'Are you sure?" Gunvald Larsson said.
'Yes. Wait a sec now. I followed him the whole time. He was there for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. And when he left, the girl must have gone."
'What other people did you see?"
'Only a few bums."
'Bums?"
'Yes. I never even considered them. Two or three of them. They went through the park."
'Try and remember now, for God's sake," Gunvald Larsson said.
'I am trying. I saw two walking together. They came from Sveavägen and went up towards the water tower. Hobos. Pretty old."
'Are you sure they were together?"
'Almost. I'd seen them before. I remember now thinking they had a bottle of liquor or a few beers they wanted a swig at up in the park. But that happened while those two were still there, the girl with the lace pants and her guy, the ones who were petting. And…"
'Yes?"
'I saw another one. He came from the other direction."
'A bum too, as you call it?"
'Well, it wasn't anyone worth noticing anyway, not as far as I was concerned. He came from up by the water tower. I remember quite plainly now, I remember thinking he must have come up the steps from Ingemarsgatan. Hell of a steep pull, climbing up that way and then just going down again."
'Down again?"
'Yes. He went out into Sveavägen."
'When did you see him?"
'Soon after the man with the dog had gone."
There was silence in the room. It dawned on them one by one what Lundgren had just said.
It dawned on Lundgren himself last of all. Raising his eyes, he looked Gunvald Larsson straight in the face.
'Christ, yes!"
Martin Beck felt a nerve tingle somewhere in his system. And Gunvald Larsson said:
'To sum up, we can say this: An elderly, well-dressed man with a dog entered Vanadis Park from Sveavägen some time between seven fifteen and seven thirty. He walked past the candy stand and the playground, where the girl still was. The man with the dog stayed for about ten minutes, fifteen at the most, in that part of the park that lies between Stefan's Church and Frejgatan. You shadowed him the whole time. When he came back and went out of the park, again past the candy stand and the playground, the girl was no longer in the playground. A few minutes later a man appeared from the direction of the water tower and went out into Sveavägen. You presumed that he had come from Ingemarsgatan and climbed the steps behind the water tower and then came down through the park in the direction of Sveavägen. But this man could just as well have come from the direction of Sveavägen a quarter of an hour earlier, while you were shadowing the man with the dog."
'Yes," Lundgren said, gaping.
'He could have passed the playground and lured the girl with him up to the water tower. He could have killed her there and thus been on the way back when you saw him."
'Yes," Lundgren said, gaping wider.
'Did you see which way he went?" Martin Beck asked.
'No, all I thought was he'd left the park and that was that."
'Did you see him at close quarters?"
'Yes, he went right past me. I was standing behind the candy stand."
'Good, let's have his description," Gunvald Larsson said. "What did he look like?"
'He wasn't very tall, not small either. Rather shabby. He had a big nose."
'How was he dressed?"
'Shabbily. Light-colored shirt, white I should think. No tie. Dark trousers, gray or brown, I think."
'And his hair?"
'A bit thin. Brushed straight back."
'Hadn't he a coat?" Rönn put in.
'No. Neither jacket nor overcoat."
'Color of eyes?"
'What?"
'Did you see the color of his eyes?"
'No. Blue, I imagine. Or gray. He was that type. Fair."
'How old could he have been?"
'Oh, between forty and fifty. Nearer forty, I should think."
'And his shoes," Rönn said.
'Don't know. Though probably those ordinary black shoes that bums usually have. But that's only a guess."
Summing up, Gunvald Larsson said:
'A man aged about forty, normal build, average height, with thin hair brushed back and big nose. Blue or gray eyes. White or light-colored shirt, unbuttoned. Brown or dark-gray trousers, probably black shoes."
Martin Beck was vaguely reminded of something, but the thought vanished as soon as it came. Larsson went on:
'Presumably black shoes, oval face… Good. Only one thing more. You're to look at some pictures. Bring the vice squad's album."
Rolf Evert Lundgren looked through the pages of photographs of known sexual perverts. He examined each picture carefully and shook his head each time.
