his shoulder and they read:

Interrogation of salesmen Nils Erik Göransson, 7 August 1951.

Regarding himself, Göransson states that he was born in the Finnish parish in Stockholm on 4 Oct 1929, son of electrician Algot Erik Göransson and Benita Göransson, nee Rantanen. He is at present employed as salesman by the firm of Allimport, Hollandaregatan 10, Stockholm.

Göransson owns to having known Teresa Camarão, who periodically moved in the same circles as he did, though not during the months immediately prior to her death. Göransson owns further than on two occasions he had intimate sexual relations (intercourse) with Teresa Camarão. On the first occasion in a flat in Svartmansgatan here in town, when several other persons were also present. Of these he says he remembers only one Karl Åke Birger Svensson-Rask. On the second occasion the meeting took place in a cellar at Holländaregatan here in town. On this occasion too Svensson-Rask was present and he also had intimate sex relations (intercourse) with Mrs Camarão. Göransson says he does not remember the exact dates but thinks the events must have taken place at an interval of several days at the end of November and/or beginning of December the previous year, i.e. 1950. Göransson says he knows nothing of Mrs Camarão's acquaintances otherwise.

From June 2-13 Göransson was in Eksjö, to which he drove in an automobile with registration number A 6310 for the purpose of the sale of clothes for the firm where he is employed. Göransson is the owner of automobile A 6310, a 1949 model Morris Minor. This statement read out and approved.

(Signed)

It can be added that the above-mentioned Karl Åke Birger Svensson-Rask is identical with the man who first informed the police that Göransson had had intimate sexual relations (intercourse) with Mrs Camarão. Göransson's account of his visit to Eksjö is confirmed by the staff of the City Hotel at that place. Questioned in detail about Göransson's movements on the evening of 10 June, Sverker Johnsson, waiter at the said hotel, states that Göransson sat the whole evening in the hotel dining room, until this was closed at 11.30 p.m. Göransson was then the worse for drink. Sverker Johnsson's statements should be credited, the more so as they are confirmed by items on Göransson's hotel bill.

'Well, that’s that; Kollberg said. 'So far.' ‘What are you going to do now?' ‘What Stenström didn't have time for. Go down to Eksjö.' 'The pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fit together,' Martin Beck said.

‘Yes,' Kollberg agreed. 'By the way, where's Månsson?'

'At Hallstahammar, I think, looking for that piece of paper. At Stenström's mother's place.'

'He's not one to give up easily,' Kollberg said. 'Pity. I was going to borrow his car. Mine has something wrong with the ignition.'

Kollberg arrived in Eksjö on the morning of 8 January. He had driven down during the night, 208 miles in a snowstorm and on icy roads, but did not feel particularly tired even so. The City Hotel was in the main square and was a handsome, old-fashioned building which blended perfectly into the idyllic setting of this little Swedish country town. The waiter called Sverker Johnsson had died ten years ago, but a copy of Nils Erik Göransson's hotel bill existed. It took several hours to fish it out of a dusty cardboard box in the loft.

The bill seemed to confirm that Göransson had stayed at the hotel for eleven days. He had had all his meals and done all his drinking in the hotel dining room, and signed the bills, after which the amounts had been transferred to his hotel bill. There were also a number of other expenses, including telephone calls, but the numbers Göransson had called were not recorded. Another item, however, caught Kollberg's eye.

On 6 June 1951, the hotel had paid out 52 kronor and 25 ore to a garage on the guest's behalf. The amount was for 'towing and repairs'.

'Does this garage still exist?' Kollberg asked the hotel owner. 'Oh, indeed it does, and the same owner the last twenty-five years. Just follow the road out toward Langanas and ...'

Actually the man had had the garage for twenty-seven years.

He stared incredulously at Kollberg and said, 'Sixteen and a half years ago? How the hell can I remember that?' 'Don't you keep books?'

