Ronn and Melander were not out freezing in the cold. They were sitting in relatively comfortable chairs in a gla.s.s-walled cabin the police in Helsingborg had provided specially for them. Two excellent electric heaters maintained a pleasant warmth inside, and at regular intervals young policemen came in with Thermoses of coffee, plastic cups, and plates of cakes and Danish pastries. The stream of traffic had been directed past the cabin's gla.s.s walls, and if a traveller required special examination, two excellent pairs of prism binoculars were at their disposal They were also in radio communication with the police who were checking car and train pa.s.sengers.

Nevertheless, Ronn and Melander were looking equally bad-tempered, since despite their relative comfort their Christmas was going to h.e.l.l. They didn't say much, except when they got hold of a private telephone and could call up their wives and complain.

This was the situation on Friday the twentieth of December, four days before Christmas Eve. Sat.u.r.day was worse, as even more people were free from work, and the crowds crossing oresund were enormous.

Martin Beck went down to the quay outside the hydrofoil terminal, fighting his way through the hysterical crowd of people who had no reservations but nevertheless hoped to get on the next boat It turned out that the man dipping the tickets for the labern was Danish and extremely distrustful of people who claimed to be chief inspectors of police but were unable to produce their ident.i.ty cards. Martin Beck had changed jackets and, naturally, had left his card back in the hotel room. He was finally saved by Benny Skacke, who by this time was well known to the ticket-clipping seaman.

Martin Beck stepped out into the sharp, spiteful, wet wind so typical of winter in South Sweden, especially in Malmo. He looked at his myrmidon, behind whom a row of Santa Clauses were handing out leaflets advertising some of what the capital of Denmark had to offer despite the economic crisis and threatened . devaluation.

Skacke looked terrible; his cheeks were a pale violet colour, his forehead and nose dead white, and above his woollen scarf his skin was almost transparent.

'How long have you been standing here?' said Martin Beck. 'Since a quarter past five,' said Skacke shakily. 'The first sailing, in fact.'

'Go and get something hot to eat at once,' said Martin Beck sternly. 'Now. Right away.'

Skacke vanished, but fifteen minutes later he was back again, his colour now slightly more normal.

Nothing much happened on Sat.u.r.day, apart from a number of people who got very drunk and started fights. Martin Beck thought about an article he'd read recently that said Swedes, Americans and perhaps Finns did more fighting than any other people. It was probably one of those generalizations, but sometimes it appeared to be true.

At about ten in the evening, Martin Beck went back to his hotel. The over-industrious Skacke remained, determined to stay at his post until the last boat sailed. He clearly had no faith in his erstwhile colleagues on the Malmo force.

Martin Beck collected his room key and headed for the lift but then changed his mind and went into the bar. There were plenty of guests there, as always just before Christmas, but one of the barstools was empty, so he sat himself down.

'Well, well, good evening,' said the barman. 'Whisky with ice water as usual?' The man had an infallible memory.

Martin Beck hesitated. Ice water did not sound particularly tempting after all those hours on the windy quay. He glanced at the guest beside him who was drinking something golden-looking out of a large gla.s.s. It looked pretty good. Then he looked at the guest himself, a youthful man in his fifties with a beard and glossy hair.

'Try it,' said the man. 'A Gyllenkrok, or Golden Hook, as the Americans call it. It's the bar's own invention.'

Martin Beck took his advice. The drink was good, and he tried in vain to work out what was in it. He glanced again at the man who had recommended it, and said suddenly, 'I recognize you.

You're the botanist and reporter who found Sigbrit Mrd at Lake Borringe last autumn.'

'Ugh,' said the man. 'Don't talk about things like that. Not here, anyway.'

A moment later he glanced at Martin Beck and said, 'Of course. And you're the police inspector from Stockholm who questioned me afterwards. What's up now?'

'Just routine,' said Martin Beck, shrugging his shoulders.

'Oh, well,' said the finder of the corpse, 'it's none of my business.'

Three minutes later, Martin Beck said goodnight and went to bed. He was so tired that he couldn't even summon up the energy to call Rhea.

Sunday the twenty-second of December, and even worse chaos at the hydrofoil terminal. The shops were apparently still open, because the Santas with their leaflets were more numerous than ever. There were also large numbers of children among the crowds of pa.s.sengers. It was midday, rush hour, high season for everything except for pa.s.sable weather. The wind was from the north, wet and bitterly cold, blowing straight in through the harbour entrance and sweeping mercilessly on to the unprotected quay.

Two boats were just about to sail, a Danish one called Flyvefisken and a Swedish one called Tarnan. They were simply being packed and sent off as quickly as possible.

The Danish boat cast off, and Benny Skacke, who had been standing by the gangway, began to walk towards the Swedish boat Martin Beck was standing by the exit just behind the Swedish seaman clipping tickets like lightning while he simultaneously clicked a mechanical counter with his other hand to check the number of pa.s.sengers.

The wind was hideous and as Martin Beck turned his head down and away to protect his face a little, he heard someone say something in Danish to the ticket man. He turned.

There was no doubt about it.

Reinhard Heydt had got past the ticket taker as well as all the policemen outside and was already only a yard away from him, on his way towards the gangway. His only luggage was a brown paper bag with a Santa Claus printed on its side. Skacke was twenty-five yards away, still halfway between the boat that had just sailed and the one just about to cast off, when he looked up, at once recognized the South African, stopped and felt for his service pistol.

But Heydt had seen Skacke first and immediately identified him as a policeman in civilian clothes. When Skacke looked up at him and thrust his right hand under his coat, the situation was quite clear to Heydt. Someone was going to die within the next few seconds, and Heydt was certain it would not be him. He would shoot this policeman, then jump over the fence into the street and escape through the traffic He dropped the bag and his hand flew to the gun inside his jacket.

