The Laughing Policeman. Джонатан Франзен

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       11

      ‘Now we must think,’ Gunvald Larsson said briskly, banging the door. ‘There's a briefing with Hammar at three o'clock sharp. In ten minutes.’

      Martin Beck, sitting with the telephone receiver to his ear, threw him an irritated glance, and Kollberg looked up from his papers and muttered gloomily, ‘As if we didn't know. Try thinking yourself on an empty stomach and see how easy it is.’

      Having to go without a meal was one of the few things that could put Kollberg in a bad mood. By this time he had gone without at least three meals and was therefore particularly glum. Moreover, he thought he could tell from Gunvald Larsson's satisfied expression that the latter had just been out and had something to eat, and the thought didn't make him any happier.

      ‘Where have you been?’ he asked suspiciously.

      Gunvald Larsson didn't answer. Kollberg followed him with his eyes as he went over and sat down behind his desk.

      Martin Beck put down the phone.

      ‘What's biting you?’ he said.

      Then he got up, took his notes and went over to Kollberg.

      ‘It was from the lab,’ he said. ‘They've counted sixty-eight fired cartridges.’

      ‘What calibre?’ Kollberg asked.

      ‘As we thought. Nine millimetres. Nothing to say that sixty-seven of them didn't come from the same weapon.’

      ‘And the sixty-eighth?’

      ‘Walther 7.65.’

      ‘The shot fired at the roof by that Kristiansson,’ Kollberg declared.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘It means there was probably only one madman after all,’ Gunvald Larsson said.

      ‘Yes,’ said Martin Beck.

      Going over to the sketch, he drew an X inside the widest of the middle doors.

      ‘Yes,’ Kollberg said. ‘That's where he must have stood.’

      ‘Which would explain …’

      ‘What?’ Gunvald Larsson asked.

      Martin Beck didn't answer.

      ‘What were you going to say?’ Kollberg asked. ‘Which would explain …?’

      ‘Why Stenström didn't have time to shoot,’ Martin Beck said.

      The others looked at him wonderingly.

      ‘Hungh-h,’ said Gunvald Larsson.

      ‘Yes, yes, you're right, both of you,’ Martin Beck said doubtfully and massaged the root of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

      Hammar flung open the door and entered the room, followed by Ek and a man from the office of the public prosecutor.

      ‘Reconstruction,’ he said abruptly. ‘Stop all telephone calls. Are you ready?’

      Martin Beck looked at him mournfully. It had been Stenström's habit to enter the room in exactly the same way, unexpectedly and without knocking. Almost always. It had been extremely irritating.

      ‘What have you got there?’ Gunvald Larsson asked. ‘The evening papers?’

      ‘Yes,’ Hammar replied. ‘Very encouraging.’

      He held the papers up and gave them a hostile glare. The headlines were big and black but the text contained very little information.

      ‘I quote,’ Hammar said. ‘“‘This is the crime of the century,' says tough CID man Gunvald Larsson of the Stockholm homicide squad, and goes on: ‘It was the most ghastly sight I've ever seen in my life’.”’ Two exclamation marks.’

      Gunvald Larsson heaved himself back in the chair and frowned.

      ‘You're in good company,’ said Hammar. ‘The minister of justice has also excelled himself. “The tidal wave of lawlessness and the mentality of violence must be stopped. The police have drawn on all resources of men and materials in order to apprehend the culprit without delay.”’

      He looked around him and said, ‘So these are the resources.’

      Martin Beck blew his nose.

      ‘“The direct investigation force already comprises more than a hundred of the country's most skilled criminal experts,”’ Hammar went on. ‘“The biggest squad ever known in this country's history of crime.”’

      Kollberg sighed and scratched his head.

      ‘Politicians,’ Hammar mumbled to himself.

      Tossing the newspapers on to the desk, he said, ‘Where's Melander?’

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