got eight bullets in him. In the chest and abdomen. He was an Arab and his name was Mohammed Boussie, Algerian subject, thirty-six, no relations in Sweden. He lived at a kind of boarding house on Norra Stationsgatan. Was obviously on his way home from work at the Zig-Zag, that grill restaurant on Vasagatan. There's nothing more to say about him at the moment.’
‘Arabia,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘Isn't that where there's usually an awful lot of shooting?’
‘Your political knowledge is devastating,’ Kollberg said. ‘You should apply for a transfer to Sepo.’
‘Its correct name is the Security Department of the National Police Board,’ said Gunvald Larsson.
Rönn got up, fished one or two pictures out of the pile and lined them up on the table.
‘This guy we haven't been able to identify,’ he said. ‘Number six. He was sitting on the outside seat immediately behind the middle doors and was hit by six shots. In his pockets he had the striking surface of a matchbox, a packet of Bill cigarettes, a bus ticket and 1,823 kronor in cash. That was all.’
‘A lot of money,’ Melander said thoughtfully.
They leaned over the table and studied the pictures of the unknown man. He had slithered down in the seat and lay sprawled against the back with arms hanging and his left leg stuck out in the aisle. The front of his coat was soaked in blood. He had no face.
‘Hell, it would have to be him,’ Gunvald Larsson said. ‘His own mother wouldn't recognize him.’
Martin Beck had resumed his study of the sketch on the wall. Holding his left hand in front of his face he said, ‘I'm not so sure there weren't two of them after all.’
The others looked at him.
‘Two what?’ Gunvald Larsson asked.
‘Two gunmen. Look at all the passengers, they never moved from their seats. Except the one who's still alive and he might have tumbled off afterwards.’
‘Two madmen?’ Gunvald Larsson said sceptically. ‘At the same time?’
Kollberg went and stood beside Martin Beck.
‘You mean that someone should have had time to react if there had been only one? Hm, maybe. But he simply mowed them down. It happened rather fast, and when you think they were all caught napping …’
‘Shall we go on with the list? We'll find that out as soon as we know whether there was one weapon or two.’
‘Sure,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Go on, Einar.’
‘Number seven is a foreman called Johan Källström. He was sitting beside the man who has not yet been identified. He was fifty-two, married and lived at Karlbergsvägen 89. According to his wife he was coming from the workshop on Sibyllegatan, where he'd been working overtime. Nothing startling about him.’
‘Nothing except that he got a bellyful of lead on the way home from work,’ said Gunvald Larsson.
‘By the window immediately in front of the middle doors we have Gösta Assarsson, number eight. Forty-two. Half his head was shot away. He lived at Tegnérgatan 40, where he also had his office and his business, an export and import firm that he ran together with his brother. His wife didn't known why he was on the bus. According to her, he should have been at a club meeting on Narvavägen.’
‘A-ha,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘Out carousing.’
‘Yes, there are signs that point to that. In his briefcase he had a bottle of whisky. Johnnie Walker, Black Label.’
‘A-ha,’ said Kollberg, who was an epicure.
‘In addition he was well supplied with condoms,’ said Rönn. ‘He had seven in an inside pocket. Plus a chequebook and over 800 kronor in cash.’
‘Why seven?’ Gunvald Larsson asked.
The door opened and Ek stuck his head in.
‘Hammar says you're all to be in his office in fifteen minutes. Briefing. Quarter to eleven, that's to say.’
He disappeared.
‘OK, let's go on,’ Martin Beck said.
‘Where were we?’
‘The guy with the seven johnnies,’ said Gunvald Larsson.
‘Is there anything more to be said about him?’ Martin Beck asked.
Rönn glanced at the sheet of paper covered with his scribbling.
‘I don't think so.’
‘Go on, then,’ said Martin Beck, sitting down at Gunvald Larsson's desk.
‘Two seats in front of Assarsson sat number nine, Mrs Hildur Johansson, sixty-eight, widow, living at Norra Stationsgatan 119. Shot in the shoulder and through the neck. She has a married daughter on Västmannagatan and was on her way home from there after baby-sitting.’
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
