The Laughing Policeman

It showed exactly thirteen minutes past eleven.

4 (#u53bee9f0-1b33-559b-a9f6-39709df89c55)

The first senior policeman to arrive at Norra Stationsgatan was Gunvald Larsson.

He had been sitting at his desk at police headquarters at Kungsholmen, thumbing through a dull and wordy report, very listlessly and for about the umpteenth time, while he wondered why on earth people didn't go home.

In the category of ‘people’ he included the police commissioner, a deputy commissioner and several different superintendents and inspectors who, on account of the happily concluded riots, were trotting about the staircases and corridors. As soon as these persons thought fit to call it a day and take themselves off, he would do so himself, as fast as possible.

The phone rang. He grunted and picked up the receiver.

‘Hello. Larsson.’

‘Radio Central here. A Solna radio patrol has found a whole bus full of dead bodies on Norra Stationsgatan.’

Gunvald Larsson glanced at the electric wall clock, which showed eighteen minutes past eleven, and said, ‘How can a Solna radio patrol find a bus full of dead bodies in Stockholm?’

Gunvald Larsson was a detective inspector in the Stockholm homicide squad. He had a rigid disposition and was not one of the most popular members of the force.

But he never wasted any time and so he was the first one there.

He braked the car, turned up his coat collar and stepped out into the rain. He saw a red doubledecker bus standing right across the pavement; the front part had broken through a high wire fence. He also saw a black Plymouth with white mudguard, and the word POLICE in white block letters across the doors. It had its emergency lights on and in the cone of the searchlight stood two uniformed patrolmen with pistols in their hands. Both looked unnaturally pale. One of them had vomited down the front of his leather jacket and was wiping himself in embarrassment with a sodden handkerchief.

‘What's the trouble?’ Gunvald Larsson asked.

‘There … there are a lot of corpses in there,’ said one of the policemen.

‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘Yes, that's right. There are. And a lot of cartridges.’

‘And a man who shows signs of life.’

‘And a policeman.’

‘A policeman?’ Gunvald Larsson asked.

‘Yes. A CID man.’

‘We recognize him. He works at Västberga. On the homicide squad.’

‘But we don't know his name. He has a blue raincoat. And he's dead.’

The two radio police both talked at once, uncertainly and quietly.

They were anything but small, but beside Gunvald Larsson they did not look very impressive.

Gunvald Larsson was 6 feet 5 inches tall and weighed nearly sixteen stone. His shoulders were as broad as those of a professional heavyweight boxer and he had huge, hairy hands. His fair hair, brushed back, was already dripping wet.

The sound of many wailing sirens cut through the splashing of the rain. They seemed to be coming from all directions. Gunvald Larsson pricked up his ears and said, ‘Is this Solna?’

‘Right on the city limits,’ Kvant replied slyly.

Gunvald Larsson cast an expressionless blue glance from Kristiansson to Kvant. Then he strode over to the bus.

‘It looks like … like a shambles in there,’ Kristiansson said.

Gunvald Larsson didn't touch the bus. He stuck his head in through the open door and looked around.

‘Yes,’ he said calmly. ‘So it does.’

5 (#u53bee9f0-1b33-559b-a9f6-39709df89c55)

Martin Beck stopped in the doorway of his flat in Bagarmossen. He took off his raincoat and shook the water off it on the landing before hanging it up and closing the door.

It was dark in the hall but he didn't bother to switch on the light. He saw a ray of light under the door of his daughter's room and he heard the radio or record player going inside. He knocked and went in.

The girl's name was Ingrid and she was sixteen. She had matured somewhat of late, and Martin Beck got on with her much better than before. She was calm, matter-of-fact and fairly intelligent, and he liked talking to her. She was in the sixth year of the comprehensive school and had no difficulty with her schoolwork, without on that account being what in his day had been called a swot.

She was lying on her back in bed, reading. The record player on the bedside table was going. Not pop music but something classical, Beethoven, he guessed.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Not asleep yet?’

He stopped, almost paralysed by the utter futility of his words. For a moment he thought of all the trivialities that had been spoken between these walls during the last ten years.

Ingrid put down her book and shut off the record player.

‘Hi, Dad. What did you say?’

He shook his head.

‘Lord, how wet your legs are,’ the girl said. ‘Is it raining so hard?’

‘Cats and dogs. Are Mum and Rolf asleep?’

‘I think so. Mum bundled Rolf off to bed right after dinner. She said he had a cold.’

Martin Beck sat down on the bed.

‘Didn't he have?’

‘Well, I thought he looked well enough. But he went to bed without any fuss. Probably in order to get off school tomorrow.’

‘You seem to be hard at work, anyway. What are you studying?’

‘French. We've a test tomorrow. Like to quiz me?’

‘Wouldn't be much use. French isn't my strong point. Go to sleep now instead.’

He stood up and the girl snuggled down obediently under the quilt. He tucked her in and before he shut the door behind him he heard her whisper, ‘Keep your fingers crossed tomorrow.’