Jonathan Franzen - The Laughing Policeman

Rönn folded the piece of paper and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

‘That's the lot,’ he said.

Gunvald Larsson sighed and arranged the pictures in nine neat stacks.

Melander put his pipe down, mumbled something and went out to the toilet.

Kollberg tilted his chair and said, ‘And what do we learn from all this? That on quite an ordinary evening on quite an ordinary bus, nine quite ordinary people get mowed down with a submachine gun for no apparent reason. Apart from this guy who hasn't been identified, I can't see anything odd about any of these people.’

‘Yes, one,’ Martin Beck said. ‘Stenström. What was he doing on that bus?’

Nobody answered.

An hour later Hammar put exactly the same question to Martin Beck.

Hammar had summoned the special investigation group that from now on was to work entirely on the bus murders. The group consisted of seventeen experienced CID men, with Hammar in charge. Martin Beck and Kollberg also led the investigation.

All available facts had been studied, the situation had been analysed and assignments allotted. When the briefing was over and all except Martin Beck and Kollberg had left the room, Hammar said, ‘What was Stenström doing on that bus?’

‘Don't know,’ Martin Beck replied.

‘And nobody seems to know what he was working on of late. Do either of you know?’

Kollberg threw up his hands and shrugged.

‘Haven't the vaguest idea. Over and above daily routine, that is. Presumably nothing.’

‘We haven't had so much recently,’ Martin Beck said. ‘So he has had quite a bit of time off. He had put in an enormous amount of overtime before, so it was only fair.’

Hammar drummed his fingers against the edge of the desk and wrinkled his brow in thought. Then he said, ‘Who was it that informed his fiancée?’

‘Melander,’ said Kollberg.

‘I think someone ought to have a talk with her as soon as possible,’ Hammar said. ‘She must at all events know what he was up to.’

He paused, then added, ‘Unless he …’

He fell silent.

‘What?’ Martin Beck asked.

‘Unless he was going with that nurse on the bus, you mean,’ Kollberg said.

Hammar said nothing.

‘Or was out on another similar errand,’ Kollberg said.

Hammar nodded.

‘Find out,’ he said.

Outside police headquarters on Kungsholmsgatan stood two people who definitely wished they had been somewhere else. They were dressed in police caps and leather jackets with gilded buttons, they had shoulder belts diagonally across their chests and carried pistols and truncheons at their waists. Their names were Kristiansson and Kvant.

A well-dressed, elderly woman came up to them and asked, ‘Excuse me, but how do I get to Hjärnegatan?’

‘I don't know, madam,’ Kvant said. ‘Ask a policeman. There's one standing over there.’

The woman gaped at him.

‘We're strangers here ourselves,’ Kristiansson put in quickly, by way of explanation.

The woman was still staring after them as they mounted the steps.

‘What do you think they want us for?’ Kristiansson asked anxiously.

‘To give evidence, of course,’ Kvant replied. ‘We made the discovery, didn't we?’

‘Yes,’ Kristiansson said. ‘We did, but –’

‘No “buts,” now, Kalle. Into the lift with you.’

On the third floor they met Kollberg. He nodded to them, gloomily and absently. Then he opened a door and said, ‘Gunvald, those two guys from Solna are here now.’

‘Tell them to wait,’ said a voice from inside the office.

‘Wait,’ Kollberg said, and disappeared.

When they had waited for twenty minutes Kvant shook himself and said, ‘What the hell's the idea. We're supposed to be off duty, and I've promised Siv to mind the kids while she goes to the doctor.’

‘So you said,’ Kristiansson said dejectedly.

‘She says she feels something funny in her cu—’

‘Yeah, you said that too,’ Kristiansson murmured.

‘Now she'll probably be in a terrible temper again,’ Kvant said. ‘I can't make the woman out these days. And she's starting to look such a fright. Has Kerstin also got broad in the beam like that?’

Kristiansson didn't answer.

Kerstin was his wife and he disliked discussing her.

Kvant didn't seem to care.

Five minutes later Gunvald Larsson opened the door and said curtly, ‘Come in.’

They went in and sat down. Gunvald Larsson eyed them critically.

‘Sit down, by all means.’

‘We have already,’ Kristiansson said fatuously.

Kvant silenced him with an impatient gesture. He began to scent trouble.

Gunvald Larsson stood silent for a moment. Then he placed himself behind the desk, sighed heavily and said, ‘How long have you both been on the force?’

‘Eight years,’ said Kvant.

Gunvald Larsson picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and studied it.

‘Can you read?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes,’ said Kristiansson, before Kvant could stop him.

‘Read, then.’

Gunvald Larsson pushed the sheet across the desk.

‘Do you understand what's written there? Or do I have to explain it?’

Kristiansson shook his head.

‘I'll explain gladly,’ Gunvald Larsson said. ‘That is a preliminary report from the investigation at the scene of the crime. It shows that two individuals with size eleven shoes have left behind them about one hundred footprints all over that damn bus, both on the upper and lower deck. Who do you think these two individuals can be?’

No answer.

‘To explain further, I can add that I spoke to an expert at the lab not long ago, and he said that the scene of the crime looked as if a herd of hippopotamuses had been trotting about there for hours. This expert considers it incredible that a herd of human beings, consisting of only two individuals, should be able to wipe out almost every trace so completely and in such a short time.’

Kvant began to lose his temper, and stared stonily at the man behind the desk.

‘Now it so happens that hippopotamuses and other animals don't usually go about armed,’ Gunvald Larsson went on in honeyed tones. ‘Nevertheless, someone fired a shot inside the bus with a 7.65 mm Walther-to be exact, up through the front stairs. The bullet ricocheted against the roof and was found embedded in the padding of one of the seats on the upper deck. Who do you think can have fired that shot?’

‘We did,’ Kristiansson said. ‘That's to say, I did.’

‘Oh, really? And what were you firing at?’

Kristiansson scratched his neck unhappily.

‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘It was a warning shot,’ Kvant said.

‘Intended for whom?’

‘We thought the murderer might still be in the bus and was hiding on the top deck,’ Kristiansson said.

‘And was he?’

‘No,’ said Kvant.

‘How do you know? What did you do after that cannonade?’

‘We went up and had a look,’ Kristiansson said.

‘There was nobody there,’ said Kvant.

Gunvald Larsson glared at them for at least half a minute. Then he slammed the flat of his hand on the desk and roared, ‘So both of you went up! How the hell could you be so damn stupid?’

‘We each went up a different way,’ Kvant said defensively. ‘I went up the back stairs and Kalle took the front stairs.’

‘So that whoever was up there couldn't escape,’ said Kristiansson, trying to make things better.

‘But Jesus Christ there wasn't anyone up there! All you managed to do was to ruin every single footprint there was in the whole damn bus! To say nothing of outside! And why did you go tramping about among the bodies? Was it to make even more of a gory mess inside there?’