Free The Abominable Man by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö

in going back to bed.
    His mood improved as soon as he walked into the bedroom. Gun was awake, playing with Joshua. She haddrawn up her knees and was holding him under the arms and letting him play roller coaster down her legs. Gun was an attractive and sensuous woman with both intelligence and a sense of humor. Kollberg had always imagined he would marry a woman like Gun, and though there had been quite a few women in his life, he’d been forty-one years old and had almost given up hope. She was fourteen years younger than he, and well worth waiting for. Their relationship had, from the very beginning, been uncomplicated, intimate and straightforward.
    She smiled at him and held up their son, who gurgled with delight.
    “Hi,” she said. “Did you already give him his bath?”
    Kollberg described his labors.
    “Poor dear. Come lie down for a while,” she said, throwing a glance at the clock. “You’ve got time.”
    Actually he didn’t, but he was easy to convince. He lay down next to her with his arm under her neck, but after a while he got up again, carried Joshua in and put him down on his mattress, which was virtually dry, dressed him in a diaper and a pair of terrycloth overalls, threw some toys in the crib and went back to Gun. Bodil was sitting on the rug in the living room, playing with her barn.
    After a while she came in and looked at them.
    “Play horsey,” she said delightedly. “Daddy’s the horsey.”
    She tried to climb up on his back but he got rid of her and closed the door. Then the children didn’t bother them for a long time, and when they’d made love he all but fell asleep in his wife’s arms.
    When Kollberg walked across the street to his car the clock on the Skärmarbrink subway station said eight twenty-three. Before getting in, he turned and waved toGun and Bodil, who were standing in the kitchen window.
    He didn’t have to drive into town to get to Västberga Avenue but could take the route through Arsta and Enskede and avoid the worst of the traffic.
    As he drove, Lennart Kollberg whistled an Irish folksong very loudly and very much out of tune.
    The sun was shining, there was spring in the air, and crocuses and Star-of-Bethlehem were blooming in the gardens he passed. He was in a good mood. If he was lucky, he’d have a short day and would be able to go home fairly early in the afternoon. Gun was going to go in to Arvid Nordquist’s and buy something good, and they’d have dinner after the children were in bed. After five years of marriage their idea of a really pleasant evening was to be at home, alone, help each other make a good dinner and then sit for a long time and eat and drink and talk.
    Kollberg was very fond of good food and drink, and as a result had put on a little fat over the years, a little “substance” as he preferred to call it. Anyone who thought this fleshiness prejudicial to his agility, however, was making a serious error. He could be unexpectedly quick and lithe, and he was still in command of all the technique and all the tricks he’d once learned in the paratroops.
    He stopped whistling and started thinking about a problem that had occupied him a lot these last few years. He liked his job less and less, and would really prefer to resign from the force. The problem was not easy to solve and had been complicated by the fact that a year earlier he’d been promoted to deputy chief inspector, with an appropriate raise in salary. It wasn’t easy for a forty-six-year-old deputy chief inspector of police to find adifferent and equally well-paying job. Gun kept telling him to forget the money—the children were getting older and by and by she’d be able to go back to work. In addition to which, she’d been studying and had learned another couple of languages during the four years she’d been a housewife and would certainly draw a considerably higher salary now than she had before. Before Bodil was born, she’d been an executive secretary, and she could