'Well,' said Kollberg. 'Did you like Mauritzon?'

'Not particularly. But he's confessed to murder.'

'Who's he murdered now?'

'Svard.'

'Really?'

'Without any question.'

'Oh, that tape,' Ronn said. 'Is it from my recorder?' 'Yes.'

'It won't do you much good. It's not working.' 'But I tested it'

'Sure, it works for the first two minutes. After that you won't hear a squeak. A repairman's coming tomorrow to fix it'

'Oh.' Martin Beck looked atthe tape and said: 'It doesn't matter. Mauritzon's had it. Circ.u.mstantial evidence. We've tied the murder weapon to him, as Lennard pointed out before. Did Hjelm tell you there'd been a silencer on it?'

'Yes,' Kollberg said, yawning. 'But in the bank he didn't use one. Whyre you looking so strange?'

"There's something odd about Mauritzon,' Martin Beck said. 'Something I don't understand.'

'What are you asking for?' Kollberg said. 'Complete insight into the human psyche? Are you thinking of writing a thesis on criminology?'

'So long,' said Martin Beck. He left.

'Well,' Ronn said. 'He'll have plenty of time for that when he's a commissioner.'

Mauritzon was brought up before the Stockholm District Court, accused of murder, manslaughter, and armed robbery, as well as drug offences and various other matters.

To all these charges he pleaded not guilty. To every question he replied that he knew nothing about the matter and that the police had picked him out as a scapegoat and planted the evidence.

Bulldozer Olsson was at the height of his form, and the accused constantly found himself hard-pressed. In the course of the proceedings the prosecutor even went so far as to change the manslaughter charge into a second count of murder.

After only a three-day trial, the verdict was given. Mauritzon was sentenced to hard labour for life for the murder of the gymnastics instructor and the bank robbery on Hornsgatan. He was also found guilty of various other offences, including a conspiracy charge in connection with other Malmstrom-Mohren jobs.

The charge of having murdered Karl Edvin Svard, on the other hand, was dropped. The defence lawyer who, in the early stages of the trial, had acted apathetically, suddenly woke up and made havoc of the circ.u.mstantial evidence. Among other things he called in experts of his own who threw doubt on the ballistic investigation and pointed out, correctly, that the cartridge had been too seriously damaged to be linked with any certainty to Mauritzon's automatic.

Martin Beck testified, but what he had to say was found to be full of gaps and to be based to some extent on absurd a.s.sumptions.

From the point of view of justice, so called, this made little difference. Whether Mauritzon was condemned for one murder or two had no effect on the consequences. Formally, life imprisonment is the harshest penalty permitted under Swedish law.

Mauritzon listened to his sentence with a wry smile. Altogether, throughout the trial, he had behaved a trifle oddly.

When the judge asked whether the accused had understood his sentence, Mauritzon shook his head.

'In principle it means you have been found guilty of the Hornsgatan bank robbery and the murder of Mr Gardon, the gymnastics instructor. On the other hand the court has acquitted you of the charge of murdering Karl Edvin Svard. To sum up, you have been condemned to imprisonment for life and will now be taken back into custody until your sentence becomes final and beyond appeal.'

As the guards were taking him away, Mauritzon laughed. Those who noticed it thought this man - who showed neither remorse nor any respect for the law or the court - was an unusually hardened criminal.

Monita was sitting in a shady corner of the hotel terrace with the Italian grammar book from her adult-education course on her knee.

In the little bamboo grove at the bottom of the garden Mona was playing with one of her new-found friends. They were sitting on the sun-speckled ground between the slender bamboo trees, and Monita, hearing their bright cheerful voices, was amazed at the ease with which children communicate even if they don't understand a word of each other's language. Anyway, Mona had already learned a number of words, and Monita was sure her daughter would learn this foreign tongue a good deal more quickly than she would. In fact, she had about decided it was hopeless.

Here in the hotel she managed very well with English and a few halting words of German; but she wanted to talk to other people besides the hotel staff. That was why she had started to learn Italian, which seemed a good deal easier than Slovene and which she hoped she'd be able to use since they were near the Italian border.

It was terribly hot, and the heat was making her feel sleepy, even though she was sitting in the shade and only a quarter of an hour had pa.s.sed since she'd gone up and, for the fourth time this morning, taken a shower. She closed her book and stuffed it into her handbag, which was standing on the stone paving beside her chair.

On the street and the pavement outside the hotel garden, lightly clad tourists were strolling to and fro. Among them were many Swedes. Too many, Monita thought In the crowd it was easy to distinguish the little town's regular inhabitants. Their movements showed they felt themselves at home and knew what they were about Many of them were carrying various objects: baskets of eggs or fruit, large loaves of dark bread from the bakery on the pier, fishing nets, or their own children. And a while ago a man had walked past with a freshly slaughtered pig on his head. Most of the older people were dressed in black.

She called to Mona, who came running - her new playmate at her heels.

