Free The Abominable Man by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö Page A

get a well-paid position whenever she wanted. But Kollberg didn’t want her to feel she had to go back to work before she really wanted to.
    On top of that he had a hard time picturing himself as a homemaker.
    He was by nature somewhat lazy, but needed a certain amount of activity and change around him.
    As he drove his car into the garage at Södra police station he remembered that Martin Beck had the day off.
    First of all that means I’ll have to stay here all day, Kollberg thought, and secondly that I won’t have anyone sensible to talk to. His spirits immediately sank.
    In order to cheer himself up, he started whistling again while he waited for the elevator.

    12    
    Kollberg hadn’t even had time to take off his overcoat when the telephone rang.
    “Yes, Kollberg here … what?”
    He stood by his littered desk and stared absently out the window. The switch-over from the pleasures of private life to the ugliness of the job wasn’t as easy for him as it was for some, for example Martin Beck.
    “What’s it about? … You don’t? Well okay, tell them I’m coming.”
    Down to the car again, and this time no way to avoid the traffic.
    He arrived at Kungsholmsgatan at a quarter to nine and parked in the yard. Just as Kollberg was getting out of his car, Gunvald Larsson got into his and drove away.
    They nodded to each other but didn’t speak. He ran into Rönn in the corridor.
    “So you’re here too,” Rönn said.
    “Yes, what’s up?”
    “Somebody sliced up Stig Nyman.”
    “Sliced up?”
    “Yeah, with a bayonet,” said Rönn mournfully. “At Mount Sabbath.”
    “I just saw Larsson. Is that where he was headed?”
    Rönn nodded.
    “Where’s Martin?”
    “He’s in Melander’s office.”
    Kollberg looked at him more closely.
    “You look just about done in,” he said.
    “I am,” said Rönn.
    “Why don’t you go home and go to bed?”
    Rönn gave him a doleful look and walked on down the corridor. He was holding some papers in his hand and presumably had work to do.
    Kollberg rapped once on the door and walked in. Martin Beck didn’t even look up from his notes.
    “Hi,” he said.
    “What’s all this Rönn was talking about?”
    “Here. Take a look.”
    He handed him two typewritten sheets of paper. Kollberg sat down on the edge of the desk and read.
    “Well,” said Martin Beck. “What do you think?”
    “I think Rönn writes a god-awful report,” said Kollberg.
    But he said it quietly and seriously, and five seconds later he went on.
    “This sounds unpleasant.”
    “Right,” said Martin Beck. “I think so too.”
    “What’d it look like?”
    “Worse than you can imagine.”
    Kollberg shook his head. There was nothing wrong with his imagination.
    “We’d better get our hands on this guy pretty damned quick.”
    “Right again,” said Martin Beck.
    “What do we have to go on?”
    “Something. We’ve got a few prints. Footprints, maybe some fingerprints. No one saw anything or heard anything.”
    “Not good,” Kollberg said. “That can take time. And this guy’s dangerous.”
    Martin Beck nodded.
    Rönn came into the room after a discreet knock on the door.
    “Negative so far,” he said. “The fingerprints I mean.”
    “The fingerprints aren’t worth a damn,” Kollberg said.
    “I’ve got a pretty good casting too,” Rönn said. “Of a boot or a heavy work shoe.” He was looking surprised.
    “That’s not worth a damn either,” Kollberg said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. That can all be essential later on, as evidence. But right now it’s a question of getting our hands on whoever slaughtered Nyman. We can tie him to the crime later on.”
    “That sounds illogical,” Rönn said.
    “Okay, but don’t worry about it now. We’ve still got another couple of important details.”
    “Yes, the murder weapon,” said Martin Beck thoughtfully. “An old carbine bayonet.”
    “And the motive,” said Kollberg.
    “The motive?” Rönn