of July, 1972, a Monday. A date of especial importance. On this particular day he was going back to work.
He was still a policeman – more exactly, a detective chief inspector, head of the National Murder Squad.
Martin Beck put on his jacket and stuffed the newspaper in his pocket, intending to read it on the metro – just one little detail of the routine he was about to resume.
Walking along Skeppsbron in the sunlight, he inhaled the polluted air. He felt old and hollow. But none of this could be seen in his appearance. On the contrary, he seemed healthy and vigorous, and his movements were swift and lithe. A tall, suntanned man with a strong jaw and calm, grey-blue eyes under a broad forehead, Martin Beck was forty-nine. Soon he'd be fifty. But most people thought he was younger.
The room in the South Police Headquarters on Västberga Avenue testified to the long residence of someone else as acting head of the Murder Squad. Though it was clean and tidy and someone had taken the trouble to place a vase of blue cornflowers and marguerites on his desk, everything vaguely suggested a lack of precision – superficial yet obvious, and in some way snug and homey. Especially in the desk drawers. Clearly, someone had just taken a lot of things out of them; but a good deal was still left. Old taxi receipts and cinema tickets for example, broken ball-point pens and empty sweet packets. In several of the pen trays were daisy chains of paper clips, rubber bands, lumps of sugar, and packets of saccharine tablets. Also, two packets of moist towelettes, one pack of Kleenex, three cartridge cases, and a broken Exacta watch. And a large number of slips of paper with scattered notes written in a clear, highly legible hand.
Martin Beck had gone around the station and said hello to people. Most, but by no means all, were old acquaintances. Now he was sitting at his desk, examining the watch, which appeared to be utterly useless. The crystal was misty on the inside, and when he shook it a gloomy, rustling noise came from within the watch-case, as if every one of its screws had come loose.
Lennart Kollberg knocked and entered. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Welcome.’
‘Thanks. Is this your watch?’
‘Yes,’ said Kollberg glumly. ‘I happened to put it in the washing machine. Forgot to empty my pockets.’ He looked about him and went on apologetically: ‘Actually I tried fixing it last Friday, but someone interrupted me. Well, you know how it is …’
Martin Beck nodded. Kollberg was the person he'd seen most of during his long convalescence, and there wasn't much new for them to tell one another. ‘How's the diet coming along?’
‘Fine,’ said Kollberg. ‘I was down a pound this morning, from sixteen stone four pounds to sixteen three.’
‘Then you've only put on a stone and a half since you began?’
‘A stone and a quarter,’ said Kollberg with a look of hurt pride. He shrugged and went on grumblingly: ‘It's bloody awful. The whole project flies in the face of nature. And Gun just laughs at me. Bodil too, for that matter. How are you, by the way?’
‘Fine.’
Kollberg frowned but said nothing. Instead he unzipped his briefcase and extracted a light red plastic folder. It seemed to contain a none-too-extensive report. Maybe thirty pages.
‘What's that?’
‘Let's call it a present.’
‘Who from?’
‘Me, for example. Although it's not, actually. It's from Gunvald Larsson and Rönn. They think it's terribly funny.’
Kollberg laid the file on the table. Then he said: ‘Unfortunately I have to go.’
‘What for?’
‘NPB.’
Which was the new National Police Board.
‘Why?’
‘These damn bank robbers.’
‘But there's a special squad for them.’
‘The special squad needs reinforcements. Last Friday some thick-headed twit got himself shot again.’
‘Yes, I've read about it.’
‘And so the State Police immediately decide to strengthen the special squad.’
‘With you?’
‘No,’ said Kollberg. ‘Actually, I think, with you. But this order came in last Friday, while I was still in charge here. So I made an independent decision.’
‘Namely?’
‘Namely to spare you that lunatic asylum, and move in myself to strengthen the special squad.’
‘Thanks.’ Martin Beck really meant what he'd said. To work in a special squad presumably implied a daily confrontation with, for example, the National Police Commissioner, at least two department heads, assorted superintendents, and other bom bastic amateurs. Kollberg had voluntarily taken these trials upon himself.
‘Well,’ Kollberg said, ‘in exchange I've got this.’ He put a thick index finger on the plastic file.
‘What's that?’
‘A case,’ said Kollberg. ‘Really a most interesting case, not like bank hold-ups and things. The only pity is …’
‘What?’
‘That you don't read detective stories.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you did you might have appreciated it more. Rönn and Larsson think everyone reads detective stories. Actually it's their case, but just now they're so overloaded with misery that they're inviting applications for their little jobs, from anyone who wants one. It's something to think about. Just sit very still and think.’
‘Okay, I'll look it over,’ said Martin Beck dispassionately.
‘There's been no word about it in the papers. Aren't you curious?’
‘Sure. 'Bye then.’
‘See you,’ said Kollberg.
Outside the door he stopped and stood still a few seconds, frowning. Then he shook his head in a troubled way and walked over to the lift.
Martin Beck had said he was curious about the contents of the red file; but this was not really the truth. Actually it was of no interest to him whatever. Why, then, had he chosen to give an evasive and misleading answer to the question? To make Kollberg happy? Hardly. To deceive him? Even more far-fetched. For one thing, there was no reason to do so; and anyway it was impossible. They'd known one another far too well and for too many years. Besides which Kollberg
