'Oh, yes. I put a stick in the ground, just in case.'

'Good,' said Parsson. 'Very sensible. Leave your name and telephone number out there, will you, and we'll let you know if we need your help.'

An hour later the parcel was on Martin Beck's desk at the South police station. He examined the iron bar and then the enlarged close-ups of the fracture of the victim's skull. Then he lifted the receiver and called the State Crime Lab in Solna. He asked to speak to Oskar Hjelm, the boss.

Hjelm sounded irritable, but then he usually did. 'What is it this time?' he said.

'An iron bar,' said Martin Beck. 'As for as I can see, it might very well be the one Walter Petrus was killed with. I know you've got a lot to do, but I'd appreciate it if you'd take care of it as quickly as you can. All right?'

'As quickly as I can,' said Hjelm. 'We've got work out here to last us to Christmas and all of it has to be done as quickly as we can. But send it over. Anything special you want done, apart from the usual?'

'No, just the usual. See if it fits the wound, and whatever else you can get out of it. It's been lying outdoors for a while so it'll probably be difficult to find anything on it, but do your best'

Hjelm sounded offended when he answered. 'We always do our best.'

'I know,' said Martin Beck quickly. 'I'll send it over right away.'

'I'll call you when it's done,' said Hjelm.

Four hours later, just as Martin Beck was tidying his desk to go home, Hjelm called.

'Hjelm here,' he said. 'Yes, it fits exactly. There are only minute traces of blood and brain tissue, but I managed to confirm the blood type. It's the right one.'

'Nice going, Hjelm. Anything else?'

'A little cotton fibre. Of two kinds, in fact Some white, probably from the towel used to wipe the blood off. And some navy blue, possibly from his clothes.'

'Great job, Oskar,' said Martin Beck.

'The iron bar itself is four hundred and twenty-four millimetres long, thirty-three in diameter, octagonal, wrought iron, and judging by the corrosion it's been outdoors for quite a long time. Several years, perhaps always. It's hand-wrought and has been soldered at both ends.'

'Soldered to what? Do you have any idea what it was used for?'

'It appears to be fairly old, perhaps sixty or seventy years. Might have been in some kind of railing.'

'And you're sure it's the weapon used on Petrus?'

'Definitely,' said Hjelm. 'Unfortunately the surface was so rough it was impossible to get any fingerprints.'

'We'll have to do without them,' said Martin Beck. He thanked the other man and, with a grunt, Hjelm put down the receiver.

Martin Beck called Parsson in Marsta and told him what Hjelm had said.

'Then that's one step forward,' said Parsson. 'We'd better send out some men to comb the area. Not that I think it'll be much use after such a long time, but still...'

'Do you know exactly where the iron bar was lying?' asked Martin Beck.

'The young man who found it marked the place. I'll call him now. Do you want to come and see?'

'Okay. Just tell me when you're going and I'll come.'

Martin Beck went back to shuffling papers and files about, gradually succeeding in achieving some kind of order on his desk. Then he leaned back in his chair and opened a file that sa Torell had handed in earlier that morning. The file contained the report of her interviews with two girls who had known Walter Petrus. sa was obviously acquainted with one of them from her earlier work with the Vice Squad.

The girls' stories agreed, on the whole. Their descriptions of Petrus were not flattering, and neither one of them seemed to mourn or regret his demise. As far as one of his characteristics was concerned, they were very much in agreement - he had been extremely miserly. He had, for instance, never ever bought them dinner, or a c.o.c.ktail, or given them so much as a packet of cigarettes or a bar of chocolate. On one occasion he did take one of them to the cinema, but she pointed out that he'd had free tickets for the show.

At fairly regular intervals he used to call them up and summon

them to his office, always in the evenings after the staff had gone

home, and they agreed that his s.e.xual efforts were lamentable. He

was almost always impotent, and those so-called moments of

pa.s.sion in his office, usually unsuccessful, did not make him any

more generous. Once or twice they had been given their cab fares

home after their long, tiresome and fruitless efforts to give him

s.e.xual satisfaction, but mostly he simply sent them away, whining and discontented.

One of the reasons why the girls had had anything to do with him at all was his generosity with alcohol and hash. He kept a well-stocked bar and he always had a supply of marijuana. The other reason the girls stuck around was his persistent promises of important parts in future films, constant prospects of trips, to the Cannes. Festival perhaps, and a life of luxury and fame.

