'Try to answer.'
'You… you are asking such difficult questions. Yes, I think so.'
'Was he brutal to you?'
'I don't understand.'
'I mean when you were together. Did he hit you?'
'Oh, no.'
'Did he hurt you in any other way?'
'No.'
'Never?'
'No, he never did. Why should.he have?'
'Did you ever talk about getting married and living together?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'He never said anything about it, never a word.'
'Weren't you afraid of becoming pregnant?'
'Yes. But we were always so careful.'
Martin Beck managed to make himself look at her. She still sat completely straight on the edge of the sofa, with her knees tightly together and the muscles in her legs strained. She was not only red in the face but even her neck was red, and there were small, fine drops of perspiration along her hairline.
He started again.
'What kind of a man was he? Sexually?'
The question came as a total surprise to her. She moved her hands worriedly. Finally she said:
'Nice.'
'What do you mean by nice?'
'He… I mean that I think he needed a lot of tenderness. And I, I am, I was the same.'
Even though he was sitting less than five feet from her he had to strain to hear what she had said.
'Did you love him?'
'I think so.'
'Did he satisfy you?'
'I don't know.'
'Why did you stop seeing each other?'
'I don't know. It just ended.'
'There is one more thing I must ask you to answer. When you had intimate relations, was it always he who took the initiative?'
'Well… what do you want me to say… I suspect that it was so, but it usually is that way. And I always agreed.'
'How many times would you say it happened?'
'Five,' she whispered.
Martin Beck sat quietly and looked at her. He should have asked: Was he the first man you slept with? Did you usually take all your clothes off? Did you have the lights on? Did he ever…
'Goodbye,' he said, and got up. 'Forgive me for having bothered you.'
He closed the door after himself. The last thing he heard her say was:
'Forgive me, I'm a little shy.'
Martin Beck walked back and forth in the slush on the platform while he waited for the train. He kept his hands in his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders, whistled absent-mindedly and off key.
Finally, he knew what he was going to do.
Hammar was doodling old men on a piece of scratch paper while he listened. This was supposed to be a good sign. Then he said:
'Where will you get the woman from?'
'There must be someone on the force.'
'You had better find her first.'
Two minutes later Kollberg said: 'Where are you going to get the girl from?'
'Is it you or I who has spent eighteen years with his rear end on the edge of other people's desks?'
'It won't do to get just anybody.'
'No one knows the force better than you do.'
'Well, I can always look around.'
'Right.'
Melander appeared totally uninterested. Without turning around or taking his pipe out of his mouth, he said: 'Vibeke Amdal lives on Toldebod Street, is fifty-nine years old and the widow of a brewer. She can't remember having seen Roseanna McGraw other than on the picture she took at Riddarholm. Karin Larsson ran away from her boat in Rotterdam, but the police say that she isn't there. Presumably, she took another boat with false papers.'
'Foreign ones, of course,' said Kollberg. 'She knows all about that. It can take a year before we find her. Or five. And then she might not say anything. Has Kafka answered?'
'Not yet.'
Martin Beck went upstairs and called Motala.
'Yes,' said Ahlberg calmly. 'I guess it is the only way. But where are you going to get the girl from?'
'From the police force. Yours, for example.'
'No, she doesn't fit.'
Martin Beck hung up. The telephone rang. It was a man from the regular patrol force at the Klara Station.
'We did exactly as you said.'
'And?'
'The man seems sure enough, but believe me, he's on the alert. He's watchful, turns around, stops often. It would be hard to tail him without his noticing it.'
'Could he have recognized any of you?'
'No, there were three of us and we didn't follow him. We just stood still and let him walk by. Anyway, it's our job not to be recognized. Is there anything else we can do for you?'
'Not for the moment.'
The next telephone call came from Adolf Fredrik's Station.
'This is Hansson in the fifth. I watched him at Brlvalla Street both this morning and now when he came home.'
'How did he act?'
'Calm, but I have an idea that he was being careful.'
'Did he notice anything?'
'Not a chance. This morning I was sitting in the car, and the second time there was a real crowd. The only time I was near him was just now at the newspaper stand on St. Erik's Square. I stood two places behind him in the line.'
'What did he buy?'
'Newspapers.'
'Which ones?'
'A whole bunch. All four morning papers and both of the evening rags.'
Melander tapped on the door and stuck his head in.
'I think I'll go home now. Is that all right? I have to buy some Christmas presents,' he explained.
Martin Beck nodded and hung up the phone and thought, 'Oh God, Christmas presents,' and immediately forgot what he had been thinking.
He went home late but even so he didn't manage to avoid the crowd. The Christmas rush was on and all the stores were open later than usual.
