Jonathan Franzen - The Laughing Policeman

‘Good night, madam,’ he said.

The woman stared at him with pursed lips, tossed her head and disappeared.

Kristiansson did not act like this from love of his fellow humans, but because he was lazy.

None knew this better than Kvant. While they were still serving as ordinary beat officers on the beat in Malmö, he had many a time seen Kristiansson lead drunks along the street and even across bridges in order to get them into the next precinct.

Kvant sat at the wheel. He switched on the ignition and said sourly, ‘Siv oftentimes says I'm lazy. She should see you.’

Siv was Kvant's wife and also his dearest and often sole subject of conversation.

‘Why should I get puked on for nothing?’ Kristiansson said philosophically.

Kristiansson and Kvant were similar in build and appearance. Both were 6 feet 1 inch tall, fair, broad-shouldered and blue-eyed. But they had widely different temperaments and didn't always see eye to eye. This was one of the questions upon which they were not in agreement.

Kvant was incorruptible. He never compromised over things he saw, but on the other hand he was an expert at seeing as little as possible.

He drove slowly, in glum silence, following a twisting route from Huvudsta that led past the Police Training College, then through an area of communal garden plots, past the railway museum, the National Bacteriological Laboratory, the School for the Blind, and then zigzagging through the extensive university district with its various institutions, finally emerging via the railway administration buildings on to Tomtebodavägen.

It was a brilliantly thought-out course, leading through areas which were almost guaranteed to be empty of people. They met not a single car the whole way and saw only two living creatures, first a cat and then another cat.

When they reached the end of Tomtebodavägen, Kvant stopped the car with the radiator one yard from the Stockholm city limit and let the engine idle while he considered how to arrange the rest of their shift.

I wonder if you've got the cheek to turn around and drive back the same way. Kristiansson thought. Aloud he said, ‘Can you lend me 10 kronor?’

Kvant nodded, took his wallet out of his breast pocket and handed the note to his colleague without even a glance at him. At the same instant he made a quick decision. If he crossed the city limits and followed Norra Stationsgatan for some five hundred yards in a north-easterly direction they would only need to be in Stockholm for two minutes. Then he could turn in to Eugeniävagen, drive across the hospital area and continue through Haga Park and along by the Northern Cemetery, finishing up finally at police headquarters. By that time their shift would be over and the chance of seeing anyone on the way should be infinitesimal.

The car drove into Stockholm and turned left onto Norra Stationsgatan.

Kristiansson tucked the 10 kronor into his pocket and yawned. Then he peered out into the pouring rain and said, Over there, running this way's a bastard.'

Kristiansson and Kvant were from Skåne, in the far South, and their sense of word order left much to be desired.

‘He has a dog, too,’ Kristiansson said. ‘And he's waving at us.’

‘It's not my table,’ Kvant said.

The man with the dog, an absurdly small dog which he practically dragged after him through the puddles, rushed out into the road and planted himself right in front of the car.

‘God damn!’ Kvant swore, jamming on the brakes.

He wound the side window down and roared, ‘What do you mean by running out into the road like that?’

‘There's …there's a bus over there,’ the man gasped out, pointing along the street.

‘So what?’ Kvant said rudely. ‘And how can you treat the dog like that? A poor dumb animal?’

‘There's … there's been an accident.’

‘All right, we'll look into it,’ Kvant said impatiently. ‘Move aside.’

He drove on.

‘And don't do that again!’ he shouted over his shoulder.

Kristiansson stared through the rain.

‘Yes,’ he said resignedly. ‘A bus has driven off the road. One of those doubledeckers.’

‘And the lights are on,’ Kvant said. ‘And the door in front is open. Hop out and take a look, Kalle.’

He pulled up at an angle behind the bus. Kristiansson opened the door, straightened his shoulder belt automatically and said to himself, ‘A-ha, and what's all this?’

Like Kvant, he was dressed in boots and leather jacket with shiny buttons and carried a truncheon and pistol at his belt.

Kvant remained sitting in the car, watching Kristiansson, who moved leisurely towards the open front door of the bus.

Kvant saw him grasp the rail and lazily heave himself up on to the step to peer into the bus. Then he gave a start and crouched down quickly, while his right hand flew to the pistol holster.

Kvant reacted swiftly. It took him only a second to switch on the red lamps, the searchlight and the orange flashing light of the patrol car.

Kristiansson was still crouching down beside the bus when Kvant flung open the car door and rushed out into the downpour. All the same, Kvant had drawn and cocked his 7.65 mm Walther and had even cast a glance at his watch.

It showed exactly thirteen minutes past eleven.

The first senior policeman to arrive at Norra Stationsgatan was Gunvald Larsson.

He had been sitting at his desk at police headquarters at Kungsholmen, thumbing through a dull and wordy report, very listlessly and for about the umpteenth time, while he wondered why on earth people didn't go home.

In the category of ‘people’ he included the police commissioner, a deputy commissioner and several different superintendents and inspectors who, on account of the happily concluded riots, were trotting about the staircases and corridors. As soon as these persons thought fit to call it a day and take themselves off, he would do so himself, as fast as possible.

The phone rang. He grunted and picked up the receiver.

‘Hello. Larsson.’

‘Radio Central here. A Solna radio patrol has found a whole bus full of dead bodies on Norra Stationsgatan.’

Gunvald Larsson glanced at the electric wall clock, which showed eighteen minutes past eleven, and said, ‘How can a Solna radio patrol find a bus full of dead bodies in Stockholm?’

Gunvald Larsson was a detective inspector in the Stockholm homicide squad. He had a rigid disposition and was not one of the most popular members of the force.

But he never wasted any time and so he was the first one there.

He braked the car, turned up his coat collar and stepped out into the rain. He saw a red doubledecker bus standing right across the pavement; the front part had broken through a high wire fence. He also saw a black Plymouth with white mudguard, and the word POLICE in white block letters across the doors. It had its emergency lights on and in the cone of the searchlight stood two uniformed patrolmen with pistols in their hands. Both looked unnaturally pale. One of them had vomited down the front of his leather jacket and was wiping himself in embarrassment with a sodden handkerchief.

‘What's the trouble?’ Gunvald Larsson asked.

‘There … there are a lot of corpses in there,’ said one of the policemen.

‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘Yes, that's right. There are. And a lot of cartridges.’

‘And a man who shows signs of life.’

‘And a policeman.’

‘A policeman?’ Gunvald Larsson asked.

‘Yes. A CID man.’

‘We recognize him. He works at Västberga. On the homicide squad.’

‘But we don't know his name. He has a blue raincoat. And he's dead.’

The two radio police both talked at once, uncertainly and quietly.