The Laughing Policeman

'Well, it's not the questions that are interesting, but the answers. First of all I've tried to eliminate all the background noise like whirring and dripping and so on.'

Ronn waited with his pen at the ready.

'As regards the first answer, referring to the question as to who did the shooting, one can clearly distinguish four consonants - d, n, r, and k!

'Yes,' Ronn said.

'A closer analysis reveals certain vowels and diphthongs between and after these consonants. For example, an e or an i sound between d and n.

'Dinrk,' Ronn said.

'Yes, that's more or less how it sounds to an untrained ear,' the expert said. 'Furthermore, I think I can hear the man say a very faint oo after the consonant k'

'Dinrk oo,' Ronn said.

'Something like that, yes. Though not such a marked oo.' The expert paused. Then he went on reflectively, 'This man was in pretty bad shape, wasn't he?' 'Yes.'

'And he was probably in pain.' 'Very likely,' Ronn agreed.

'Well,' the expert said lightly, 'that could explain why he said oo.' Ronn nodded and made notes. Poked at the tip of his nose with the pen. Listened.

'However, I'm convinced that these sounds form a sentence, composed of several words.'

'And how does the sentence go?' Ronn asked, putting pen to paper.

'Very hard to say. Very hard indeed. For example 'dinner reckon' or 'dinner record, oo'.'

''Dinner record, oo'?' Ronn asked in astonishment.

'Well, just as an example, of course. As to the second reply -'

''Koleson'?'

'Oh, you thought it sounded like that? Interesting. Well, I didn't. I've reached the conclusion that there's an ‘l’ before the ‘k’, and that he says two words: 'like,' repeating the last word of the question, and 'oleson'.'

''Oleson'? And what does that mean?'

'Well, it might be a name ...'

''Like Oleson'?'

‘Yes, exactly. You have the same thick ‘l’ in the word 'Oleson' too. Perhaps a similar dialect'

The sound technician was silent for a few seconds. Then he went on: 'That's about the lot then. I'll send over a written report, of course, together with the bill. But I thought I'd better call up in case it was urgent'

'Thanks very much,' Ronn said.

Putting the receiver down, he regarded his notes thoughtfully. After careful consideration he decided not to take the matter up with the investigation chiefs. At any rate not at present

Although the time was only a quarter to three in the afternoon, it was already pitch-dark when Kollberg arrived at Langholmen. He felt cold and miserable, and the prison surroundings didn't exactly cheer him up. The bare visitors' room was shabby and bleak, and he paced gloomily up and down while waiting for the prisoner he had come to see. The man, whose name was Birgersson and who had killed his wife, had undergone a thorough mental examination at the clinic of forensic psychiatry. In due course, he would be exempted from punishment and transferred to some institution.

After about fifteen minutes the door opened and a prison guard in a dark-blue uniform admitted a small, thin-haired man of about sixty. The man stopped just inside the door, smiled and bowed politely. Kollberg went up to him. They shook hands.

'Kollberg.'

'Birgersson.'

The man was pleasant and easy to talk to. 'Inspector Stenstrom? Oh yes indeed, I remember him. Such a nice man. Please give him my kind regards.' 'He's dead.'

'Dead? I can't believe it ... He was just a boy. How did it happen?'

'That's just what I want to talk to you about.'

Kollberg explained in detail why he had come.

'I've played back the whole tape and listened carefully to every word. But I presume that the tape recorder was not going when you sat talking over coffee and so on.'

'That's right.'

'But you did talk then, too?'

'Oh yes. Most of the time, anyway.'

‘What about?'

'Well, everything really.'

'Can you recall anything that Stenstrom seemed specially interested in?'

The man thought hard and shook his head. 'We just talked about things in general. This and that But something special? What would that have been?' 'That's exactly what I don't know.'

Kollberg took out the notebook he had brought from Asa's apartment and showed it to Birgersson.

'Does this convey anything to you? Why has he written 'Morris'?'

The man's face lit up at once.

'We must have been talking about cars. I had a Morris 8, the big model, you know. And I think I mentioned it on one occasion.'

'I see. Well, if you happen to think of anything else, please call me up at once. At any time.'

'It was old and didn't look much, my Morris, but it went well. My ... wife was ashamed of it. Said she was ashamed to be seen in such an old rust bucket when all the neighbours had new cars -'

He blinked rapidly and broke off.

Kollberg quickly wound up the conversation. When the guard had led the prisoner away a young doctor in a white coat entered the room.

'Well, what did you think of Birgersson?' he asked. 'He seemed nice enough.'

'Yes,' the doctor said. 'He's OK. All he needed was to be rid of that bitch he was married to.'

Kollberg looked hard at him, put his papers into his pocket and left.

The time was eleven thirty on Saturday evening and Gunvald Larsson felt cold in spite of his heavy winter coat, his fur cap, ski trousers and ski boots. He was standing in the doorway of Tegnergatan 53, as still as only a policeman can stand. He was not there by chance, and it was not easy to see him in the dark. He had already been there for four hours and this was not the first evening, but the tenth or eleventh.

He had decided to go home as soon as the light went out in certain windows he was watching. Shortly before midnight a grey Mercedes with foreign licence plates stopped outside the door of the flats nearly opposite across the street. A man got out opened the boot and lifted out a suitcase. Then he crossed the pavement, unlocked the door and went inside. Two minutes later a light was switched on behind lowered Venetian blinds in two windows on the ground floor.

Gunvald Larsson strode swiftly across the street He had already tried out a suitable key to the street door two weeks ago. Once inside the entrance hall, he took off his overcoat, folded it neatly and hung it over the handrail of the marble staircase, placing his fur cap on top. Unbuttoned his jacket and gripped the pistol that he wore clipped to his waistband.

He had known for a long time that the door opened inward. Looked at it for five seconds and thought: If I break in without a valid reason, I'm overstepping my authority, and I'll probably be suspended or sacked.

Then he kicked in the door.

Ture Assarsson and the man who had alighted from the foreign car were standing one on either side of the desk. To use a hackneyed phrase, they looked thunderstruck. They had just opened the suitcase and it was lying between them.

Gunvald Larsson waved them aside with the pistol, following up the train of thought he had begun out in the hall: But it doesn't matter because I can always go to sea again.

Gunvald Larsson lifted the receiver and dialled 90 000. With his left hand and without lowering his service pistol. He said nothing. The other two said nothing either. There was not much to say.

The suitcase contained 250,000 of a brand of dope tablets called Ritalina. On the black market they were