Roseanna. Henning Mankell

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      Kollberg lay on the bed reading an evening paper. He had taken off his shoes and jacket and opened his shirt. His service pistol lay on the night table, wrapped up in his tie.

      ‘We've fallen back to page twelve today,’ he said. ‘The poor devils, they don't have an easy time of it.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Those reporters. “The mystery tightens around the bestial murder of the woman in Motala. Not only the local police but even the Homicide Division of the National Police are fumbling around hopelessly in the dark.” I wonder where they get all that?’

      Kollberg was fat and had a nonchalant and jovial manner which caused many people to make fateful mistakes in judging him.

      ‘“The case seemed to be a routine one in the beginning but has become more and more complicated. The leaders of the search are uncommunicative but are working along several different lines. The naked beauty in Boren …” oh, crap!’

      He looked through the rest of the article and threw the newspaper on the floor.

      ‘Yes, she was some beauty. A completely ordinary bowlegged woman with a big rear end and very small breasts.’

      ‘She had a big crotch, of course,’ said Kollberg. ‘And that was her misfortune,’ he added philosophically.

      ‘Have you seen her?’ Martin Beck asked.

      ‘Of course, haven't you?’

      ‘Only her pictures.’

      ‘Well, I've seen her,’ said Kollberg.

      ‘What have you been doing this afternoon?’

      ‘What do you think? Reports from knocking on doors. What garbage! It's insane to send out fifteen different guys all over the place. Everybody expresses themselves differently and sees things differently. Some of them write four pages about seeing a one-eyed cat and saying that the kids in a house are snot-nosed, and others write up finding three bodies and a time bomb in a few paragraphs. They even ask totally different questions.’

      Martin Beck said nothing. Kollberg sighed.

      ‘They should have a formula,’ he said. ‘They would save four-fifths of the time.’

      ‘Yes.’

      Martin Beck searched in his pockets.

      ‘As you know I don't smoke,’ said Kollberg jokingly.

      ‘The Public Prosecutor is holding a press conference in half an hour. He would like us to be there.’

      ‘Oh. That ought to be lively.’

      He pointed to the newspaper and said:

      ‘If we questioned the reporters for once. For four days in a row that guy has written that an arrest can be expected before the end of the afternoon. And the girl looks a little bit like Anita Ekberg and a little bit like Sophia Loren.’

      He sat up in bed, buttoned his shirt and began to lace his shoes.

      Martin Beck walked over to the window.

      ‘It's going to rain any minute,’ he said.

      ‘Oh damn,’ Kollberg said and yawned.

      ‘Are you tired?’

      ‘I slept two hours last night. We were out in the woods in the moonlight searching for that type from St Sigfrid's.’

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘Yes, of course! And after we had wandered around for seven hours in this damn tourist place someone got around to telling us that the boys back at Klara station in Stockholm got the guy in Berzelii Park the night before last.’

      Kollberg finished dressing and put his pistol in place. He took a quick look at Martin Beck and said: ‘You look depressed. What is it?’

      ‘Nothing special.’

      ‘Okay, let's go. The world press is waiting.’

      There were about twenty journalists in the room in which the press conference was to be held. In addition, the Public Prosecutor, the Superintendent of Police, Larsson, and a TV photographer with two spotlights were there. Ahlberg wasn't there. The Prosecutor sat behind a table and was looking thoughtfully through a folder. Several of the others were standing. There weren't enough chairs for everyone. It was noisy and everyone was talking at once. The room was crowded and the air was already unpleasant. Martin Beck, who disliked crowds, took several steps away from the others and stood with his back to the wall in the space between those who would ask the questions and those who would answer them.

      After several minutes the Public Prosecutor turned to the Chief of Police and asked, loudly enough to cut through all the other noise in the room:

      ‘Where the devil is Ahlberg?’

      Larsson grabbed the telephone and forty seconds later Ahlberg entered the room. He was red-eyed and perspiring and still in the process of getting into his jacket.

      The Public Prosecutor stood up and knocked lightly on the table with his fountain pen. He was tall and well built and quite correctly dressed, but almost too elegant.

      ‘Gentlemen, I am pleased to see that so many of you have come to this impromptu press conference. I see representatives of all branches of media, the press, radio and television.’

      He bowed slightly towards the TV photographer, who was obviously the only press person present in the room whom he could definitely identify.

      ‘I am also pleased to be able to say that from the outset your manner of handling this tragic and … sensitive matter has been, for the most part, correct and responsible. Unfortunately, there have been a few exceptions. Sensationalism and loose speculations do not help in such a … sensitive case as …’

      Kollberg yawned and didn't even bother to put his hand in front of his mouth.

      ‘As you all know this case has … and I certainly do not need to point it out again, special… sensitive aspects and …’

      From the opposite side of the room Ahlberg looked at Martin Beck, his pale blue eyes filled with gloomy recognition and understanding.

      ‘… and just these … sensitive aspects call for a particularly careful way of treating them.’

      The Public Prosecutor continued to speak. Martin Beck looked over the shoulder of the reporter who sat in front of him and saw a drawing of a star on his notebook. The TV man was leaning against his tripod.

      ‘… and naturally I want to, no, more properly said, we neither want to nor can we hide our gratefulness for all the help in this … sensitive case. In short, we need the support of what we often call that great detective, the Public.’

      Kollberg yawned again. Ahlberg looked desperately unhappy.

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