One of the girls had stopped seeing him six months earlier, but the other had been with him as recently as a few days before his death. She admitted that at first she had been stupid enough to believe his promises, but had gradually realized that he was using her. After their last meeting she had been so disgusted with him that she had decided to say a few well-chosen words and slam down the receiver the next time he called. Now she needn't worry about it any more.

Her epitaph for Walter Petrus certainly showed no signs of any warm feelings. sa had taken her at her word and written it down: 'You can quote me. Say I've a good mind to do a go-go dance on his grave, if anyone's gone to the trouble of digging a grave for that a.r.s.ehole.' sa had also clipped a note to the report. Martin Beck unfastened it and read: Martin, This girl is a junkie - not known to the Drugs Squad - but shows all the signs of abuse of harder stuff than hash. Denies that WP supplied her with anything else, but wouldn't it be worth looking into?

Martin Beck put the paper into his desk drawer, closed the file and went and stood by the window with his hands in his pockets. He thought about sa's suggestion that Walter Petrus might have been involved in the steadily increasing drug trade. It was an aspect of the case that might open new roads for investigation, but might also complicate matters. There had been nothing in his office or his home to indicate that Petrus was involved with drugs, but then they hadn't been looking for anything, either. Now he would have to bring in the Drugs Squad and see what they could find out.

The telephone rang. It was Parsson in Marsta, informing him that he'd got hold of the youth who could show them the place where the iron bar was found, and that they would be driving out there in a little while.

Martin Beck promised to come and went to find Skacke, but Skacke had gone home or was out on some errand. He lifted the receiver to call a cab, but then changed his mind and called a garage instead. It would cost almost a hundred kronor to go to Rotebro and back by cab and this month's bundle of cab receipts was already alarmingly thick. Although he drove a car only very reluctantly, and only when absolutely necessary, he had no choice this time. He took the lift down to the garage where a black Volkswagen was waiting for him.

Parsson was at the agreed meeting place in Rotebro, and together with the young man, they walked across the field to the blackthorn bushes where the iron bar had been found. The weather had taken a turn for the worse, the air was cold and damp, the evening sky low and grey with heavy rain-filled clouds. Martin Beck looked over towards the houses on the other side of the field.

'Funny he came this way, where he could be seen so easily.' 'Maybe he had a car over on the Enkoping road,' Parsson suggested. 'I think we can start with that arid examine the ground from here to the road tomorrow.'

'It looks like rain,' said Martin Beck, 'and almost three weeks have gone by. It doesn't seem likely you'll find anything.'

His feet were cold and he longed to be home with Rhea. The blackthorn bushes had not produced any answer to the question of who had murdered Walter Petrus, and it was getting dark.

'Let's go,' he said, starting to walk back towards the cars.

He drove straight to Tulegatan, and while Rhea fried meat rissoles out in the kitchen, he lay in the bath and thought about how he would organize the next day's work.

The Drugs Squad would have to be informed and brought into the picture.

A thorough search would have to be made of the house in Djursholm, of the film company's office and of Maud Lundin's house.

Benny Skacke would have to spend the day finding out if Petrus had some secret address, an apartment or premises rented under a false name.

The girl sa had talked to would have to be pressed a bit harder. That would be up to the Drugs Squad.

He himself thought about going out to the house again to speak to Mrs Pettersson and h.e.l.lstrom the gardener, but that could wait. Tomorrow he would have to stay in his office. sa could talk to the help in Djursholm. He wondered what sa was up to. She had not been seen all day.

'Food's ready,' called Rhea. 'Do you want wine or beer?'

'Beer, thanks,' he called back.

He climbed out of the bath and stopped thinking about the next day.

The National Commissioner of Police smiled at Gunvald Larsson, but there was no trace of boyish charm in the smile. It showed only two rows of sharp teeth and a barely concealed dislike of his visitor. Stig Malm was in position, which meant just behind his boss's shoulder, trying to look as if none of this had anything to do with him.

Malm had reached his present post by means of what might be called clever careerist manoeuvring, or, in rather more direct language, a.r.s.e-licking. He knew how dangerous it was to offend some higher-ups, but he was also aware of the fact that it could be disastrous to sit too heavily on some subordinates. The day might come when they in their turn were given the chance to sit on him. So for the time being he was observing the situation with an open mind.

The Commissioner raised his hands an inch or two and let them fall flat on the table again. 'Well, Larsson,' he said, 'there's no need to tell you how genuinely pleased we are that you escaped from that terrible business without serious injury.'