Benny Skacke was quick and well trained, but Reinhard Heydt was ten times quicker. Martin Beck had never seen anything like it, not even in the movies.

But Martin was quick on the uptake, too. He took a step forward and said, 'Just a moment, Mr Heydt...' simultaneously grasping Heydt's right arm. The South African already had the Colt in his hand and, with all his strength, slowly raised his arm while Martin Beck struggled to hold it down.

With his life at stake and Martin Beck offering him a chance to stay alive, Skacke aimed his Walther and shot to kill.

The bullet struck Heydt in the mouth and lodged in the top of his spine. He died instantly - and at the moment of death pulled the trigger. The bullet struck Benny Skacke high in the right hip and spun him around like a top, straight into the row of Santa Clauses.

Skacke was lying face-down, bleeding profusely, but he was not unconscious. When Martin Beck knelt down beside him, Skacke said at once, 'What happened? Where's Heydt?'

'You shot him. Killed him instantly.'

'What else could I do?' said Skacke.

'You did the right thing. It was your only chance.'

Per Mnsson came rushing up from somewhere, surrounded by an aura of freshly made coffee.

'The ambulance will be here in a jiffy,' he said. 'Lie still, Benny.'

Lie still, thought Martin Beck. If Heydt had had another tenth of a second of life, Benny Skacke would have lain still for ever. Even another hundredth of a second could have made Skacke an invalid for life. Now he would be all right. Martin Beck had seen where the bullet had struck and it was well out in the hip.

A crowd of policemen had appeared and began to clear the gawkers away from the dead man. When the wail of the ambulance sounded, Martin Beck went over and looked at Heydt His face was slightly distorted, but on the whole he looked pleasant even dead.

The man who answered at the border station at European Route 18 sounded somewhat irritable. The telephone had rung far too d.a.m.ned often and the line of cars was also growing longer and longer and more and more impossible to survey.

'Yes,' said the border policeman, 'he's here all right Wait a moment' He put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'Gunvald Larsson?' he said. 'Isn't that the big slob in the millionaire clothes hanging around over by that tree there?'

'Yes,' said his colleague. 'I think so.'

'He's wanted on the telephone. This d.a.m.n guy Heydt'

Gunvald Larsson came in and took the receiver. His remarks were so monosyllabic that it was hard to make anything of what he said.

'Oh,yes... Uh-huh... Dead?... Injured?.. .Who?... Skacke? ... And he's okay?... Right So long.'

He put down the receiver, looked at the men at the border station and said, 'You can let the traffic through now, and take down the barriers. We don't need them any more.'

Gunvald Larsson suddenly felt that he had not slept for a long long time. He drove only as far as Karlstad, then gave up and stopped at the city hotel.

In Helsingborg, Fredrik Melander replaced the receiver and smiled with satisfaction. Then he looked at the time. Ronn, who had been eavesdropping, also had an extremely satisfied expression. They would be able to celebrate Christmas at home.

Friday the tenth of January 1975 was just the kind of evening everyone hopes for more of. When everyone is relaxed and in tune with themselves and the world around them. When everyone has eaten and drunk well and knows they are free the next day, as long as nothing too special or horrible or unexpected happens.

If by 'everyone' we mean a very small group of humankind.

Four people, to be exact Martin Beck and Rhea were spending that evening with Lennart Kollberg and his wife, and together they had created the conditions for as good a time as anyone could wish for.

No one said very much, but that was mostly because they were playing a game called 'crosswords', a game that seemed very simple. Each had a pen and piece of paper on which were drawn twenty-five squares, and each person in turn said a letter of the alphabet. The players had to fill in the given letters, and none other, and try to make words that read either across or down.

They were not allowed to look at each other's papers.

'X,' said Kollberg, for the third time in the same game, and they all sighed heavily.

There was possibly one fault with this game, thought Martin Beck, and that was that Kollberg won four times out of five and the fifth time, Rhea won. But when it came to games, both he and Gun Kollberg were used to being losers, so it didn't matter.

'X, as in ex-policeman,' said Kollberg, breezily, as if they all didn't know how impossible it was to squeeze in one more example out of that hopeless letter.

Martin Beck stared for a moment at his paper, then shrugged his shoulders and gave up.

'Lennart?'

'Mmm,' said Kollberg.

'Do you remember ten years ago?'

'When we were hunting for Folke Bengtsson and the police had just been nationalized? Yes, I do, and I guess that is a time to remember. But everything that happened afterwards? No, dammit,'

'Do you remember that was when it all began?'

Kollberg shook his head. 'No, I don't. And what's worse, I don't think this is where it's going to end.'

'X' said Rhea.

Which shut everyone up for a moment A little later, the time had come to count the scores. Two points for a two-letter word, three for a three-letter word, and so on. Martin Beck scribbled the numbers on his paper. He was last as usual.

'Although one thing's certain,' said Kollberg, 'and that is that they made a terrible mistake back then. Putting the police in the vanguard of violence is like putting the cart before the horse.'

'Ha! I won!' said Rhea.

'You certainly did,' said Kollberg.

Then he said magnanimously to Martin Beck, 'Don't sit there thinking about all that now. Violence has rushed like an avalanche throughout the whole of the Western world over the last ten years. You can't stop or steer that avalanche on your own. It just increases. That's not your fault'

'Isn't it?'

They all turned their papers over and drew more squares. When Kollberg was ready, he looked at Martin Beck and said, 'The trouble with you, Martin, is just that you've got the wrong job.

At the wrong time. In the wrong part of the world. In the wrong system.' 'Is that all?'

'Roughly,' said Kollberg. 'My turn to start? Then I say X - X as in Marx.'

end.