He could find nobody resembling the man he had seen in Vanadis Park.
Moreover, he was quite sure that the man he had seen was not among the photographs in the register.
It was already midnight when Gunvald Larsson said:
'Now well see that you get something to eat and then you can sleep. See you tomorrow. That's all for today."
He seemed almost jaunty.
The last thing the mugger said before being led away was:
'Just think, I saw the bastard!"
He too seemed almost jaunty.
Yet he himself had been very near to killing several people, and as recently as twelve hours earlier he had been ready to shoot down both Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson, if only he had had the chance.
Martin Beck pondered this.
He also reflected that they had a description—and a poor one at that—which fitted many thousands of people. Still, it was something.
And the hunt entered its seventh day.
There was something else at the back of Martin Beck's mind, but he didn't know what it was.
He had coffee with Rönn and Gunvald Larsson before they went home.
They exchanged some concluding remarks.
'Do you think it took a long time?" Gunvald Larsson asked.
'Yes," Martin Beck said.
'Yes, I did," Rönn agreed.
'Well, you see," Gunvald Larsson said pompously, "you have to go carefully and start at the beginning. Establish a confidential relationship."
'Yes," Rönn said.
'Frankly, I thought it took a hell of a long time all the same," Martin Beck said.
Then he drove home. Had another cup of coffee and went to bed.
Lay awake in the dark, thinking.
Of something.
MARTIN BECK felt anything but rested when he awoke on Friday morning. In fact he felt more tired than he had done when, after far too many cups of coffee, he had at last got to sleep late the night before. He had slept fitfully, tossing and turning, and had had one nightmare after the other. He woke up with a dull ache in his midriff.
At breakfast he had a violent quarrel with his wife about something so trivial that he had already forgotten the cause of it when he closed the front door behind him five minutes later. Anyway, his part in the quarrel had been somewhat passive; his wife had been the one to take the offensive.
Tired, dissatisfied with himself, his eyelids smarting, he took the subway to Slussen, changed trains and went on to Midsommarkransen to pay a short visit to his office in Västberga Allé. He disliked using the subway, and although it was quicker to go by car from Bagarmossen to the southern police headquarters, he refused obstinately to become a motorist. This was one of the seeds of dissension between him and Inga, his wife. Moreover, since finding out that the state pays a policeman who uses his own car forty-six ore a kilometer, she had raised the question more and more often.
He took the elevator to the third floor, pressed the buttons of the numerical code on the dial outside the glass doors, nodded to the doorman and went into his office. From the pile on his desk he sorted out the papers he was to take along to the headquarters in Kungsholmsgatan.
On the desk was also a postcard in vivid colors with a picture of a donkey in a straw hat, a chubby little dark-eyed girl with a basket of oranges and a palm tree. It had been posted in Mallorca, where the youngest man in the department, Åke Stenström, was on holiday, and it was addressed to "Martin Beck and the boys." It took Martin Beck some time to decipher what he had written with a smeary ball-point pen:
Are you wondering what has become of all the pretty chicks? They have found out my whereabouts! How are you managing without me? Badly, I presume. But hold out, maybe I'll come back! Åke
Martin Beck smiled and put the postcard in his pocket. Then he sat down, looked up the number of the Oskarsson family and reached for the phone.
The husband answered. He said that the rest of the family had just come home and that if Martin Beck wanted to see them he had better come as soon as possible, as they had a lot to do before going away.
He ordered a taxi and ten minutes later he rang the doorbell of the Oskarssons' apartment. The husband opened the door and showed him to the sofa in the bright living room. The children were not there, but he heard their voices from one of the other rooms. Their mother stood by the window ironing, and when Martin Beck came in she said:
'Excuse me, but I've nearly finished."
'I'm so sorry I have to disturb you," Martin Beck said. "But I'd very much like to talk to you once more before you go away."
The husband nodded and sat down in a leather armchair on the other side of the low coffee table.
'Naturally we want to do all we can to help," he said. "My wife and I know nothing, but we've talked to Lena and it seems as if she doesn't know any more than what she has already told you. Unfortunately."