'You bet I do,' the man said indignantly. 'This is a properly run place.'

It took him an hour and a half to find the old ledger. He wouldn't let it out of his hands but turned the pages slowly and carefully until he came to the day in question.

'The sixth of June,' he murmured. 'Here it is. Picked up from hotel, that's right. The throttle cable had gone haywire. It cost 52:25, the whole business. With towing and all.'

Kollberg waited.

'Towing,' muttered the man. 'What an idiot Why didn't he hook up the throttle cable with something and drive here himself?'

'Have you any particulars about the car?' Kollberg asked.

'Yes. Registration number A ... something. I can't read it. Someone's put an oily thumb over the figures. Evidently a Stockholmer, anyway.'

'You don't know what sort of car it was?'

'Sure I do. A Ford Vedette.'

'Not a Morris Minor?'

'If it says Ford Vedette here, then a Ford Vedette it damn well was,' the garage owner said testily. 'Morris Minor? There's a slight difference, isn't there.'

Kollberg took the ledger with him, after a good half hour's threats and persuasions. When finally he was on his way, the workshop owner said, 'Well, anyway, that explains why he wasted money on towing.'

'Really. Why?'

'He was a Stockholmer, wasn't he?'

When Kollberg got back to the City Hotel in Eksjö it was already evening. He was hungry, cold and tired, and instead of starting the long drive north he took a room at the hotel Had a bath and

ordered dinner. While he was waiting for the food to be prepared he made two phone calls. First to Melander.

'Will you please find out which of the guys on the list had a car in June 1951? And what make?'

'Sure. Tomorrow morning.'

'And the colour of Göransson's Morris?'

'Yes.'

Then Martin Beck.

'Göransson didn't bring his Morris here. He was driving another car.'

'So Stenström was right'

'Can you put somone on to finding out who owned that firm in Holländaregatan where Göransson was employed, and what it did?'

'Sure.'

'I should be back in town about midday tomorrow.'

He went down into the dining room and had dinner. As he sat there it suddenly dawned on him that he had in fact stayed at this hotel exactly sixteen years ago. He had been working on a taxi murder. They had cleared it up in three or four days. If he had known then what he knew now he could probably have solved the Teresa case in ten minutes.

Rönn was thinking about Olsson and about the restaurant bill he had found among the rubbish in Göransson's paper shopping bag. On Tuesday morning he got an idea and as usual when something was weighing on his mind he went to Gunvald Larsson. Despite the far from cordial attitude they adopted towards each other at work, Rönn and Gunvald Larsson were friends. Very few outsiders knew this, and they would have been even more surprised had they known that the two had in fact spent both Christmas and New Year's Eve together.

'I've been thinking about the bit of paper with the initials BF,' Rönn said. 'On that list that Melander and Kollberg are messing about with are three persons with those initials. Bo Frostensson, Bengt Fredriksson and Björn Forsberg.' 'Well?'

'We could take a cautious look at them and see if any of them resembles Olsson.'

'Can you track them down?' 'I expect Melander can.'

Melander could. It took him only twenty minutes to find out that Forsberg was at home and would be at his city-centre office after lunch. At twelve o'clock he was to have lunch with a client at the Ambassador. Frostensson was in a film studio out at Solna, playing a small part in a film by Arne Mattsson.

'And Fredriksson is presumably drinking beer at the Café Ten Spot. He's usually to be found there at this hour of day.'

'I'll come with you,' Martin Beck said surprisingly. 'We'll take Månsson's car. I've given him one of ours instead.'

Sure enough Bengt Fredriksson, artist and brawler, was hard at it drinking beer in the beer hall in the Old Town. He was very fat, had a bushy, unkempt red beard and lank grey hair. He was already drunk.

Out at Solna the production manager piloted them through long, winding corridors to a corner of the big film studio.

'Frostensson is to play a scene in five minutes,' he said. 'It's the only line he has in the film.'

