tomorrow.’
‘You seem to be hard at work, anyway. What are you studying?’
‘French. We've a test tomorrow. Like to quiz me?’
‘Wouldn't be much use. French isn't my strong point. Go to sleep now instead.’
He stood up and the girl snuggled down obediently under the quilt. He tucked her in and before he shut the door behind him he heard her whisper, ‘Keep your fingers crossed tomorrow.’
‘Good night.’
He went into the kitchen in the dark and stood for a while by the window. The rain seemed to be less heavy now, but it may have been because the kitchen window was sheltered from the wind. Martin Beck wondered what had happened during the demonstration against the American embassy and whether the papers tomorrow would describe the police's behaviour as clumsy and inept or as brutal and provocative. In any case the opinions would be critical. Since he was loyal to the force and had been so for as long as he could remember, Martin Beck admitted only to himself that the criticism was often justified, even if it was a bit one-sided. He thought of what Ingrid had said one evening a few weeks ago. Many of her schoolmates were politically active, taking part in meetings and demonstrations, and most of them strongly disliked the police. As a child, she had said, she could boast and be proud of the fact that her father was a policeman, but now she preferred to keep quiet about it. Not that she was ashamed, but she was often drawn into discussions in which she was expected to stand up for the entire police force. Silly, of course, but there it was.
Martin Beck went into the living room, listened at the door of his wife's bedroom and heard her light snoring. Cautiously he let down the sofa bed, switched on the wall lamp and drew the curtains. He had bought the sofa recently and moved out of the common bedroom, on the pretext that he didn't want to disturb his wife when he came home late at night. She had protested, pointing out that sometimes he worked all night and therefore must sleep in the daytime, and she didn't want him lying there making a mess of the living room. He had promised on these occasions to lie and make a mess in the bedroom; she wasn't in there much in the daytime anyway. Now he had been sleeping in the living room for the past month and liked it.
His wife's name was Inga.
Relations between them had worsened with the years, and it was a relief not to have to share a bed with her. This feeling sometimes gave him a bad conscience, but after seventeen years of marriage there didn't seem to be much he could do about it, and he had long since given up worrying over whose fault it might be.
Martin Beck stifled a coughing attack, took off his wet trousers and hung them over a chair near the radiator. As he sat on the sofa pulling off his socks it crossed his mind that Kollberg's nocturnal walks in the rain might be due to the fact that his marriage, too, was slipping into boredom and routine.
Already? Kollberg had only been married for eighteen months.
Before the first sock was off he had dismissed the thought. Lennart and Gun were happy together, not a doubt of that. Besides, what business was it of his?
He got up and walked naked across the room to the bookshelf. He looked over the books for a long time before choosing one. It was written by the old English diplomat Sir Eugene Millington-Drake and was about the Graf Spee and the Battle of La Plata. He had bought it secondhand about a year ago but hadn't yet taken the time to read it. He crawled down into bed, coughed guiltily, opened the book and found he had no cigarettes. One of the advantages of the sofa bed was that he could now smoke in bed without complications.
He got up again, took a damp and flattened pack of Floridas out of his raincoat pocket, laid out the cigarettes to dry on the bedside table and lit the one that seemed most likely to burn. He had the cigarette between his teeth and one leg in bed when the telephone rang.
The telephone was out in the hall. Six months ago he had ordered an extra extension to be installed in the living room, but knowing the normal working speed of the Telephone Service, he imagined he'd be lucky if he had to wait only another six months before the extension was installed.
He strode quickly across the floor and lifted the receiver before the second ring had finished.
‘Beck.’
‘Superintendent Beck?’
He didn't recognize the voice at the other end.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘This is Radio Central. Several passengers have been found shot dead in a bus on route 47 near the end of the line on Norra Stationsgatan. You're asked to go there at once.’
Martin Beck's first thought was that he was a victim of a practical joke or that some antagonist was trying to trick him to go out into the rain just to give him trouble.
‘Who gave you the message?’ he asked.
‘Hansson from the Fifth. Superintendent Hammar has already been notified.’
‘How many dead?’
‘They're not sure yet. Six at least.’
‘Anyone arrested?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
Martin Beck thought: I'll pick up Kollberg on the way. Hope there's a taxi. And said, ‘OK, I'll come at once.’
‘Oh, Superintendent …’
‘Yes?’
‘One of the dead … he seems to be one of your men.’
Martin Beck gripped the receiver hard.
‘Who?’
‘I don't know. They didn't say a name.’
Martin Beck flung down the receiver and leaned his head against the wall. Lennart! It must be him. What the hell was he doing out in the rain? What the hell was he doing on a 47 bus? No, not Kollberg, it must be a mistake.
He picked up the phone and dialled Kollberg's number. He heard a ring at the other end. Two. Three. Four. Five.
‘Kollberg.’
It was Gun's sleepy voice. Martin Beck tried to sound calm and natural.
‘Hello. Is Lennart there?’
He thought he heard the bed creak as she sat up, and it was an eternity before she answered.
‘No, not in bed at any rate. I thought he was with you. Or rather that you were here.’
‘He left when I did. To take a walk. Are you sure he's not at home?’
‘He may be in the kitchen. Hang on and I'll have a look.’
It was another eternity before she came back.
‘No, Martin, he's not at home.’
Now her voice was anxious.
‘Wherever can he be?’ she said. ‘In this weather?’
‘I expect he's just out getting a breath of air. I just got home, so he can't have been out long. Don't worry.’
‘Shall I ask him to call you when he comes?’
She sounded reassured.
‘No, it's not important. Sleep well. So long.’
He put down the receiver. Suddenly he felt so cold that his teeth were chattering. He picked up the receiver again and stood with it in his hand, thinking that he must call someone and find out exactly what had happened. Then he decided that the best way was to get to the place himself as fast as he could. He dialled the number of the nearest taxi rank and got a reply immediately.
Martin Beck had been a policeman for twenty-three years. During that time several of his colleagues had been killed in the course of duty. It had hit him hard every time it happened, and somewhere at the back of his mind was also the realization that police work was getting more and more risky and that next time it might be his own turn. But when it came to Kollberg, his feelings were not