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meaty fist rapped on the door, which was promptly opened, and Kollberg came into the room.

      ‘What are you sitting here thinking about?’ he said, throwing himself into the extra chair, which creaked precariously under his weight.

      Nobody would suspect that Kollberg knew more about burglars' tricks and the science of self-defence than perhaps anyone else on the force.

      Martin Beck took his feet down from the drawer and pushed the chair nearer the desk. He put out his cigarette carefully before answering.

      ‘About that axe murder in Hjorthagen,’ he lied. ‘Nothing new's turned up?’

      ‘Have you seen the autopsy report? It says that the guy died after the first blow. He had an unusually thin skull.’

      ‘Yes, I've seen it,’ Martin Beck said.

      ‘We'll have to see when we can talk to his wife,’ Kollberg said. ‘She's still in deep shock, according to what they said at the hospital this morning. Maybe she bludgeoned him to death herself, who knows?’

      He stood up and walked over to open the window.

      ‘Close it,’ said Martin Beck.

      Kollberg closed the window.

      ‘How can you stand it?’ he complained. ‘It's like an oven in here.’

      ‘I'd rather be baked than poisoned,’ Martin Beck said philosophically.

      The South police station was located very near to Essinge Parkway, and when the traffic was heavy, like now, at the beginning of the holiday season, it was obvious how thick the air was with exhaust fumes.

      ‘You'll only have yourself to blame,’ Kollberg said and lumbered over to the door. ‘Try to survive until tonight, anyway. Did you say seven?’

      ‘Yes, seven,’ Martin Beck said.

      ‘I'm hungry already,’ said Kollberg provocatively.

      ‘Glad you can come,’ Martin Beck said, but the door had already slammed shut behind Kollberg.

      A moment later the telephone began ringing and people arrived with papers to sign, reports to read and questions to answer, and he had to push aside all thoughts of the evening's menu.

      At quarter to four he left the police station and took the metro to Hötorgshallen. There he walked around shopping for such a long while that finally he had to take a taxi home to Gamla Stan to have time to fix everything.

      At five to seven he'd finished setting the table and surveyed his work.

      There was matjes herring on a bed of dill, sour cream and chives. A dish of carp roe with a wreath of diced onion, dill and lemon slices. Thin slices of smoked salmon spread out on fragile lettuce leaves. Sliced hard-boiled eggs. Smoked herring. Smoked flounder. Hungarian salami, Polish sausage, Finnish sausage and liver sausage from Skåne. A large bowl of lettuce with lots of fresh shrimp. He was especially proud of that, since he had made it himself and to his surprise it even tasted good. Six different cheeses on a cutting board. Radishes and olives. Pumpernickel, Hungarian country bread, and French bread, hot and crusty. Country butter in a tub. Fresh potatoes were simmering on the stove, sending out small puffs of dill fragrance. In the refrigerator were four bottles of Piesporter Falkenberg, cans of Carlsberg Hof and a bottle of Løjtens schnapps in the freezer compartment.

      Martin Beck felt very satisfied with the results of his efforts. Now only the guests were missing.

      Åsa Torell arrived first. Martin Beck mixed two Campari sodas for them and she made a tour of inspection, drink in hand.

      The flat consisted of a bedroom, living room, kitchen, bathroom and hall. The rooms were small, but easy to take care of and comfortable, too.

      ‘I don't really have to ask if you like it here,’ Åsa Torell said.

      ‘Like most native Stockholmers, I've always dreamed of having a flat in Gamla Stan,’ Martin Beck said. ‘It's great to get along on my own, too.’

      Åsa nodded. She was leaning against the window frame, her ankles crossed, holding the glass with both hands. Small and delicate, she had big brown eyes, short dark hair and tanned skin, and she looked healthy, calm and relaxed. It made Martin Beck happy to see her so, for it had taken her a long time to get over Åke Stenström's death.

      ‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘You moved not very long ago, too.’

      ‘Come see me sometime and I'll show you around,’ said Åsa.

      After Stenström's death, Åsa had lived with Gun and Lennart Kollberg for a while, and since she didn't want to return to the flat where she'd lived with him, she'd exchanged it for a one-room flat on Kungsholmsstrand. She had also quit her job at a travel agency and started studying at the Police Academy.

      Dinner was a great success. Despite the fact that Martin Beck didn't eat much himself (he did so seldom, if ever), the food was disposed of rapidly. He wondered anxiously if he'd underestimated their appetites, but when the guests stood up from the table, they seemed full and content, and Kollberg discreetly unbuttoned the waistband of his trousers. Åsa and Gun preferred schnapps and beer to wine, and when the dinner was over, the Løjtens bottle was empty.

      Martin Beck served cognac with coffee, raised his glass and said, ‘Now let's all get a really good hangover tomorrow, when we have time off on the same day for once.’

      ‘I don't have time off,’ Gun said. ‘Bodil comes and jumps on my stomach at five and wants breakfast.’

      Bodil was the Kollbergs' almost two-year-old daughter.

      ‘Don't think about it,’ Kollberg said. ‘I'll take care of her tomorrow, hungover or not. And don't talk about work. If I'd been able to get a decent job, I'd have quit after that incident a year ago.’

      ‘Don't think about it now,’ Martin Beck said.

      ‘It's damned hard not to,’ Kollberg said. ‘The whole police force here is going to fall apart sooner or later. Just look at those poor clods from the country, who meander around in their uniforms and don't know what to do with themselves. And what an administration!’

      ‘Oh, well,’ Martin Beck said to divert him and grasped his cognac.

      Even he was very worried, most of all by the way in which the force had been politicized and centralized after the recent reorganization. That the quality of the personnel on patrol was getting lower all the time hardly improved things. But this was hardly the proper occasion to discuss the matter.

      ‘Oh, well,’ he repeated wistfully and lifted his glass.

      After coffee Åsa and Gun wanted to wash the dishes. When Martin Beck protested, they explained that they loved to wash dishes anywhere but at home. He let them have their way and carried in whisky and water.

      The telephone rang.

      Kollberg looked at the clock.

      ‘A quarter past ten,’ he said. ‘I'll be damned if it isn't Malm telling us that we have to work tomorrow anyway. I'm not here.’

      Malm was Chief Superintendent of Police and had succeeded Hammar, their previous chief, who had recently retired. Malm had come from nowhere, that is to say from the National Police Board, and his qualifications appeared to be exclusively political. Anyway, it seemed a bit mysterious.

      Martin Beck picked up the receiver.

      Then he grimaced eloquently.

      Instead of Malm, it was the National Chief of Police, who said gratingly, ‘Something's happened. I have to ask you to go to Malmö first thing tomorrow morning.’

      Then he added, somewhat belatedly, ‘Please excuse me if I'm disturbing you.’

      Martin Beck didn't respond to that, but said, ‘To Malmö? What's happened?’

      Kollberg, who'd just mixed a highball for himself,

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