‘Nothing except that he got a bellyful of lead on the way home from work,’ said Gunvald Larsson.
‘By the window immediately in front of the middle doors we have Gösta Assarsson, number eight. Forty-two. Half his head was shot away. He lived at Tegnérgatan 40, where he also had his office and his business, an export and import firm that he ran together with his brother. His wife didn't known why he was on the bus. According to her, he should have been at a club meeting on Narvavägen.’
‘A-ha,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘Out carousing.’
‘Yes, there are signs that point to that. In his briefcase he had a bottle of whisky. Johnnie Walker, Black Label.’
‘A-ha,’ said Kollberg, who was an epicure.
‘In addition he was well supplied with condoms,’ said Rönn. ‘He had seven in an inside pocket. Plus a chequebook and over 800 kronor in cash.’
‘Why seven?’ Gunvald Larsson asked.
The door opened and Ek stuck his head in.
‘Hammar says you're all to be in his office in fifteen minutes. Briefing. Quarter to eleven, that's to say.’
He disappeared.
‘OK, let's go on,’ Martin Beck said.
‘Where were we?’
‘The guy with the seven johnnies,’ said Gunvald Larsson.
‘Is there anything more to be said about him?’ Martin Beck asked.
Rönn glanced at the sheet of paper covered with his scribbling.
‘I don't think so.’
‘Go on, then,’ said Martin Beck, sitting down at Gunvald Larsson's desk.
‘Two seats in front of Assarsson sat number nine, Mrs Hildur Johansson, sixty-eight, widow, living at Norra Stationsgatan 119. Shot in the shoulder and through the neck. She has a married daughter on Västmannagatan and was on her way home from there after baby-sitting.’
Rönn folded the piece of paper and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
‘That's the lot,’ he said.
Gunvald Larsson sighed and arranged the pictures in nine neat stacks.
Melander put his pipe down, mumbled something and went out to the toilet.
Kollberg tilted his chair and said, ‘And what do we learn from all this? That on quite an ordinary evening on quite an ordinary bus, nine quite ordinary people get mowed down with a submachine gun for no apparent reason. Apart from this guy who hasn't been identified, I can't see anything odd about any of these people.’
‘Yes, one,’ Martin Beck said. ‘Stenström. What was he doing on that bus?’
Nobody answered.
An hour later Hammar put exactly the same question to Martin Beck.
Hammar had summoned the special investigation group that from now on was to work entirely on the bus murders. The group consisted of seventeen experienced CID men, with Hammar in charge. Martin Beck and Kollberg also led the investigation.
All available facts had been studied, the situation had been analysed and assignments allotted. When the briefing was over and all except Martin Beck and Kollberg had left the room, Hammar said, ‘What was Stenström doing on that bus?’
‘Don't know,’ Martin Beck replied.
‘And nobody seems to know what he was working on of late. Do either of you know?’
Kollberg threw up his hands and shrugged.
‘Haven't the vaguest idea. Over and above daily routine, that is. Presumably nothing.’
‘We haven't had so much recently,’ Martin Beck said. ‘So he has had quite a bit of time off. He had put in an enormous amount of overtime before, so it was only fair.’
Hammar drummed his fingers against the edge of the desk and wrinkled his brow in thought. Then he said, ‘Who was it that informed his fiancée?’
‘Melander,’ said Kollberg.
‘I think someone ought to have a talk with her as soon as possible,’ Hammar said. ‘She must at all events know what he was up to.’
He paused, then added, ‘Unless he …’
He fell silent.
‘What?’ Martin Beck asked.
‘Unless he was going with that nurse on the bus, you mean,’ Kollberg said.
Hammar said nothing.
‘Or was out on another similar errand,’ Kollberg said.
Hammar nodded.
‘Find out,’ he said.
Outside police headquarters on Kungsholmsgatan stood two people who definitely wished they had been somewhere else. They were dressed in police caps and leather jackets with gilded buttons, they had shoulder belts diagonally across their chests and carried pistols and truncheons at their waists. Their names were Kristiansson and Kvant.
A well-dressed, elderly woman came up to them and asked, ‘Excuse me, but how do I get to Hjärnegatan?’
‘I don't know, madam,’ Kvant said. ‘Ask a policeman. There's one standing over there.’
The woman gaped at him.
‘We're strangers here ourselves,’ Kristiansson put in quickly, by way of explanation.
The woman was still staring after them as they mounted the steps.
‘What do you think they want us for?’ Kristiansson asked anxiously.
‘To give evidence, of course,’ Kvant replied. ‘We made the discovery, didn't we?’
‘Yes,’ Kristiansson said. ‘We did, but –’
‘No “buts,” now, Kalle. Into the lift with you.’
On the third floor they met Kollberg. He nodded to them, gloomily and absently. Then he opened a door and said, ‘Gunvald, those two guys from Solna are here now.’
‘Tell them to wait,’ said a voice from inside the office.
‘Wait,’ Kollberg said, and disappeared.
When they had waited for twenty minutes Kvant shook himself and said, ‘What the hell's the idea. We're supposed to be off duty, and I've promised Siv to mind the kids while she goes to the doctor.’
‘So you said,’ Kristiansson said dejectedly.
‘She says she feels something funny in her cu—’
‘Yeah, you said that too,’ Kristiansson murmured.
‘Now she'll probably be in a terrible temper again,’ Kvant said. ‘I can't make the woman out these days. And she's starting to look such a fright. Has Kerstin also got broad in the beam like that?’
Kristiansson didn't answer.
Kerstin was his wife and he disliked discussing her.
Kvant didn't seem to care.
Five minutes later Gunvald Larsson opened the door and said curtly, ‘Come in.’
They went in and sat down. Gunvald Larsson eyed them critically.
‘Sit down, by all means.’