an involuntary shudder passed through the man in the dark-blue poplin raincoat and he tried to think of something else. For instance of the hotel balcony at Andraitz, where he had spent his holiday five months earlier. Of the heavy, motionless heat and of the bright sunshine over the quayside and the fishing boats and of the limitless, deep-blue sky above the mountain ridge on the other side of the bay.
Then he thought that it was probably raining there too at this time of year and that there was no central heating in the houses, only open fireplaces.
And that he was no longer in the same street as before and would soon be forced out into the rain again.
He heard someone behind him on the stairs and knew that it was the person who had got on outside Ahléns department store on Klarabergsgatan in the centre of the city twelve stops before.
Rain, he thought. I don't like it. In fact I hate it. I wonder when I'll be promoted. What am I doing here anyway and why aren't I at home in bed with …
And that was the last he thought.
The bus was a red doubledecker with cream-coloured top and grey roof. It was a Leyland Atlantean model, built in England, but constructed for the Swedish right-hand traffic, introduced two months before. On this particular evening it was plying on route 47 in Stockholm, between Bellmansro at Djurgården and Karlberg, and vice versa. Now it was heading north-west and approaching the terminus on Norra Stationsgatan, situated only a few yards from the city limits between Stockholm and Solna.
Solna is a suburb of Stockholm and functions as an independent municipal administrative unit, even if the boundary between the two cities can only be seen as a dotted line on the map.
It was big, this red bus; over 36 feet long and nearly 15 feet high. It weighed more than 15 tons. The headlights were on and it looked warm and cosy with its misty windows as it droned along deserted Karlbergsvägen between the lines of leafless trees. Then it turned right into Norrbackagatan and the sound of the engine was fainter on the long slope down to Norra Stationsgatan. The rain beat against the roof and windows, and the wheels flung up hissing cascades of water as it glided downward, heavily and implacably.
The hill ended where the street did. The bus was to turn at an angle of 30 degrees, on to Norra Stationsgatan, and then it had only some 300 yards left to the end of the line.
The only person to observe the vehicle at this moment was a man who stood flattened against a house wall over 150 yards farther up Norrbackagatan. He was a burglar who was about to smash a window. He noticed the bus because he wanted it out of the way and had waited for it to pass.
He saw it slow down at the corner and begin to turn left with its side lights blinking. Then it was out of sight. The rain pelted down harder than ever. The man raised his hand and smashed the pane.
What he did not see was that the turn was never completed.
The red doubledecker bus seemed to stop for a moment in the middle of the turn. Then it drove straight across the street, climbed the sidewalk and burrowed halfway through the wire fence separating Norra Stationsgatan from the desolate freight depot on the other side.
Then it pulled up.
The engine died but the headlights were still on, and so was the lighting inside.
The misty windows went on gleaming cosily in the dark and cold.
And the rain lashed against the metal roof.
The time was three minutes past eleven on the evening of 13 November, 1967.
In Stockholm.
Kristiansson and Kvant were radio patrol policemen in Solna.
During their not-very-eventful careers they had picked up thousands of drunks and dozens of thieves, and once they had presumably saved the life of a six-year-old girl by seizing a notorious sex maniac who was just about to assault and murder her. This had happened less than five months ago, and although it was a fluke it constituted a feat which they intended to live on for a long time.
On this particular evening they had not picked up anything at all, apart from a glass of beer each; as this was perhaps against the rules, it had better be ignored.
Just before ten thirty they got a call on the radio and drove to an address at Kapellgatan in the suburb of Huvudsta, where someone had found a lifeless figure lying on the front steps. It took them only three minutes to drive there.
Sure enough, sprawling in front of the street door lay a human being in frayed black trousers, down-at-heel shoes and a shabby pepper-and-salt overcoat. In the lit hallway inside stood an elderly woman in slippers and dressing gown. She was evidently the one who had complained. She gesticulated at them through the glass door, then opened it a few inches, stuck her arm through the crack and pointed demandingly to the motionless form.
‘A-ha, and what's all this?’ Kristiansson said.
Kvant bent down and sniffed.
‘Out cold,’ he said with deeply-felt distaste. ‘Give us a hand, Kalle.’
‘Wait a second,’ Kristiansson said.
‘Eh?’
‘Do you know this man, madam?’ Kristiansson asked more or less politely.
‘I should say I do.’
‘Where does he live?’
The woman pointed to a door three yards farther inside the hall.
‘There,’ she said. ‘He fell asleep while he was trying to unlock the door.’
‘Oh yes, he has the keys in his hand,’ Kristiansson said, scratching his head. ‘Does he live alone?’
‘Who could live with an old bastard like that?’ the lady said.
‘What are you going to do?’ Kvant asked suspiciously.
Kristiansson didn't answer. Bending down, he took the keys from the sleeper's hand. Then he jerked the drunk to his feet with a grip that denoted many years' practice, pushed open the front door with his knee and dragged the man towards the flat. The woman stood on one side and Kvant remained on the outer steps. Both watched the scene with passive disapproval.
Kristiansson unlocked the door, switched on the light in the room and pulled off the man's wet overcoat. The drunk lurched, collapsed on to the bed and said, ‘Thanksh, Miss.’
Then he turned over on his side and fell asleep. Kristiansson laid the keys on a kitchen chair beside the bed, put out the light, shut the door and went back to the car.
‘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