'I thought we'd take a little walk,' Monita said. 'Just up to Rozeta's house and back. Want to come?' 'Do I have to?' Mona said.

'No, of course not. Stay here and play if you like. I'll soon be back.' Monita began walking up the hill behind the hotel.

Rozeta's house stood on the mountainside, a quarter of an hour's walk from the hotel. It was still called that, though Rozeta herself had died five years ago, and the house was now owned by her three sons - all of whom had houses of their own down in the town.

Monita had already made the oldest son's acquaintance during her first week here. He kept a bodega down by the harbour and it was his daughter whom Mona most liked playing with. By now Monita had got to know his whole family but could only converse with the husband, who had been at sea and spoke good English. It cheered her to have made friends in town so quickly; but best of all, she had arranged to rent Rozeta's house in the autumn, when the American who was living there all summer had gone home. Since the house had not been promised to anyone else until next summer, she and Mona would be able to live there during the winter.

Rozeta's house - whitewashed, s.p.a.cious, and comfortable - was situated in a big garden with a fantastic view out over the mountains, the harbour, and the bay.

Sometimes Monita would go there and sit in the garden a while and talk to the American, a former army officer who had settled in me house during his retirement to write his memoirs.

As she went on up the steep slope Monita again reviewed the events that had brought her here. How many times she had done this in the last three weeks she couldn't say. And presumably she'd never cease to be astonished that once she had made up her mind to act, everything had happened so quickly and with such self-evident simplicity. Nor would she ever quite get over the fact that, to achieve her end, she had killed someone; but no doubt, as time pa.s.sed, she would become reconciled to the memory of that unintentional but definitive shot - which, during sleepless nights, still echoed through her head.

Finding that gun in Filip Mauritzon's kitchen cupboard had decided matters. Actually, it was as she'd stood there in his kitchen with his automatic in her hand that she'd instantly made up her mind. Afterwards it had taken her two and a half months to decide on a plan of action and to summon her courage. Ten weeks -when she'd thought of nothing else.

When at last she'd acted, she'd thought over every situation that could conceivably arise, including all those that might occur while she was still inside the bank.

What she'd never reckoned with was the possibility of being taken by surprise. Which was exactly what had happened. She knew nothing about firearms. Since she was only planning to use the automatic to frighten people, she hadn't even examined it very closely. That it could suddenly go off, just like that, had never really occurred to her.

Seeing that man come towards her, she'd involuntarily squeezed the trigger. That the gun had gone off was something she'd been totally unprepared for. Seeing him fall and realizing what she'd done, she'd been scared out of her wits. That she should have had the presence of mind to act more or less according to plan, even so, was still a source of amazement to her. Internally, she'd been paralysed by shock.

After taking the metro home she'd stashed the bag with the money among Mona's clothes in one of the suitcases she'd already begun packing the previous day.

But after that she'd begun to act irrationally. Changing her dress and sandals, she'd taken a taxi to Armfeldtsgatan. This had not been part of her original plan. But all at once she'd begun to feel that Mauritzon, at least in part, was guilty of the murder she'd committed. And she intended to put the gun back where she'd found it.

But when she again found herself standing in his kitchen she'd realized the unreasonableness of this notion.

She'd panicked and run away. Reaching the ground floor she'd noticed the door to the cellar standing wide open. Down in the cellar she'd been just about to open the door and dump the bag among all the rubbish there when she'd heard voices. Realizing it had to be the refuse collectors who'd come to empty the sacks, she'd run further down the pa.s.sage and found herself in a kind of storeroom. There she'd hidden the bag in a wooden box that was standing in one corner, waited until the door had slammed behind the refuse collectors, and then quickly left the building.

Next morning she'd left Sweden.

Monita had always dreamed of seeing Venice. Less than twenty-four hours after her bank robbery she'd found herself there, with Mona. They'd only stayed two days. Hotel rooms had been hard to find, the heat had been oppressive and - combined with the ca.n.a.l stench - almost unbearable. They could come back again after the worst of the tourist season was over.

They'd taken the train to Trieste and thence on to the little Istrian town in Yugoslavia where they now were.

In one of the suitcases standing in the wardrobe in her hotel room lay the nylon bag containing eighty-seven thousand kronor in Swedish banknotes. Several times it had occurred to her that perhaps she ought to keep the money somewhere safer. One day she'd go over to Trieste and put it in a bank.

The American wasn't in, but Monita went out into the garden and sat down with her back against a tree, which she guessed must be a pine.

She drew her legs up, rested her chin on her knees, and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up her eyes looked out across the Adriatic.

It was an unusually clear day; she could see the horizon and a little white pa.s.senger steamer that was heading for the harbour.

In the noonday heat the rocks down there, the white sh.o.r.e, and the gleaming blue bay all looked inviting. In a while she'd go down there and swim.

The National Police Commissioner had summoned Superintendent Malm to his large bright corner room in the oldest part of the police headquarters building. The sun was casting a rhomboid of light on his raspberry-red carpet, and through the closed windows could be heard faint noises from the construction of the metro line outside. They were discussing Martin Beck.

