Roseanna

'Is it the right guy?'

'He sure looks like it judging from the film.'

Martin Beck rocked in his chair.

'Okay, We'll bring him in.'

'Now?'

'Yes.'

'Who?'

'You. After work. So that he doesn't neglect anything.

Take him up to your office and get the personal information. When you've got that, call me.'

'Soft line?'

'Definitely.'

It was nine-thirty on December 14. Martin Beck had suffered through the National Police's Christmas party with doughy cake and two glasses of almost alcohol free glogg.

He called the Public Prosecutor in Linkoping and Ahlberg in Motala and was surprised to hear them both say: 'I'm coming.'

They arrived around three o'clock. The Public Prosecutor had come up via Motala. He exchanged a few words with Martin Beck and then went into Hammar's office.

Ahlberg sat in Martin Beck's visitor's chair for two hours but they only exchanged a few remarks of interest. Ahlberg said:

'Do you think it was he?'

'I don't know.'

'It must be.'

'Yes.'

At five minutes after five they heard a knock on the door. It was the Public Prosecutor and Hammar.

'I am convinced that you are right,' said the Prosecutor. 'Use whatever method you like.'

Martin Beck nodded.

'Hi,' said Kollberg. 'Have you time to come up? Folke Bengtsson, who I've mentioned to you, is here.'

Martin Beck put down the receiver and got up. When he got to the doorway he turned around and looked at Ahlberg. Neither of them said anything.

He walked slowly up the stairs. In spite of the thousands of examinations he had conducted, he had a funny, bad feeling in his stomach and in the left part of his chest.

Kollberg had taken off his jacket and stood with his elbows on the desk, calm and jovial. Melander sat with his back to them, tranquilly occupied with his papers.

'This is Folke Bengtsson,' said Kollberg, and stood up.

'Beck.'

'Bengtsson.'

They shook hands. Kollberg put his jacket on.

'Ill run along now. So long.'

'So long.'

Martin Beck sat down. There was a sheet of paper in

Kollberg's typewriter. He pulled it up a bit and read: 'Folke Lennart Bengtsson, Office Manager, Born 6,'8,'1926 in Gustaf Vasa's parish, Stockholm. Unmarried.'

He looked at the man. Blue eyes, a rather ordinary face. A few streaks of gray in his hair. No nervousness. In general, nothing special.

'Do you know why we have asked you to come here?'

'As a matter of fact, no.'

'It is possible that you can help us with something.'

'What would that be?'

Martin Beck looked toward the window and said:

'It's beginning to snow heavily now.'

'Yes, it is.'

'Where were you during the first week of July last summer? Do you remember?'

'I ought to. I was on vacation then. The company that I am with closes down for four weeks right after midsummer.'

'Yes?'

'I was in several different places, two weeks on the West Coast, among others. I usually go fishing when I'm off. At least one week in the winter too.'

'How did you get there? By car?'

The man smiled.

'No, I don't have a car. Not even a driver's license. I went on my motor bike.'

Martin Beck sat quietly for a second.

'There are worse ways to travel. I had a motor bike too for a few years. What kind do you have?'

'I had a Monark then, but I got a new one this past fall.'

'Do you remember how you spent your vacation?'

'Yes, of course. I spent the first week at Mem, that's on the Ostogota coast, right where the Gota Canal begins. Then I went on to Bohuslan.'

Martin Beck got up and went over to the water pitcher which stood on top of a file near the door. He looked at Melander. Walked back. He lifted the hood off the tape recorder and plugged in the microphone. The man looked at the apparatus.

'Did you go by boat between Mem and Gothenburg?'

'No, from Soderkoping.'

'What was the name of the boat?'

'The Diana.'

'Which day did you travel?'

'I don't remember exactly. One of the first days in July.'

'Did anything special happen during the trip?'

'No, not that I can remember.'

'Are you sure? Think about it.'

'Yes, that's right The boat had some engine trouble. But that was before I went on board. It had been delayed. Otherwise I wouldn't have made it.'

'What did you do when you got to Gothenburg?'

'The boat got in very early in the morning. I went up to a place called Hamburgsund. I had reserved a room there.'

'How long did you stay?'

'Two weeks.'

'What did you do during those two weeks?'

'Fished as often as I could. The weather was poor.'

Martin Beck opened Kollberg's desk drawer and took out the three photographs of Roseanna McGraw.

'Do you recognize this woman?'

The man looked at the pictures, one after the other. His expression didn't change in the slightest.

'Her face looks familiar in some way,' he said. 'Who is she?'

'She was on board the Diana.'

'Yes, I think I remember,' the man said indifferently. He looked at the pictures again.

'But I'm not sure. What was her name?'

'Roseanna McGraw. She was an American.'

'Now I remember. Yes, that's right. She was on board. I talked with her a few times. As well as I could.'

'You haven't seen or heard her name since then?'

'No, actually not. That is to say, not before now.'