r.p.m. EP record. On the sleeve was a photograph representing a fat man in the familiar uniform and helmet of the London bobby. He had a large, curling moustache and knitted mittens on his hands, which he held spread out over his stomach. He was standing in front of an old-fashioned microphone and to judge from his expression he was roaring with laughter. His name was apparently Charles Penrose and the record was called
Ingrid brought the record player and put it on the floor beside Martin Beck's chair.
'Just wait till you hear it,' she said. 'It'll kill you.'
She took the record out of the sleeve and looked at the label.
'The first song is called 'The Laughing Policeman'. Pretty appropriate, eh?'
Martin Beck knew very little about music, but he heard at once that the recording must have been made in the twenties or even earlier. Each verse was followed by long bursts of laughter, which were evidently infectious, as Inga and Rolf and Ingrid howled with mirth.
Martin Beck was left utterly cold. He couldn't even manage a smile. So as not to disappoint the others too much he got up and turned his back, pretending to adjust the candles on the tree.
When the record was finished he went back to his chair. Ingrid wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at him.
'Why, Daddy, you didn't laugh,' she said reproachfully.
'I thought it was awfully amusing,' he said as convincingly as he could.
'Listen to this, then,' Ingrid said, turning the record over. ''Jolly Coppers on Parade'.'
Ingrid had evidently played the record many times and she joined in the song as though she had done nothing else but sing duets with the laughing policeman:
The candles burned with a steady flame, the fir tree gave out its scent in the warm room, the children sang and Inga curled up in her new dressing gown and nibbled the head off a marzipan pig. Martin Beck sat leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees and his chin in his hands, staring at the laughing policeman on the record sleeve.
He thought of Stenstrom.
And the telephone rang.
Somewhere inside him Kollberg felt far from content and least of all off duty. But as it was hard to say exactly what he was neglecting, there was no reason to spoil his Christmas Eve with unnecessary brooding.
He therefore mixed the punch with care, tasting it several times before he was satisfied, sat down at the table and regarded the deceptively idyllic scene surrounding him. Bodil lying on her stomach beside the Christmas tree, making gurgling noises. Asa Torell sitting with crossed legs on the floor, playfully poking at the baby. Gun sauntering about the flat with a soft, indolent nonchalance, barefoot and dressed in some mysterious garment which was a cross between pyjamas and a tracksuit.
He helped himself to a serving of fish, prepared especially for Christmas Eve. Sighed happily at the thought of the large, well-deserved meal he was about to gobble up. Tucked the napkin into his shirt and draped it over his chest Poured out a big drink of akvavit Raised the glass. Looked dreamily at the clear, ice-cold liquid and the mist forming on the glass. And at that moment the phone rang.
He hesitated a moment then drained the glass in one gulp, went into the bedroom and lifted the receiver.
'Good evening, my name is Frojd, from Langholmen prison.' 'Well, that's cheering.'
Said Kollberg in the secure knowledge that he was not on the emergency list and that not even a new mass murder could drive him out into the snow. Capable men were detailed for such things, for example Gunvald Larsson, who was in fact on call, and Martin Beck, who had to take the consequences of his higher rank.
'I work at the mental clinic here,' the man said. 'And we have a patient who insists on talking to you. His name's Birgersson. Says he has promised and that it's urgent and -'
Kollberg frowned.
'Can he come to the phone?'
'Sorry, no. It's against the rules. He's undergoing ...'
Kollberg's face took on a sorrowful expression. The A-l team was obviously not on duty on Christmas Eve.
'OK, I'll come,' he said and put down the phone.
His wife had heard these last words and stared at him wide-eyed.
'Have to go to Langholmen,' he said wearily. 'How the hell do you get a taxi at this hour on Christmas Eve?'
'I can drive you,' Asa said. 'I haven't drunk anything.'
They did not talk on the way. The guard at the entrance peered suspiciously at Asa Torell.
'She's my secretary,' Kollberg said.
'Your what? Just a moment, I must take another look at your identification card.'
Birgersson had not changed. If possible he seemed even more gende and polite than he had been two weeks earlier.
'What do you want to tell me?' Kollberg said gruffly.
Birgersson smiled.
'It seems silly,' he said. 'But I just remembered something this evening. You were asking about the car, my Morris. And -' ‘Yes? And?'
'Once when Inspector Stenstrom and I had a break and sat having something to eat, I told him a story. I remembered we had boiled pickled pork and mashed turnips. It's my favourite dish, and today when we had Christmas dishes ...'
Kollberg regarded the man with massive disapproval.
'A story?’ he asked.
'A story about myself, really. From the time we lived on Roslagsgatan, my -
He broke off and looked doubtfully at Asa Torell. The prison guard over by the door yawned.
'Well, go on,' Kollberg growled.
'My wife and I, that is. We had only one room and when I was at home I always used to feel nervous and shut-in and restless. I also slept badly.'
'Un-huh,'Kollberg grunted.
He felt hot and slightly dizzy. He was very thirsty and above all hungry. Moreover, his surroundings depressed him and he longed for home. Birgersson went on talking, quietly but long-windedly.
'... so I used to go out of an evening, just so as to get away from home. This was nearly twenty years ago. I walked and walked the streets for hours, sometimes all night. Never spoke to anyone, just wandered about so as to be left in peace. After a while I'd calm down, it usually took an hour or so. But I had to occupy my thoughts with something, you see, in order to keep from worrying about everything else. Being at home and my wife and all that So I used to find things to do. To divert myself, you might say, take my mind off my troubles and keep myself from brooding.'
Kollberg looked at his watch.
'Yes, yes, I see,' he said impatiently. ‘What did you do?'
'I used to look at cars.'
'Cars?'
'Yes. I used to walk along the street and through car parks, looking at the cars that stood there. Actually I wasn't at all interested in cars, but in that way I got to know all the makes and models there were. After a time I became quite an expert. It was satisfying, somehow. I could do something. I could recognize all cars forty or fifty yards away, from whichever side I saw them. If I could have taken part in one of those quiz programmes on TV, you know when they ask you questions on one special subject, I'd have won first prize. From in front or from behind or
