'The hook is on the door, and the eye's on the doorpost,' she said. 'They're both made of heavy metal.' 'How're we to get it open?'

She shrugged and said: 'By force, I suppose. It's all yours. That's what one needs a man about the house for, so they say.'

He must have looked unusually dim standing there, for she laughed again. Then, pa.s.sing the back of her hand swiftly over his cheek, she said: 'Don't worry. I can fix it just as well myself. But anyway, it's a locked room; which subsection I couldn't say.'

'Can't we slip something in through the crack?'

"There isn't any crack. I told you I mounted that hook myself. I did it right.'

So she had. The door yielded no more than a tiny fraction of an inch.

She seized the doork.n.o.b, kicked off her right shoe, and put her foot against the doorpost 'No, hang on,' he said. 'Let me.'

'Okay,' she said and went back to join the others in the kitchen.

Martin Beck took a good long look at the door. Then he did the same as she had. He put his foot against the doorpost and grabbed the doork.n.o.b, which seemed old and dirty. The fact was, there was no other way. Unless you wanted to smash the pegs of the hinges.

The first time he didn't exert all his strength. The second time he did. But he wasn't successful until his fifth try. The screws came out of the timber with a whining sound and the door burst open.

It was the screws of the hook that had pulled out. The eye still sat firmly anch.o.r.ed to the doorpost. It was cast in one piece with a four-hole base plate. The hook was still hooked into the eye. It too was thick and seemed impossible to bend. Steel, probably.

Martin Beck looked around him. The nursery was empty, and its window was firmly closed.

To fix the hook arrangement again, both hook and eye had to be moved an inch or so. The woodwork around the old screw holes had been destroyed.

He went out into the kitchen where everyone was talking at once, discussing the genocide in Vietnam.

'Rhea,' he said. 'Where are your tools?'

'Over there in the chest' She pointed to it with her foot, her hands being full. She was demonstrating a crochet st.i.tch to one of the others.

He got a screwdriver and awl.

'There's no hurry,' she said. 'Get yourself a cup and come and sit down. Anna here has been baking. Buns.'

He sat down and ate a freshly baked bun. Though he followed what they were talking about, his thoughts were elsewhere. Then he turned to something else.

He sat silent, listening to memory's tape recorder - a conversation from eleven days ago.

Conversation in a corridor in the Stockholm City Hall, Tuesday, 4th July 1972.

martin beck - So when you'd smashed the pegs and got the door open. you entered the flat?

kenneth kvastmo - Yes.

martin beck - Who went in first?

Kenneth kvastmo - I did. Kristiansson felt sick from the smell.

martin beck - What did you do, precisely, when you came in?

kenneth kvastmo - There was a horrible stench. The light was poor, but I could see the corpse lying on the floor, two or three yards away from the window.

martin beck - And then? Try and remember it in detail kenneth kvastmo -You could hardly breathe in there. I walked around the body and over to the window.

martin beck - Was it shut?

kenneth kvastmo - Sure. And the blind was down. I tried to pull it up but couldn't. The spring was uncoiled. But I knew we'd.just have to get that window open and get some air.

martin beck - What did you do then?

kenneth kvastmo - I pushed the blind aside and opened the window. Then I wound up the blind and set the spring - though that was afterwards.

martin beck - And the window was closed?

kenneth kvastmo - Yes. At least, one hook was on properly.

I unhooked it and opened the window.

martin beck - Do you remember whether it was the upper or the lower hook?

kenneth kvastmo -1 couldn't swear to it The upper, I think. What the lower one was like I don't remember. I suppose I opened that one too - no, I'm not sure.

martin beck - Butyou are sure the window was hooked on the inside?

kenneth kvastmo - Oh yes, one hundred per cent I'm absolutely sure.

Rhea gave him a playful kick on the shin. 'Take a bun, for G.o.d's sake,' she said.

'Rhea,' he said. 'Have you got a good torch?'

'Yeah. It's hanging on a nail in the cleaning cupboard.'

'May I borrow it?'

'Course you can.'

'Then I'm going out awhile. I'll be back soon and fix that door.' 'Fine,' she said. 'So long.'

'So long,' said Martin Beck. He got the torch, called for a taxi, and drove to Bergsgatan.

He stood awhile on the pavement, looking up at the window on the other side of the street. Then he turned around. Behind him Kron.o.berg Park lay on rising ground. The slope was rocky and steep, covered with bushes.

He clambered up until he'd reached a position opposite the window. He was almost on level with it, and the distance was at most twenty-five yards. Taking a ballpoint pen out of his pocket he pointed it at the window's dark rectangle. The blind was drawn; the landlord, to his intense annoyance, had been forbidden to rent the flat until the police said he could.

Martin Beck moved around until he'd found the very best spot. He was no marksman, but if his ballpoint pen had been a forty-five automatic he could have hit anyone who'd shown himself at that window. Of that he was sure.