Gunvald Larsson glanced at Malm, who did not look the least bit pleased. But when Malm saw that he was being observed, he tried to repair the damage with a wide smile. 'Yes, indeed, Gunvald,' he said. 'You certainly gave us an anxious morning.'The chief turned and looked icily at his second-in-command, and Malm realized he'd gone too far. He at once suppressed the smile, looked down and thought despondently: Whatever you do, it's wrong.

He did in fact have good reason for a certain misanthropy. If he or the Commissioner made some slight error that evening papers could splatter all over their front pages, it was Malm who got blamed. And when some subordinate erred, it was Malm again who got shot down. If he had shown a little more s.p.u.n.k, this might not have been the case, but Stig Malm never carried his reasoning that far.

The Commissioner, who for some reason thought long pauses increased his authority, now said: 'What seems slightly peculiar is that you stayed there for eleven days after the a.s.sa.s.sination, although you had a flight booked for the following day. You should have left on June sixth, and yet you weren't back until the eighteenth. How do you explain that?'

Gunvald Larsson had prepared an answer to that question. 'I had a new suit made,' he said.

'Does it take eleven days to have a suit made?' asked the Commissioner in astonishment 'Yes, if you want the job done properly. It can be done more quickly of course, but there's bound to be some sloppy work here and there.'

'Mmm,' said the Commissioner irritably. 'As you know, we have our auditors, and things like suits may be difficult to fit into the budget. Why couldn't you buy a new suit here?'

'I don't buy my suits,' said Gunvald Larsson, 'I have them made. And there's hardly a tailor in Europe who could have done the job the way I wanted it. So, since I was there and had to wait for my suit, I took the opportunity to try to find out what had happened.'

'Doesn't sound very constructive,' said the chief. 'The police on the spot did a very thorough investigation. They sent us all the information while you were still out there, in fact, so they might just as well have given you the papers.'

'Personally, I'm convinced that the Security Service made several mistakes,' said Gunvald Larsson, 'and that the conclusions the police came to are incorrect, particularly with regard to several important details. I've got a copy of the report in my office. They gave it to me before I left'

There was a brief silence in the room. Then Malm risked opening his mouth. 'This may be important for the visit in November.'

'Wrong, Stig,' said the chief. 'This isn't just important, it's extremely important. We must call a meeting at once.'

'Exactly,' said Malm. He was good at meetings. They were part of life itself. Without them, nothing would ever get done. Society would quite simply collapse. 'Who should we ask?' Malm was already standing by the telephone.

The Commissioner was deep in thought. Gunvald Larsson was pulling at his large fingers one by one, cracking the knuckles.

'Gunvald will have to be there, of course, to introduce it,' prompted Malm.

'After this, he should be there as an expert,' said the Commissioner. 'But I was thinking about something else. The special team hasn't been selected yet. True, we've quite a bit of time, but it's a big and demanding a.s.signment. I think it's high time we gathered together a small team of key men.'

'Chief of Security.'

'Yes, of course, obviously. And the chief of the regular police and the Stockholm City chief.'

Gunvald Larsson yawned. When he thought about the City Police chief, with his silk ties and the countless armed nitwits under his so-called command, he was always overcome with weariness. As well as a certain amount of fear. Deep down inside.

The Commissioner went on: 'Well need experts of all kinds. We'll have to borrow equipment and men from the army and the air force.

Perhaps from the navy, too. Naturally, the final responsibility for what happens will rest on one single person - me. But there's one other thing. If we are to make preparations now to bring together all this expertise, gradually adding more and more, like Psychological Defence for example, then we ought to have a chief of operations right from the start. An experienced policeman and a decent administrator. A man who can coordinate all of the forces involved. A man who possesses all these qualifications plus criminological ac.u.men, and who is also a good psychologist. Who is that man?'

The Commissioner looked at Gunvald Larsson, who nodded without saying anything, as if the answer were self-evident Stig Malm unconsciously straightened up. The answer was indeed self-evident, he thought. Who else apart from himself had the qualifications for this difficult task? The fact that he had once served as chief of operations in a case that had ended in disaster could be ascribed to bad luck and coincidence.

'Beck,' said Gunvald Larsson.

'Exactly,' said the Commissioner. 'Martin Beck. He's our man.' Especially if something goes wrong, he thought. Aloud he said, 'The final responsibility is mine either way.'

That sounded all right. Still, he wondered if it would be more effective to say, for instance, 'The ultimate responsibility nevertheless rests on my shoulders.'

'Why don't you start calling them?' The Commissioner was looking questioning at Malm.