English diplomat Sir Eugene Millington-Drake and was about the Graf Spee and the Battle of La Plata. He had bought it secondhand about a year ago but hadn't yet taken the time to read it. He crawled down into bed, coughed guiltily, opened the book and found he had no cigarettes. One of the advantages of the sofa bed was that he could now smoke in bed without complications.
He got up again, took a damp and flattened pack of Floridas out of his raincoat pocket, laid out the cigarettes to dry on the bedside table and lit the one that seemed most likely to burn. He had the cigarette between his teeth and one leg in bed when the telephone rang.
The telephone was out in the hall. Six months ago he had ordered an extra extension to be installed in the living room, but knowing the normal working speed of the Telephone Service, he imagined he'd be lucky if he had to wait only another six months before the extension was installed.
He strode quickly across the floor and lifted the receiver before the second ring had finished.
‘Beck.’
‘Superintendent Beck?’
He didn't recognize the voice at the other end.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘This is Radio Central. Several passengers have been found shot dead in a bus on route 47 near the end of the line on Norra Stationsgatan. You're asked to go there at once.’
Martin Beck's first thought was that he was a victim of a practical joke or that some antagonist was trying to trick him to go out into the rain just to give him trouble.
‘Who gave you the message?’ he asked.
‘Hansson from the Fifth. Superintendent Hammar has already been notified.’
‘How many dead?’
‘They're not sure yet. Six at least.’
‘Anyone arrested?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
Martin Beck thought: I'll pick up Kollberg on the way. Hope there's a taxi. And said, ‘OK, I'll come at once.’
‘Oh, Superintendent …’
‘Yes?’
‘One of the dead … he seems to be one of your men.’
Martin Beck gripped the receiver hard.
‘Who?’
‘I don't know. They didn't say a name.’
Martin Beck flung down the receiver and leaned his head against the wall. Lennart! It must be him. What the hell was he doing out in the rain? What the hell was he doing on a 47 bus? No, not Kollberg, it must be a mistake.
He picked up the phone and dialled Kollberg's number. He heard a ring at the other end. Two. Three. Four. Five.
‘Kollberg.’
It was Gun's sleepy voice. Martin Beck tried to sound calm and natural.
‘Hello. Is Lennart there?’
He thought he heard the bed creak as she sat up, and it was an eternity before she answered.
‘No, not in bed at any rate. I thought he was with you. Or rather that you were here.’
‘He left when I did. To take a walk. Are you sure he's not at home?’
‘He may be in the kitchen. Hang on and I'll have a look.’
It was another eternity before she came back.
‘No, Martin, he's not at home.’
Now her voice was anxious.
‘Wherever can he be?’ she said. ‘In this weather?’
‘I expect he's just out getting a breath of air. I just got home, so he can't have been out long. Don't worry.’
‘Shall I ask him to call you when he comes?’
She sounded reassured.
‘No, it's not important. Sleep well. So long.’
He put down the receiver. Suddenly he felt so cold that his teeth were chattering. He picked up the receiver again and stood with it in his hand, thinking that he must call someone and find out exactly what had happened. Then he decided that the best way was to get to the place himself as fast as he could. He dialled the number of the nearest taxi rank and got a reply immediately.
Martin Beck had been a policeman for twenty-three years. During that time several of his colleagues had been killed in the course of duty. It had hit him hard every time it happened, and somewhere at the back of his mind was also the realization that police work was getting more and more risky and that next time it might be his own turn. But when it came to Kollberg, his feelings were not merely those of a colleague. Over the years they had become more and more dependent on each other in their work. They were a good complement to one another and they had learned to understand each other's thoughts and feelings without wasting words. When Kollberg got married eighteen months ago and moved to Skärmarbrink they had also come closer together geographically and had taken to meeting in their spare time.
Quite recently Kollberg had said, in one of his rare moments of depression, ‘If you weren't there, God only knows whether I'd stay on the force.’
Martin Beck thought of this as he pulled on his wet raincoat and ran down the stairs to the waiting taxi.
Despite the rain and the late hour a cluster of people had collected outside the cordon towards Karlbergsvägen. They stared curiously at Martin Beck as he got out of the taxi. A young constable in a black raincape made a violent movement to check him, but another policeman grabbed his arm and saluted.
A small man in a light-coloured trench coat and cap placed himself in Martin Beck's way and said, ‘My condolences, Superintendent. I just heard a rumour that one of your –’
Martin Beck gave the man a look that made him swallow the rest of the sentence.
He knew the man in the cap only too well and disliked him intensely. The man was a freelance journalist and called himself a crime reporter. His speciality was reporting murders and his accounts were full of sensational, repulsive and usually erroneous details. In fact only the very worst weeklies published them.
The man slunk off and Martin Beck swung his legs over the rope. He saw that a similar cordon had been made a little farther up towards Torsplan. The roped-off area was swarming with black-and-white cars and unidentifiable figures in shiny raincoats. The ground around the red doubledecker was loose and squelchy.
The bus was lit up inside and the headlights were on, but the cones of light did not reach far in the heavy rain. The ambulance from the State Forensic Laboratory stood at the rear of the bus with its radiator pointing to Karlsbergsvägen. The medico-legal expert's car was