His wife put down the iron and looked at him.
'Thank heavens, I'd rather say."
She pulled out the plug of the iron and sat down on the arm of her husband's chair. He put his arm around her hips.
'I really came to ask whether your son has by any chance said anything that might have a bearing on what happened to Annika?"
'Bosse?"
'Yes, according to Lena he disappeared for a while and there's nothing to indicate that he didn't follow Annika. He may even have seen the person who brought about her death."
He heard how idiotic he sounded and thought: I'm talking like a book. Or like a police report. How the hell do I think I'm going to get anything sensible out of a three-year-old?
The couple in the armchair did not seem to react to his stilted speech. They probably took it for granted that police always spoke like that.
'But a policewoman has already been here and talked to him," Mrs. Oskarsson said. "He's so young."
'Yes, I know," Martin Beck said. "But I thought I'd ask to try all the same. He might just have seen something. If we could get him to remember that day…"
'But he's only three," she broke in. "He can't even talk properly. We're the only ones who can understand all he says. Come to that, we don't understand everything either."
'Well, we can try," the husband said. "I mean, let's do what we can to help. Perhaps Lena can get him to remember what he did."
'Thanks," Martin Beck said. "I'd be grateful."
Mrs. Oskarsson got up and went into the nursery, returning soon with the children.
Bosse ran up and stood beside his father.
'What's that?" he asked, pointing to Martin Beck.
He put his head on one side and looked at him. His mouth was dirty and he had a scratch on his cheek and a large bruise was visible under the fair hair that hung down over his forehead.
'Daddy, what's that?" he repeated impatiently.
'It's a man," his father explained, giving Martin Beck an apologetic smile.
'Hello," Martin Beck said.
Bosse ignored the greeting.
'What her name?" he asked his father.
'His," Lena corrected.
'My name's Martin," Martin Beck said. "What's yours?"
'Bosse. What name?"
'Martin."
'Mattin. Name Mattin," Bosse said in a tone indicating amazement that anyone could have a name like that.
'Yes," Martin Beck said. "And your name's Bosse."
'Daddy's name Kurt, Mommy's name… what name?"
He pointed to his mother, who said:
'Ingrid, you know that."
'Ingy."
He went up to the sofa and laid a chubby and sticky hand on Martin Beck's knee.
'Have you been in the park today?" Martin Beck asked.
Bosse shook his head and said shrilly:
'Not play park. Go for drive!"
'Yes," his mother said soothingly. "Later. Later well go for a drive."
'Then you too drive," Bosse said challengingly to Martin Beck.
'Yes. Perhaps."
'Bosse can drive," the boy said with satisfaction, climbing onto the sofa.
'What do you do when you play in the park?" Martin Beck asked in a tone which he himself thought sounded ingratiating and affected.
'Bosse not play park. Bosse drive," the boy said In fury.
'Yes, of course," Martin Beck said. "Of course you're going for a drive."
'Bosse's not going to play in the park today," his sister said. "The man only asked what you did last time you played in the park."
'Silly man," Bosse said with emphasis.
He slid down off the sofa and Martin Beck regretted not having brought some candy for the boy. He didn't usually bribe witnesses in order to win them over, but on the other hand he had never before had a three-year-old witness to question. A slab of chocolate now would surely have done the trick.
'He says that about everyone," Bosse's sister said. "He's so silly."
Bosse hit out at her and said indignantly:
'Bosse not silly! Bosse good!"
Martin Beck felt in his pockets to see if he had anything that might interest the lad, but found only the picture postcard from Stenström.
'Look at this," he said.
Bosse ran up to him at once and looked eagerly at the postcard.
'What's that?"
'A postcard," Martin Beck replied. "Can you see what's on it?"
'Horse. Flower. Andrin."
'What's andrin?" Martin Beck asked.
'Mandarin," his mother explained.
'Andrin," Bosse said, pointing. "And flower. And horse. And girl. What name girl?"
'I don't know," Martin Beck said. "What do you think her name is?"