The Laughing Policeman. Джонатан Франзен

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       9

      It was some time before anyone noticed that Rönn had come in with the list. Martin Beck, Kollberg, Melander and Gunvald Larsson stood leaning over one of the tables, which was littered with photographs from the scene of the crime, when Rönn suddenly stood next to them and said, ‘It's ready now, the list.’

      He was born and raised in Arjeplog and although he had lived in Stockholm for more than twenty years he had still kept his north-Swedish dialect.

      He laid the list on a corner of the table, drew up a chair and sat down.

      ‘Don't go around frightening people,’ Kollberg said.

      It had been silent in the room for so long that he had started at the sound of Rönn's voice.

      ‘Well, let's see,’ Gunvald Larsson said impatiently, reaching for the list.

      He looked at it for a while. Then he handed it back to Rönn.

      ‘That's about the most cramped writing I've ever seen. Can you really read that yourself? Haven't you typed out any copies?’

      ‘Yes,’ Rönn replied. ‘I have. You'll get them in a minute.’

      ‘OK,’ said Kollberg. ‘Let's hear.’

      Rönn put on his glasses and cleared his throat. He glanced through his notes.

      Of the eight dead, four lived in the vicinity of the terminus,' he began. ‘The survivor also lived there.’

      ‘Take them in order if you can,’ Martin Beck said.

      ‘Well, first of all there's the driver. He was hit by two shots in the back of the neck and one in the back of the head and must have been killed outright.’

      Martin Beck had no need to look at the photograph that Rönn extracted from the pile on the table. He remembered all too well how the man in the driver's seat had looked.

      ‘The driver's name was Gustav Bengtsson. He was forty-eight, married, two children, lived at Inedalsgatan 5. His family has been notified. It was his last run for the day and when he had let off the passengers at the last stop he would have driven the bus to the Hornsberg depot at Lindhagensgatan. The money in his fare purse was untouched and in his wallet he had 120 kronor.’

      He glanced at the others over his glasses.

      ‘There's no more about him for the moment.’

      ‘Go on,’ Melander said.

      ‘I'll take them in the same order as on the sketch. The next is Åke Stenström. Five shots in the back. One in the right shoulder from the side, might have been a ricochet. He was twenty-nine and lived –’

      Gunvald Larsson interrupted him.

      ‘You can skip that. We know where he lived.’

      ‘I didn't,’ Rönn said.

      ‘Go on,’ said Melander.

      Rönn cleared his throat.

      ‘He lived on Tjärhovsgatan together with his fiancée …’

      Gunvald Larsson interrupted him again.

      ‘They were not engaged. I asked him not long ago.’

      Martin Beck cast an irritated glance at Gunvald Larsson and nodded to Rönn to continue.

      ‘Together with Åsa Torell, twenty-four. She works at a travel agency.’

      He gave Gunvald Larsson a quick look and said, ‘In sin. I don't know whether she's been told.’

      Melander took his pipe out of his mouth and said, ‘She has been told.’

      None of the five men around the table looked at the pictures of Stenström's mutilated body. They had already seen them and preferred not to see them again.

      ‘In his right hand he held his service pistol. It was cocked but he had not fired a shot. In his pockets he had a wallet containing 37 kronor, identification card, a snapshot of Åsa Torell, a letter from his mother and some receipts. Also, driving licence, notebook, pens and bunch of keys. It will all be sent up to us when the boys at the lab are through with it. Can I go on?’

      ‘Yes, please,’ said Kollberg.

      ‘The girl in the seat next to Stenström was called Britt Danielsson. She was twenty-eight, unmarried and worked at Sabbatsberg Hospital. She was a registered nurse.’

      ‘I wonder whether they were together,’ Gunvald Larsson said. ‘Perhaps he was having a bit of fun on the side.’

      Rönn looked at him disapprovingly.

      ‘We'd better find out,’ Kollberg said.

      ‘She shared a room at Karlbergsvägen 87 with another nurse from Sabbatsberg. According to her roommate, Monika Granholm by name, Britt Danielsson was coming straight from the hospital. She was hit by one shot. In the temple. She was the only one in the bus to be struck by only one bullet. She had thirty-eight different things in her handbag. Shall I enumerate them?’

      ‘Christ, no,’ said Gunvald Larsson.

      ‘Number four on the list and on the sketch is Alfons Schwerin, the survivor. He was lying on his back on the floor between the two longitudinal seats at the rear. You already know his injuries. He was hit in the abdomen and one bullet lodged in the region of the heart. He lives alone at Norra Stationsgatan 117. He is forty-three and employed by the highway department of the city council. How is he, by the way?’

      ‘Still in a coma,’ Martin Beck said. ‘The doctors say there's just a chance he'll regain consciousness. But if he does they don't know whether he'll be able to talk or even to remember anything.’

      ‘Can't you talk with a bullet in your belly?’ Gunvald Larsson asked.

      ‘Shock,’ said Martin Beck.

      He pushed back his chair and stretched himself. Then he lit a cigarette and stood in front of the sketch.

      ‘What about this one in the corner?’ he said. ‘Number eight?’