He was well hidden here. Naturally, in mid-April the vegetation had been a good deal spa.r.s.er, but even then it should have been possible to hide without drawing attention - as long as you didn't move.

Now it was broad daylight, but even late in the evening the street lighting should have been enough. Darkness would also have offered better protection to anyone standing on the slope. Even so, no one would be likely to fire from here without a silencer on his pistol.

Once again he considered carefully which spot was best. And using it as his starting point he began his search. Few people were pa.s.sing by beneath him. Those who did halted when they heard him poking about in the shrubs. But only momentarily. Then they hurried on their way, anxious not to get involved.

He searched systematically. He began to his right Almost all automatics reject their cartridges to the right, but how far and in what direction? It was a job that called for patience. Close to the ground, he was glad he had the torch. Martin Beck did not intend to give up. At least not for a long time.

After an hour and forty minutes he found the empty cartridge. It was lying between two stones, partially covered by leaves and soil. Plenty of rain had fallen since April. Dogs and other animals had been trampling about up here; certainly humans too - for example, those who took it into their heads to break the law by drinking beer in a public place.

He pried out the little bra.s.s cylinder, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and put it in his pocket.

Then he walked eastwards along Bergsgatan. Near City Hall he found a taxi and drove out to the criminology lab. At this time of day they would probably be closed, but he was counting on someone being there. Almost always nowadays someone was working overtime. But he had to do a lot of talking before anyone even agreed to accept his find.

In the end, however, he talked them into it. He put it in a plastic box and carefully filled in the details on a card.

And of course you're in a h.e.l.l of a hurry for it,' said one of the technicians who was working overtime.

'Not particularly,' Martin Beck said. 'In fact not at all. I'd just be grateful if you'd take a look at it when you get the chance.'

The technician contemplated the cartridge case. It wasn't much to look at, squashed and dirty. It didn't seem too hopeful 'Just because you said that,' the technician said, 'I'll look at it as soon as I possibly can. We're fed up to here with all you guys who come in saying there's not a precious second to lose.'

By this time it was so late he felt he must call Rhea.

'Hi,' she said. 'I'm all by myself now. The street door's locked, but I'll throw down the key.'

'I'll fix that door.'

'I've already done that myself. Have you done what you wanted?' 'Yes.'

'Good. Then you'll be here in half an hour.'

Just about.'

'Just give a shout from the street I'll hear you.'

He got there just after eleven and whistled. At first nothing happened. Then she came down herself and opened the door, barefoot, wearing her long red nightie.

Up in the kitchen she said: 'Did you use the torch?'

'Yes. It came in very useful.'

'Shall we open the wine now? By the way, have you had anything to eat?'

'Nope.'

'That's no good. I'll fix something. Won't take long. You're starving.'

Starving. Yes, perhaps he was. 'How're things going with Svard?' 'Seem to be getting clearer.'

'How so? Tell me. I'm so b.l.o.o.d.y curious about everything.' By one o'clock the wine bottle was empty. She yawned.

'By the way,' she said, 'I'm leaving town tomorrow. Back on Monday. Maybe not until Tuesday.' He was about to say: 'Now I'll be off.'

You don't want to go home,' she said.

'No.'

"Then you cart sleep here.' He nodded.

She said: 'But it's not easy sleeping in the same bed as me. I kick around all the time, even while I'm asleep.' He undressed and got into bed.

Would you like me to take off my nice nightie?' she said.

'Sure.'

'Okay'

She did so and lay down beside him. 'But that's the end of the fun,' she said.

He reflected that two years had gone by since he'd shared a bed with another human being. Martin Beck didn't reply. She was warm and very close.

We didn't have time to start on that puzzle,' she said. 'It'll have to be next week.'

Whereupon he dropped off to sleep.

28.

Monday morning. Martin Beck was humming to himself as he turned up at Vastberga. A clerk stared at him in astonishment as he walked down the corridor. All weekend he'd been feeling fine, even though he'd spent it alone. In fact he could hardly recall when he'd last felt so optimistic The summer of 1968 hadn't been too bad.

At the same time he was breaking into Svard's locked room he was also breaking out of his own.

He spread out the excerpts from the warehouse ledgers in front of him, putting a tick beside the names that seemed most worthy of consideration. Then he attacked the telephone.

Insurance companies have one urgent task: to earn as much money as possible. So they keep their personnel up to their ears in work. For the same reason they keep all their doc.u.ments in apple-pie order, in a constant panic that someone may swindle them and gnaw unpunished into their profits. Nowadays this mad working tempo had tended to become an end in itself: 'Impossible, we haven't got the time.'

There were various types of countermeasures he could apply, e.g., the one he'd used on the lab technicians on Friday evening. Another was to pretend to be even more pressed for time than they were; this often worked if one represented some branch of the bureaucracy. As a policeman it's tough trying to speed up other policemen. But in certain other cases it works admirably.

'Impossible, we haven't time. Is it urgent?'

'Fantastically urgent! You've just got to find the time.'

'Who's your immediate superior?'

And so forth.