although it was quicker to go by car from Bagarmossen to the southern police headquarters, he refused obstinately to become a motorist. This was one of the seeds of dissension between him and Inga, his wife. Moreover, since finding out that the state pays a policeman who uses his own car forty-six ore a kilometer, she had raised the question more and more often.
He took the elevator to the third floor, pressed the buttons of the numerical code on the dial outside the glass doors, nodded to the doorman and went into his office. From the pile on his desk he sorted out the papers he was to take along to the headquarters in Kungsholmsgatan.
On the desk was also a postcard in vivid colors with a picture of a donkey in a straw hat, a chubby little dark-eyed girl with a basket of oranges and a palm tree. It had been posted in Mallorca, where the youngest man in the department, Ake Stenstrom, was on holiday, and it was addressed to 'Martin Beck and the boys.' It took Martin Beck some time to decipher what he had written with a smeary ball-point pen:
Are you wondering what has become of all the pretty chicks? They have found out my whereabouts! How are you managing without me? Badly, I presume. But hold out, maybe I'll come back! Ake
Martin Beck smiled and put the postcard in his pocket. Then he sat down, looked up the number of the Oskarsson family and reached for the phone.
The husband answered. He said that the rest of the family had just come home and that if Martin Beck wanted to see them he had better come as soon as possible, as they had a lot to do before going away.
He ordered a taxi and ten minutes later he rang the doorbell of the Oskarssons' apartment. The husband opened the door and showed him to the sofa in the bright living room. The children were not there, but he heard their voices from one of the other rooms. Their mother stood by the window ironing, and when Martin Beck came in she said:
'Excuse me, but I've nearly finished.'
'I'm so sorry I have to disturb you,' Martin Beck said. 'But I'd very much like to talk to you once more before you go away.'
The husband nodded and sat down in a leather armchair on the other side of the low coffee table.
'Naturally we want to do all we can to help,' he said. 'My wife and I know nothing, but we've talked to Lena and it seems as if she doesn't know any more than what she has already told you. Unfortunately.'
His wife put down the iron and looked at him.
'Thank heavens, I'd rather say.'
She pulled out the plug of the iron and sat down on the arm of her husband's chair. He put his arm around her hips.
'I really came to ask whether your son has by any chance said anything that might have a bearing on what happened to Annika?'
'Bosse?'
'Yes, according to Lena he disappeared for a while and there's nothing to indicate that he didn't follow Annika. He may even have seen the person who brought about her death.'
He heard how idiotic he sounded and thought: I'm talking like a book. Or like a police report. How the hell do I think I'm going to get anything sensible out of a three-year-old?
The couple in the armchair did not seem to react to his stilted speech. They probably took it for granted that police always spoke like that.
'But a policewoman has already been here and talked to him,' Mrs. Oskarsson said. 'He's so young.'
'Yes, I know,' Martin Beck said. 'But I thought I'd ask to try all the same. He might just have seen something. If we could get him to remember that day…'
'But he's only three,' she broke in. 'He can't even talk properly. We're the only ones who can understand all he says. Come to that, we don't understand everything either.'
'Well, we can try,' the husband said. 'I mean, let's do what we can to help. Perhaps Lena can get him to remember what he did.'
'Thanks,' Martin Beck said. 'I'd be grateful.'
Mrs. Oskarsson got up and went into the nursery, returning soon with the children.
Bosse ran up and stood beside his father.
'What's that?' he asked, pointing to Martin Beck.
He put his head on one side and looked at him. His mouth was dirty and he had a scratch on his cheek and a large bruise was visible under the fair hair that hung down over his forehead.
'Daddy, what's that?' he repeated impatiently.
'It's a man,' his father explained, giving Martin Beck an apologetic smile.
'Hello,' Martin Beck said.
Bosse ignored the greeting.
'What her name?' he asked his father.
'His,' Lena corrected.
'My name's Martin,' Martin Beck said. 'What's yours?'
'Bosse. What name?'
'Martin.'
'Mattin. Name Mattin,' Bosse said in a tone indicating amazement that anyone could have a name like that.
'Yes,' Martin Beck said. 'And your name's Bosse.'
'Daddy's name Kurt, Mommy's name… what name?'
He pointed to his mother, who said:
'Ingrid, you know that.'
'Ingy.'
He went up to the sofa and laid a chubby and sticky hand on Martin Beck's knee.
'Have you been in the park today?' Martin Beck asked.
Bosse shook his head and said shrilly:
'Not play park. Go for drive!'
'Yes,' his mother said soothingly. 'Later. Later well go for a drive.'
'Then you too drive,' Bosse said challengingly to Martin Beck.
'Yes. Perhaps.'
'Bosse can drive,' the boy said with satisfaction, climbing onto the sofa.
'What do you do when you play in the park?' Martin Beck asked in a tone which he himself thought sounded ingratiating and affected.
'Bosse not play park. Bosse drive,' the boy said
'Yes, of course,' Martin Beck said. 'Of course you're going for a drive.'
'Bosse's not going to play in the park today,' his sister said. 'The man only asked what you did last time you played in the park.'
'Silly man,' Bosse said with emphasis.
He slid down off the sofa and Martin Beck regretted not having brought some candy for the boy. He didn't usually bribe witnesses in order to win them over, but on the other hand he had never before had a three-year-old witness to question. A slab of chocolate now would surely have done the trick.
'He says that about everyone,' Bosse's sister said. 'He's so silly.'
Bosse hit out at her and said indignantly:
'Bosse not silly! Bosse good!'
Martin Beck felt in his pockets to see if he had anything that might interest the lad, but found only the picture postcard from Stenstrom.
'Look at this,' he said.
Bosse ran up to him at once and looked eagerly at the postcard.
'What's that?'
'A postcard,' Martin Beck replied. 'Can you see what's on it?'
'Horse. Flower. Andrin.'
