think so. He seems unusually dumb.’
‘You don’t mean that, do you?’
Gunvald Larsson looked angrily at him and said:
‘What the hell’s all this about anyway? I’m standing there and the miserable house catches fire. Eleven people were trapped inside and I got eight of them out.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed that,’ said Kollberg, glancing sideways at the newspapers.
‘Is it quite certain that it is a question of only three people killed in the fire?’ Hammar asked.
Martin Beck took some papers out of his inside pocket and studied them. Then he said:
‘It seems so. That man Malm, another called Kenneth Roth who lived above Malm, and then Kristina Modig, who had a room in the attic. She was only fourteen.’
‘Why did she live in the attic?’ asked Hammar.
‘Don’t know,’ said Martin Beck. ‘We’ll have to find that out.’
‘There’s a hell of a lot more we’ve got to find out,’ said Kollberg. ‘We don’t even know that it was just those three who were killed. And also, all that about eleven people is just a supposition, isn’t it, Mr Larsson?’
‘Who were the people who got themselves out, then?’ said Hammar.
‘First of all, they didn’t get themselves out,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘I was the one who got them out. If I hadn’t happened to have been standing there, not a damned one of them would have got clear. And second, I didn’t write down their names. I had other things to do at the time.’
Martin Beck looked thoughtfully at the big man in bandages. Gunvald Larsson often behaved badly, but to be offensive to Hammar must be due to either megalomania or a stroke. Hammar frowned.
Martin Beck shuffled through his papers and said as a diversion:
‘I’ve at least got the names here. Agnes and Herman Söderberg. They are married, sixty-eight and sixty-seven years old. Anna-Kajsa Modig and her two children, Kent and Clary. The mother is thirty, the boy five and the girl seven months. Then two women, Clara Berggren and Madeleine Olsen, sixteen and twenty-four, and a guy called Max Karlsson. How old he is, I don’t know. The last three didn’t live in the house, but were there as guests. Probably at Kenneth Roth’s, the one who was killed in the fire.’
‘None of those names means anything to me,’ said Hammar.
‘Nor me,’ said Martin Beck.
Kollberg shrugged his shoulders.
‘Roth was a thief,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘And Söderberg a drunk and Anna-Kajsa Modig a whore. If that makes you any happier.’
A telephone rang and Kollberg answered. He pulled a notepad towards him and took a ballpoint pen out of his pocket.
‘Oh, yes, it’s you is it? Yes, get going.’
The others watched him in silence. Kollberg put down the receiver and said:
‘That was Rönn. This is the position: Madeleine Olsen probably won’t survive. She’s got eighty per cent burns plus concussion and a multiple fracture of the femur.’
‘She was red-haired all over,’ said Gunvald Larsson.
Kollberg looked sharply at him and went on:
‘Old man Söderberg and his wife are suffering smoke poisoning, but their chances are passable. Max Karlsson has thirty per cent burns and will live. Carla Berggren and Anna-Kajsa Modig are physically uninjured, but both are suffering from severe shock, as is Karlsson. None of them is fit to be interrogated. Only the two kids are perfectly all right.’
‘So it might be an ordinary fire, then,’ said Hammar.
‘Balls,’ said Gunvald Larsson.
‘Shouldn’t you go home to bed?’ said Martin Beck.
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, eh?’
Ten minutes later, Rönn himself appeared. He goggled at Larsson in astonishment and said:
‘What in the world are you doing here?’
‘You may well ask,’ said Gunvald Larsson.
Rönn looked reproachfully at the others.
‘Have you lost your minds?’ he said. ‘Come on, Gunvald, let’s go.’
Gunvald rose obediently and walked over to the door.
‘One moment,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Just one question. Why were you shadowing Göran Malm?’
‘Haven’t the slightest idea,’ said Gunvald Larsson, and left.
An astonished silence reigned.
A few minutes later, Hammar grunted something incomprehensible and left the room. Martin Beck sat down, picked up a newspaper and began reading it. Thirty seconds later, Kollberg followed his example. They sat like this, in sullen silence, until Rönn returned.
‘What did you do with him?’ said Kollberg. ‘Take him to the zoo?’
‘What d’you mean,’ said Rönn, ‘do with him? Who?’
‘Mr Larsson,’ said Kollberg.
‘If you mean Gunvald, he’s in South Hospital with concussion. He is not allowed to speak or read for several days. And whose fault is that?’
‘Well, not mine,’ said Kollberg.
‘Yes, that’s just what it is. I’ve a damned good mind to punch you.’
‘Don’t stand there yelling at me,’ said Kollberg.
‘I can do better than that,’ said Rönn. ‘You’ve always behaved like a clod to Gunvald. But this just takes the biscuit.’
Einar Rönn was from Norrland, a calm, good-natured man, who never normally lost his temper. During their fifteen-year acquaintanceship, Martin Beck had never before seen him angry.
‘Oh, well, then, it’s just as well he’s got one mate, anyhow,’ said Kollberg, sarcastically.
Rönn took a step towards him, clenching his fists. Martin Beck rose swiftly and stood between them, turning to Kollberg and saying:
‘Stop it now, Lennart. Don’t make things any worse.’
‘You’re not much better yourself,’ said Rönn to Martin Beck. ‘You’re both a couple of shits.’
‘Hey, now, what the hell…’ said Kollberg, straightening up.
‘Calm down, Einar,’ said Martin Beck to Rönn. ‘You’re quite right, we should have seen that there was something
