Free The Laughing Policeman by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö Page B

comment was, 'And tomorrow you'll be seeing her again.'
    'Yes,' Kollberg replied. 'And I'm not looking forward to it.'
    Gathering up the photographs, he put them back into the envelope. Then he said, 'We'd better be getting home. I'll give you a lift.'
    They put out the light and left. In the car Martin Beck said, 'By the way, how did you come to be at Norra Stationsgatan last night? Gun didn't know where you were when I called up and you were on the scene long before I was.'
    'It was pure chance. After leaving you I walked towards town. On Skanstull Bridge two guys in a patrol car recognized me. They had just got the alarm on the radio and they drove me straight in. I was one of the first there.'
    They sat in silence for a long time. Then Kollberg said in a puzzled tone, 'What do you think he wanted those pictures for?'
    'To look at,' Martin Beck replied.
    'Of course. But still...'

13
    Before Martin Beck left the flat on Wednesday morning he called up Kollberg. Their conversation was brief and to the point. 'Kollberg.'
    'Hi. It's Martin. I'm leaving now.' 'OK.'
    When the train glided into the underground station at Skärmarbrink, Kollberg was waiting on the platform. They had made it a habit always to get into the last carriage and in this way they often had each other's company into town even when they hadn't arranged it.
    They got off at Medborgarplatsen and came up on to Folkungagatan. The time was twenty minutes past nine and a watery sun filtered through the grey sky. They turned up their coat collars against the icy wind and started walking east along Folkungagatan.
    As they turned the corner into Östgötagatan Kollberg said, 'Have you heard how the wounded man is? Schwerin?'
    ‘Yes, I called up the hospital this morning. The operations have succeeded insomuch as he's alive. But he's still unconscious and the doctors can't say anything about the outcome until he wakes up.'
    'Is he going to wake up?' Martin Beck shrugged. 'They don't know. I certainly hope so.' 'I wonder how long it will be before the newspapers sniff him out.'
    'At Karolinska they promised to keep their mouths shut/ Martin Beck said.
    'Yes, but you know what journalists are. Like leeches.' They turned on to Tjarhovsgatan and walked along to number 18.
    They found the name TORELL on the list of tenants in the entrance, but above the door plate two flights up was a white card with the name AKESTENSTRÖM drawn in India ink.
    The girl who opened the door was small; automatically Martin Beck estimated her height at 5 feet 3 inches.
    'Come in and take your coats off,' she said, closing the door behind them.
    The voice was low and rather hoarse.
    Åsa Torell was dressed in narrow black slacks and a cornflower-blue rib-knit polo sweater. On her feet she had thick grey skiing socks which were several sizes too large and had presumably been Stenström's. She had brown eyes and dark hair cut very short. Her face was angular and could be called neither sweet nor pretty; if anything, quaint and piquant. She was slight of build, with slim shoulders and hips and small breasts.
    She stood quiet and expectant while Martin Beck and Kollberg put their hats beside Stenström's old cap on the rack and took off their overcoats. Then she led the way into the flat
    The living room, which had two windows on to the street, had a pleasant, cosy atmosphere. Against one wall stood a huge bookcase with carved sides and top piece. Apart from it and a wing chair upholstered in leather, the furniture looked fairly new. A bright-red rya rug covered most of the floor, and the thin woollen curtains had exactly the same shade of red.
    The room was irregular in shape, and from the far corner, a short passage led out into the kitchen. Through an open door in the corridor one could see into the other rooms. The kitchen and bedroom faced the courtyard at the back.
    Åsa Torell sat in the leather armchair and tucked her feet under her. She pointed to two safari chairs, and Martin Beck and