it's like at headquarters as well.'
'I shall report you for breach of authority.'
'I don't think you will,' Kollberg said.
He took out his notebook.
'But before we go I want the names and addresses of everyone in your organization.'
'We don't have an organization. We are simply men with families who…'
'Who prowl about in public places armed and ready to strike down police,' Kollberg snapped. 'Out with the names now.'
Ten minutes later he stowed the two family men into the back seat and drove them to Kungsholmsgatan, took the elevator and pushed them inside Martin Beck's office.
'You'll be sorry for this as long as you live,' the elder man
'The only tiling I'm sorry for is that I didn't break your arm,' Kollberg retorted.
Martin Beck gave him a quick, searching look and said:
'Okay, Lennart. You go home now.'
Kollberg went.
The man in the track suit opened his mouth to speak but Martin Beck checked him. He gestured to them to sit down, sat in silence for some moments with his elbows on the desk and pressed his palms together. Then he said:
'What you have done is indefensible. The very idea of militia comprises a far greater danger to society than any single criminal or gang. It paves the way for lynch mentality and arbitrary administration of justice. It throws the protective mechanism of society out of gear. Do you understand what I mean?'
'You're talking like a book,' said the man in the track suit acidly.
'Exactly,' Martin Beck replied. 'These are elementary facts. Mere catechism. Do you understand what I mean?'
It took about an hour before they understood what he meant
When Kollberg got home to Palandergatan his wife was sitting up in bed knitting. Without saying a word he got undressed, went into the bathroom and had a shower. Then he got into bed. His wife put down her knitting and said:
'That's a nasty bruise on your neck. Has someone hit you?'
'Put your arms around me,' he said.
'My tummy's in the way, but… there. Who hit you?'
'A couple of goddam amateurs,'' Kollberg said and fell asleep.
22
AT BREAKFAST on Sunday morning Martin Beck's wife said:
'How are you doing? Can't you get hold of that creature? Look what happened to Lennart yesterday, it's awful. I don't wonder people are scared, but it's a bit much when they go for policemen.'
Martin Beck sat hunched over the table. He was wearing dressing gown and pajamas. He was busy trying to recall a dream he had had just before waking up. An unpleasant dream. Something about Gunvald Larsson. Stubbing out the first cigarette of the day he looked at his wife.
'They didn't know he was a policeman,' he said.
'All the same,' she said. 'It's very nasty.'
'Yes. It's very nasty.'
She took a bite at a piece of toast and frowned at the stub in the ashtray.
'You shouldn't smoke so early in the morning. It's bad for your throat.'
'No,' Martin Beck said, withdrawing his hand from the pocket of the dressing gown.
He had been about to light another cigarette but now he left the packet where it was and thought: Inga's right. Of course it's not good for me. I smoke far too much. And look what it costs.
'You smoke far too much,' she said. 'And look what it costs.'
'I know,' he said.
He wondered how many times she had said this during the sixteen years of their marriage. Even a guess seemed impossible.
'Are the children asleep?' he asked, changing the subject.
'Yes, it's the summer vacation. Our daughter was late getting home last night. I don't like her being out like that at night. Especially with that lunatic at large. She's only a child.'
'She will soon be sixteen,' he said. 'And from what I gathered she was with a friend next door.'
'Nilsson underneath said yesterday that parents who let their children run about without keeping an eye on them have only themselves to blame. He said that there are minorities in the community—exhibitionists and the like—who have to get rid of their aggressions, and that it's the parents' fault if the children get into trouble.'
'Who's Nilsson?'
'The businessman who lives underneath us.'
'Has he children?'
'No.'
'Well then.'
'Just what I said. That he doesn't know what it is to have children. How worried one always is.'
'Why did you talk to him?'
'Well, you have to be nice to your neighbors. It wouldn't do any harm if you too were friendly to people sometimes. Anyway, they're very nice people.'
'It doesn't sound like it,' Martin Beck said.
Realizing that a quarrel was blowing up he quickly drained his cup of coffee.
'I must hurry and dress,' he said, getting up.
He went into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. Inga washed up, and when he heard the water stop running and her footsteps approaching he retired swiftly into the bathroom and locked the door. Then he turned on the water, undressed and stretched out in the hot bath.
He lay quite still and relaxed. Closing his eyes, he tried to recall the dream he had had. He thought of Gunvald Larsson. Neither he nor Kollberg liked Gunvald Larsson, whom they only worked with sporadically, and he suspected that even Melander found it hard to appreciate this colleague, though he gave no sign of it. Gunvald Larsson had an unusual capacity to annoy Martin Beck, who felt irritated even now when he thought of nun. But in some way he had a feeling that his present annoyance had nothing to do with Gunvald Larsson personally, but was rather something he had said or done. Martin Beck had an idea that Gunvald Larsson had said or done something important, something that was decisive for the park murders. Whatever it was eluded him, and it was no doubt this fact which was irritating him now.
He dismissed the thought and climbed out of the bath. It was probably all mixed up with his dream, he thought as he shaved.
A quarter of an hour later he was on his way into town on the subway. He opened his morning paper. On the front page was an identikit picture of the girls' murderer, drawn by the police artist from the meager description given by witnesses, chiefly Rolf Evert Lundgren. Nobody was satisfied with it. Least of all the artist and Rolf Evert Lundgren.
Martin Beck held the paper away from him and looked at the picture with narrowed eyes. He wondered to what extent it really resembled the man they were hunting. They had also shown it to Mrs. Engstrom, who at first had said it wasn't in the least like her dead husband but had then admitted there might be a resemblance.
Beneath the picture was the incomplete description. Martin Beck read the short text.
Suddenly he stiffened. Felt a wave of warmth pass through him. Held his breath. In a flash he knew what it was that had been worrying him ever since they caught the mugger, what had niggled at him and what it was that linked up with Gunvald Larsson. The description.
Gunvald Larsson's summary of the description Lundgren had given was almost word for word a repetition of something Martin Beck had heard him say on the phone over two weeks ago.
He remembered standing by the filing cabinet, listening to Gunvald Larsson speaking on the phone. Melander had also been in the room.
He could not recall the whole conversation, but seemed to remember that it had been with a woman who