They stood at a safe distance but in the mercilessly strong spotlights they clearly saw the set behind a jumble of cables and shifted scenery. It was evidently meant to be the interior of a little grocer's shop.

'Stand by!' the director shouted. 'Silence! Camera! Action!' A man in a white cap and coat came into the stream of light and said, 'Good morning, madam. May I help you?' 'Cut!'

There was a retake, and another. Frostensson had to say the line five times. He was a lean, bald man with a stammer and a nervous twitch around his mouth and the corners of his eyes.

Half an hour later Gunvald Larsson braked the car twenty-five yards from the gates of Björn Forsberg's house at Stocksund. Martin Beck and Rönn crouched in the back. Through the open garage door they could see a black Mercedes of the largest type.

'He should be leaving now’ Gunvald Larsson said. 'If he doesn't want to be late for his lunch appointment'

They had to wait fifteen minutes before the front door opened and a man appeared on the steps together with a blonde woman, a dog and a litde girl of about seven. He kissed the woman on the cheek, lifted the child up and kissed her. Then he strode down to the garage, got into the car and drove off. The little girl blew him a kiss, laughed and shouted something.

Björn Forsberg was tall and slim. His face, with regular features and candid expression, was strikingly handsome, as though drawn from the illustration for a short story in a woman's magazine. He was suntanned and his bearing was relaxed and sporty. He was bareheaded and was wearing a loose-fitting, grey overcoat. His hair was wavy and brushed back. He looked younger than his forty-eight years.

'Like Olsson,' Rönn said. 'Especially his build and clothes. The overcoat, that is.'

'Hm,' Gunvald Larsson murmured. 'The difference being that Olsson paid 300 kronor for his coat at a sale three years ago. This guy has probably shelled out 5,000 for his. But someone like Schwerin wouldn't notice that'

'Nor would I, to tell the truth,' Rönn said.

'But I notice it,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'Luckily there are people who have an eye for quality. Otherwise they might as well build whorehouses all along Savile Row.'

'Where?' Rönn asked in astonishment

Kollberg's schedule broke down completely. Not only did he oversleep, but the weather was worse than ever. By one thirty he had still only got as far as a motel just north of Linköping. He had a cup of coffee and called Stockholm. Well?

'Only nine of them had a car in the summer of '51,' Melander replied, 'Ingvar Bengtsson a new Volkswagen, Rune Bengtsson a '49 Packard, Kent Carlsson a '38 DKW, Ove Eriksson an old Opel Kapitan, prewar model, Björn Forsberg a '49 Ford Vedette and-'

'Stop. Did anyone else have one?' 'A Vedette? No.' 'Then that'll do.'

'The original paintwork on Göransson's Morris was pale green. The car might of course have been repainted while he had it.'

'Fine. Can you put me through to Martin?'

'One more detail. Göransson sent his car to the scrapyard in the summer of '51. It was removed from the car registry on 15 August, only one week after Göransson had been questioned by the police.'

Kollberg put another krona piece into the phone and thought impatiently of the 127 miles still ahead of him. In this weather the drive would take several hours. He regretted not having sent the ledger up by train the evening before.

'Hello, this is Superintendent Beck.'

'Hi. What did that firm do?'

'Sold stolen goods, I should think. But it could never be proved. They had a couple of travelling salesmen who went around the provinces peddling clothes and the like.'

'And who owned it?'

'Björn Forsberg.'

Kollberg thought for a moment, and then said, 'Tell Melander to concentrate entirely on Forsberg. And ask Hjelm if either he himself or someone else will stay at the lab until I get up to town. I've something that must be analysed.'

* * *

At five o'clock Kollberg had still not returned. Melander tapped at Martin Beck's door and went in, pipe in one hand and some papers in the other. He began speaking at once.