'Well, you've been in a much better position to appraise him than I have, both while he was on sick leave and these two weeks he's been on duty,' the National Police Commissioner said. 'How do you find him?'

'It depends what you mean,' Malm replied. 'Do you mean his state of health?'

'The doctors are the best judges of his physical condition. As far as I understand, he's recovered completely. Rather, I mean what impression you have of his psychological state.'

Superintendent Malm pa.s.sed his hand over his well-combed locks. 'Hmm,' he said. 'I find it hard to say...'

Silence fell in the room, and the National Police Commissioner waited awhile for him to go on. Then he said with a trace of irritation in his voice: 'I'm not asking you for a detailed psychiatric a.n.a.lysis. I merely thought you could tell me what sort of an impression he makes on you just now.'

'I haven't met him all that often, either, sir,' Malm said evasively.

'But you've more to do with him than I have,' the National Commissioner persisted. 'Is he really his old self?'

'You mean, like he was before he was wounded? No, maybe not. But of course he's been ill for some time and away from the job, and maybe it'll take a little while before he's back in harness again.'

'In what way do you think he's changed?'

Malm threw his boss an uncertain look and said: 'Well, not for the better, anyway. Of course he's always been a bit strange and difficult to understand. And naturally he's often been a bit too inclined to take matters into his own hands.'

The National Commissioner leaned forward and frowned: 'You think so? Well, I suppose it's true. But up to now his work has always produced good results. Are you implying that his highhandedness has grown worse?'

'Well, sir, I don't know. After all, he's only been back at work a couple of weeks.''

'My impression is that he's absent-minded,' the National Commissioner said, 'that he's lost his sting. Just look at this latest investigation into the Bergsgatan death.'

'Yes,' Malm said. 'He's made a mess of that.'

'A scandalous mess. And not only that! The whole thing seems utterly confused. We can only be grateful the press hasn't shown any interest in the case. Admittedly, it's still not too late. The story can leak out, and that wouldn't be good for us; least of all for Beck.'

- 'I don't know what I should say,' Malm said. 'Some aspects of that investigation seem to be products of sheer fantasy. As for that alleged confession... well, one doesn't know what to think.'

The National Police Commissioner got to his feet, went over to the window, and looked out toward Agnegatan and the City Hall across the way. After a few minutes he went back to his chair, laid the palms of his hands on his desk, scrutinized his nails, and said: 'I've given a lot of thought to this Beck business. And as you'll understand, it's been worrying me not least in view of our earlier decision to promote him to commissioner.'

He paused, and Malm waited attentively.

'Now this is howl see the matter,' the National Commissioner went on. 'Beck's manner of handling this Skold case...'

'Svard,' Malm interposed. 'Svard, his name was.'

'What's that? Ah yes, yes. Svard then. Beck's behaviour seems to suggest he isn't quite balanced, or what do you say?'

'In a way he seems raving mad, I think,' said Malm.

'Oh, let's hope it isn't as bad as all that. But psychologically he's unbalanced, and my view is that we ought to wait and see whether this is permanent, or just a short-term effect of his illness.'

The National Commissioner lifted his hands an inch or so above the desk top and then let them fall again. 'In other words,' he said, 'in this situation I think it would be a bit risky to recommend his promotion. He'd better stay where he is, and we'll see how things turn out. His promotion, after all, has only been suggested. Nothing has gone up to the Board. So I suggest we quite simply drop the whole matter and for the time being let it rest. I've other suitable candidates to propose for that job, and Beck himself need never know his name was ever put forward, so no damage has been done. Shall we put it like that?'

'Yes, sir,' said Malm. 'I'm sure that's a sensible decision.'

The National Commissioner got up again, went over to the door, and opened it for Malm, who jumped up from his chair.

'I think so too,' the National Police Commissioner said and closed the door behind him. 'A most sensible decision.'

When, a couple of hours later, the rumour of his stymied promotion reached Martin Beck, he for once had to agree with one of the National Commissioner's utterances.

Unquestionably, the latter had made a singularly wise decision.

Filip Faithful Mauritzon was pacing his cell. He found it was physically impossible to sit still. His thoughts, too, found no rest. But as time had pa.s.sed they'd become more simplified. Nowadays they limited themselves to a little set of questions.

What had happened, really?

And how?

To neither of these questions could he find an answer.

Already the guards who were keeping an eye on him had had a word with the prison psychiatrist. Next week they'd tell the chaplain too.

Mauritzon kept on asking for explanations. Explaining things was something the chaplain was good at. Maybe he could be of some use.

Now the prisoner was lying quite still in the dark. He couldn't sleep.

He thought:.

What the devil happened, really? And how?

Someone must know. Who?

About the book.

2 A Policeman's Lot is Not a Happy One.

7 Society is to Blame.

9 Police and Policies.