Roseanna

back Ahlberg had just put down the phone.

'What a language,' he said. 'Roffe Sjoberg wasn't on the boat. He had signed on in Gothenburg but he never went on board. Well, that will be Gothenburg's headache now.'

Martin Beck slept on the train. He didn't wake up before it arrived in Stockholm. He really only woke up when he got into his own bed at home.

16

At ten minutes after five Melander tapped at the door. He waited about five seconds before he showed his long, thin face in the door opening and said: 'I thought I'd leave now. Is that all right?'

He had no official reason for asking but he went through the same process every day. On the other hand, he never bothered to announce his arrival in the morning.

'Certainly,' said Martin Beck. 'So long.'

After a moment he added, 'Thanks for your help today.'

Martin Beck remained and listened to the work day die away. The telephones were the first to become silent, then the typewriters, and then the sound of voices stopped until finally even the footsteps in the corridors could no longer be heard.

At five-thirty he called home.

'Shall we wait for dinner?'

'No, go ahead and eat.'

'Will you be late?'

'I don't know. It's possible.'

'You haven't seen the children for ages.'

Without doubt he had both seen and heard them less than nine hours ago, but she knew that just as well as he.

'Martin?'

'Yes.'

'You don't sound well. Is it anything special?'

'No, not at all. We have a lot to do.'

'Is that all?'

'Yes, of course.'

Now she sounded like herself again. The moment had passed. A few of her standard phrases and the discussion was over. He had held the receiver to his ears and heard the click when she put hers down. A click, and empty silence and it was as if she were a thousand miles away. Years had passed since they had really talked.

He wrinkled his forehead and sighed and looked at the papers on his desk. Each one of them had something to say about Roseanna McGraw and the last days of her life. He was sure of that. And still, they didn't tell him anything.

It seemed meaningless to read through all of them once again but he probably should do it anyway, and do it now. He would start soon.

He stretched out his hand to get a cigarette but the package was empty. He threw it into the wastepaper basket and reached in the pocket of his jacket for another pack. During the past few weeks he had smoked twice as much as he usually did and he felt it, both in his wallet and in his throat. It seemed that he had used up his reserve pack because the only thing he found in his pockets was something that he did not immediately recognize.

It was a postcard, bought at a tobacco shop in Motala. It showed the lock chamber at Borenshult seen from above. The lake and the breakwater were in the background and two men were in the process of opening the sluice gates for a passenger boat rising in the foreground. The picture was obviously quite old because the ship on the photograph no longer existed. Her name was Astrea and she had long since succumbed to the wreckers and the blowtorches.

But then, at the time when the photograph was taken, it had been summer and suddenly he remembered the fresh odor of flowers and wet shrubbery.

Martin Beck opened a drawer and took out his magnifying glass. It was shaped like a scoop and there was an electric battery in the handle. When he pressed the button, the object under study was illuminated with a small bulb. It was a good photograph and he could quite clearly make out the skipper on the port side of the bridge and several of the passengers who were hanging on the railing. The forward deck of the ship was loaded with cargo, still another sign that the picture was far from new.

He had just moved his glance slightly to the right when Kollberg walloped on the door with his fists and walked in.

'Hi, were you frightened?'

'Frightened to death,' answered Martin Beck and felt his heart skip a beat.

'Haven't you gone home yet?'

'Sure. I'm sitting three stories up in my apartment and eating chicken.'

'By the way, when do we get paid?'

'Tomorrow, I hope.'

Kollberg collapsed in the visitor's chair.

They sat quietly for a while. Finally Kollberg said: 'That was a flop, wasn't it? Examining that tough guy you went down and mangled?'

'He didn't do it.'

'Are you absolutely sure?'

'No.'

'Do you feel sure?'

'Yes.'

'That's good enough for me. When you get right down to it there is a difference between seducing a twelve year old girl and killing a full grown woman.'

'Yes.'

'And anyway, she would never have gone for a type like that. Not if I've read my Kafka right.'

'No,' Martin Beck agreed with conviction. 'She wouldn't have.'

'What did the guy in Motala think? Was he disappointed?'

'Ahlberg? Yes, somewhat. But he's stubborn. What did Melander say, by the way?'

'Nothing. I've know that fellow since our training days and the only thing that ever depressed him was tobacco rationing.'

Kollberg took out a notebook with a black cover and thumbed through it thoughtfully.

'While you were away I went through everything again. I tried to make up a summary.'

'Yes?'

'I asked myself, for example, the question that Hammar is going to ask us tomorrow: What do we know?'

'And what did you answer?'

'Wait a minute. It's better if you answer. What do we know about Roseanna McGraw?'

'A little. Thanks to Kafka.'

'That's right. I would even venture to say that we know all the important factors about her. Further: what do we know about the actual murder?'

'We have the scene of the crime. We also know approximately how and when it happened.'

'Do we actually know where it happened?'

Martin Beck drummed his fingers on the top of the desk. Then he said:

'Yes. In cabin 7 on board the Diana.'

'According to the blood-type that's right. But that would never hold as evidence.'

'No, but we know it,' said Martin Beck quickly.

'Okay. We'll pretend that we know it. When?'

'On the night of July 4. After dark. In any event sometime after dinner which ended at eight o'clock. Presumably sometime between nine o'clock and midnight.'

'How? Yes, on that point we have the autopsy report. We can also guess that she undressed herself, of her own free will. Or possibly under threat for her life. But that doesn't seem likely.'