'Björn Forsberg was married on 17 June 1951, to a woman called Elsa Beatrice Håkansson. She was the only child of a businessman called Magnus Håkansson. He dealt in building materials and was the sole owner of his firm. He was considered very wealthy. Forsberg immediately wound up all his former commitments like the firm on Holländaregatan. He worked hard, studied economics and developed into an energetic businessman. When Håkansson died nine years ago his daughter inherited both his fortune and his firm, but Forsberg had already become its managing director in the middle of the fifties. He bought the house at Stocksund in '59. It probably cost about half a million then.'

Martin Beck blew his nose.

'How long had he known the girl before he married her?'

'They seem to have met up at Are in March '51,' Melander replied. 'Forsberg was a winter sports enthusiast. Still is, for that matter. His wife too. It seems to have been so-called love at first sight They kept on meeting right up to the wedding, and he was a frequent guest in her parents' home. He was then thirty-two and Elsa Håkansson twenty-five.'

Melander changed papers.

'The marriage seems to have been a happy one. They have three children, two boys who are thirteen and twelve and a girl of seven. He sold his Ford Vedette soon after the wedding and bought a Lincoln. He's had dozens of cars since then.'

Melander was silent and lit his pipe.

'Is this what you have found out?'

'One more thing. Important, I should think. Björn Forsberg was a volunteer in the Finnish Winter War in 1940. He was twenty-one and went off to the front straight after he'd done his military service here at home. His father was a warrant officer in the Wende artillery regiment in Kristianstad. He came from a respectable, middle-class family and was considered promising until things started to go wrong for him soon after the war.'

'OK, it seems to be him.'

'Looks like it,' Melander said.

'Which men are still here?'

'Gunvald, Rönn, Nordin and Ek. Shall we look at his alibis?' 'Exacdy,' Martin Beck said.

Kollberg didn't reach Stockholm until seven o'clock. He drove first to the laboratory and handed in the garage ledger.

‘We have regular working hours,' Hjelm said sourly. 'Finishing at five.'

'Then it would be awfully good of you to -' 'OK, OK, I'll call you before long. Is it only the car number you want?'

'Yes. I'll be at Kungsholmsgatan.'

Kollberg and Martin Beck hardly had time to begin talking when the call came through. 'A 6708,' Hjelm said laconically. 'Excellent'

'Easy. You should almost have been able to see it yourself.' Kollberg put down the phone. Martin Beck gave him an inquiring look.

‘Yes. It was Forsberg's car that Göransson used at Eksjo. No doubt of that What are Forsberg's alibis like?'

'Weak. In June '51, he had a bachelor flat on Holländaregatan, in the same building as that mysterious firm. At the interrogation he said that he had been in Norrtälje on the evening of the tenth. Evidently he had been, too. Met someone there at seven o'clock. Then, still according to his own statement, he took the last train back to Stockholm, arriving at eleven thirty in the evening. He also said that he had lent his car to one of his salesmen, who confirmed this.'

'But he was damn careful not to say that he had exchanged cars with Göransson.'

'Yes,' Martin Beck said. 'So he had Göransson's Morris, and this puts a different complexion on things. He made his way comfortably back to Stockholm by car in an hour and a half. The cars were parked in the rear courtyard at Holländaregatan, and no one could see in from the street There was, however, a cold-storage room in the yard. It was used for fur coats, which officially had been left for storage over the summer but which in all probability were stolen. Why do you think they exchanged cars?'

'I expect the explanation is very simple,' Kollberg said. 'Göransson was a salesman and had a lot of clothes and junk with him. He could pack three times as much into Forsberg's Vedette as into his own Morris.'

He sat in silence for half a minute, then said, 'I don't suppose Göransson was aware of it until afterwards. When he got back he realized what had happened and that the car might be dangerous. That's why he had it scrapped immediately after the interrogation.'

‘What did Forsberg say about his relations with Teresa?' Martin Beck asked.

'That he met her at a dance hall in the autumn of 1950 and slept with her several times, how often he didn't remember. Then he met his future wife in the winter and lost interest in nymphomaniacs.'

