Roseanna. Henning Mankell

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      After they had driven silently for about three-quarters of an hour Kollberg nodded his head to the left where a lake could be seen between the trees.

      ‘Lake Roxen,’ he said. ‘Boren, Roxen and Glan. Believe it or not that's one of the few things I remember from school.’

      The others said nothing.

      They stopped at a coffee house in Linköping. Martin Beck still didn't feel well and remained in the car while the others had something to eat.

      The food had put Melander in a better mood and the two men in the front seat exchanged remarks during the rest of the trip. Martin Beck still remained silent. He didn't want to talk.

      When they reached Stockholm he went directly home. His wife was sitting on the balcony sunbathing. She had shorts on and when she heard the front door open she took her brassiere from the balcony railing and got up.

      ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

      ‘Terrible. Where are the children?’

      ‘They took their bikes and went off to swim. You look pale. You haven't eaten properly of course. I'll fix some breakfast for you.’

      ‘I'm tired,’ said Martin Beck. ‘I don't want anything to eat.’

      ‘But it will be ready in a second. Sit down and …’

      ‘I don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep for a while. Wake me up in an hour.’

      It was a quarter past ten.

      He went into the bedroom and closed the door after him.

      When she awakened him he thought he had only slept for a few minutes.

      The clock showed that it was a quarter to one.

      ‘I told you one hour.’

      ‘You looked so tired. Commissioner Hammar is on the telephone.’

      ‘Oh, damn.’

      An hour later he was sitting in his chief's office.

      ‘Didn't you get anywhere?’

      ‘No. We don't know a thing. We don't know who she was, where she was murdered, and least of all by whom. We know approximately how and where but that's all.’

      Hammar sat with the palms of his hands on the top of the desk, and studied his fingernails and wrinkled his forehead. He was a good man to work for, calm, almost a little slow, and they always got along well together.

      Commissioner Hammar folded his hands and looked up at Martin Beck.

      ‘Keep in contact with Motala. You are most probably right. The girl was on vacation, thought to be away, maybe even out of the country. It might take two weeks at least before anyone misses her. If we count on a three week vacation. But I would like to see your report as soon as possible.’

      ‘You'll get it this afternoon.’

      Martin Beck went into his office, took the cover off his typewriter, thumbed through the papers he had received from Ahlberg, and began to type.

      At five-thirty the telephone rang.

      ‘Are you coming home to dinner?’

      ‘It doesn't seem so.’

      ‘Aren't there any other policemen but you?’ said his wife. ‘Do you have to do everything? When do they think you'll see your family? The children are asking for you.’

      ‘I'll try to get home by six-thirty.’

      An hour and a half later his report was finished.

      ‘Go home and get some sleep,’ said Hammar. ‘You look tired.’

      Martin Beck was tired. He took a taxi home, ate dinner and went to bed.

      He fell asleep immediately.

      At one-thirty in the morning the telephone awakened him.

      ‘Were you asleep? I'm sorry that I woke you up. I only wanted to tell you that the case has been solved. He turned himself in.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Holm, the neighbour. Her husband. He collapsed, totally. It was jealousy. Funny, isn't it?’

      ‘Whose neighbour? Who are you talking about?’

      ‘The dame in Storängen, naturally. I only wanted to tell you so that you wouldn't lie awake and think about it unnecessarily … Oh, God, have I made a mistake?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Damn it, of course. You weren't there. It was Stenström. I'm sorry. I'll see you in the morning.’

      ‘Nice of you to call,’ said Martin Beck.

      He went back to bed but he couldn't sleep. He lay there looking at the ceiling and listening to his wife's mild snoring. He felt empty and depressed.

      When the sun began to shine into the room he turned over on his side and thought: ‘Tomorrow I'll telephone Ahlberg.’

      He called Ahlberg the next day and then four or five times a week during the following month but neither of them had anything special to say. The girl's origins remained a mystery. The newspapers had stopped writing about the case and Hammar had stopped asking how it was going. There was still no report of a missing person that matched in any way. Sometimes it seemed as if she had never existed. Everyone except Martin Beck and Ahlberg seemed to have forgotten that they had ever seen her.

      At the beginning of August, Martin Beck took one week's vacation and went out to the archipelago with his family. When he got back he continued to work on the routine jobs which came to his desk. He was depressed and slept poorly.

      One night, at the end of August, he lay in his bed and looked out in the dark.

      Ahlberg had called rather late that evening. He had been at the City Hotel and sounded a little drunk. They had talked for a while about the murder and before Ahlberg had hung up, he had said: ‘Whoever he is and wherever he is, we'll get him.’

      Martin Beck got up and walked barefooted into the living room. He turned on the light over his desk and looked at the model of the training ship Danmark. He still had the rigging to finish.

      He sat down at the desk and took a folder out of a cubbyhole. Kollberg's description of the girl was in the folder together with copies of the pictures that the police photographer in Motala had taken nearly two months ago. In spite of the fact that he practically knew the description by heart he read it again, slowly and carefully. Then he placed the photographs in front of him and studied them for a long time.

      When he put the papers back in the folder and turned off the light, he thought: ‘Whoever she was, and wherever she came from, I'm going to find out.’

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