'Did he say that?'

'More or less in those words. Why do you think he killed her? To get rid of the victim, as Stenström wrote in the margin of Wendel's book?'

'Presumably. They all said they couldn't shake her off. And of course it wasn't a sex murder.'

'No, but he wanted it to look like one. And then he had the unbelievable stroke of luck that the witnesses got the cars mixed up. He must have been tickled pink. That meant he could feel pretty safe. Göransson was the only worry.'

'Göransson and Forsberg were pals,' Martin Beck said.

'And then nothing happened until Stenström started rooting in the Teresa case and got that strange tip from Birgersson. He found out that Göransson was the only one who had had a Morris Minor. The right colour, what's more. He questioned a lot of people off his own initiative and started shadowing Göransson. He soon noticed, of course, that Göransson was getting money from someone and assumed that it came from whoever had murdered Teresa Camarão. Göransson got more and more jittery ... By the way, do we know where he was between 8 October and 13 November?'

'Yes. In a boat down at Klara Strand. Nordin found the spot this morning.' Kollberg nodded.

'Stenström realized that sooner or later Göransson would lead him to the murderer, and so he went on shadowing him day after day, and presumably quite openly. It turned out that he was right. Though the result for his own part was not a success. If he had hurried up with that trip to Småland instead ...'

Kollberg was silent. Martin Beck thoughtfully rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

'Yes, it seems to fit' he said. 'Psychologically as well. There were still nine years before the Teresa murder would have lapsed and the period of prosecution expired. And a murder is the only crime which is sufficiently grave for a more or less normal person to go to such lengths in order to avoid discovery. Besides, Forsberg has an awful lot to lose.'

'Do we know what he did on the evening of 13 November?'

'Yes. He butchered all those people in the bus, including Stenström and Göransson, both of whom were extremely dangerous for him by this time. But the only thing we know at present is that he had an opportunity of committing the murders.'

'How do we know that?'

'Gunvald managed to kidnap Forsberg's German maid. She has the evening off every Monday. And according to a pocket diary she had in her handbag, she spent the night with her boyfriend between the thirteenth and fourteenth. We also know, still from the same source, that Mrs Forsberg was out at a ladies' dinner that evening. Consequently, Forsberg himself was presumed to be at home. On principle, they never leave the children alone.'

'Where is she now? The maid?'

'Here. And we're keeping her overnight'

'What do you think about his mental condition?' Kollberg asked.

'Probably very bad. On the verge of collapse.' 'The question is, do we have enough evidence to take him in?' Kollberg said.

'Not for the bus,' Martin Beck replied. 'That would be a blunder. But we can arrest him as a suspect for the murder of Teresa Camarão. We have a key witness, whose opinion has changed, and a number of new facts.'

'When?'

'Tomorrow morning.' 'Where?'

'At his office. The minute he arrives. No need to drag his wife and children into it especially if he's desperate.' 'How?'

'As quietly as possible. No shooting and no kicked-in doors.' Kollberg thought for a moment before asking his last question. 'Who?'

'Myself and Melander.'

₃₀

The blonde at the switchboard behind the marble counter put down her nail file when Martin Beck and Melander entered the reception room.

Björn Forsberg's office was on the sixth floor of a building on Kungsgatan near Stureplan. The fourth and fifth floors were also occupied by the firm.

The time was only five minutes past nine and they knew that Forsberg did not usually come until about nine thirty.

'But his secretary will be here soon,' the girl at the switchboard said. 'If you care to sit down and wait.'

On the other side of the room, out of sight of the receptionist, some armchairs were grouped around a low glass table. The two men hung up their overcoats and sat down.

The six doors leading out of the reception room had no name plates. One of them was ajar.

Martin Beck got up, peeped in the door and vanished inside the room. Melander took out his pipe and tobacco pouch, filled his pipe and struck a match. Martin Beck came back and sat down.