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track.
    And yet his ambivalence might also depend on simpler, more tangible and immediate things.
    On Rönn, for example.
    Martin Beck expected a great deal of the people he worked with. The blame for that fell on Lennart Kollberg, for many years his right-hand man, first when he was a city detective in Stockholm and then later at the old National Criminal Division in Västberga. Kollberg had always been his surest complement, the man who played the best shots, asked the right leading questions and gave the proper cues.
    But Kollberg wasn’t available. He was at home asleep, presumably, and there was no acceptable reason for waking him. It would be against the rules, and an insult to Rönn what’s more.
    Martin Beck expected Rönn to do something or at least say something that showed he too sensed the danger. That he would come up with some assertion or supposition that Martin Beck could refute or pursue.
    But Rönn said nothing.
    Instead he did his job calmly and capably. The investigation was for the moment his, and he was doing everything that could reasonably be expected.
    The area outside the window had been cordoned off with ropes and sawhorses, patrol cars had been driven up and headlights lit. Spotlights swept the terrain and small white patches of light from police flashlights wandered jerkily across the ground like frightened sand crabs across a beach in unorganized flight from approaching intruders.
    Rönn had gone through what there was on and in the night table without finding anything but ordinary personal belongings and a few trivial letters of the insensitivelyhearty type that healthy people write to individuals who are suspected of being seriously ill. Civilian personnel from the Fifth Precinct had gone through the adjoining rooms and wards without finding anything of note.
    If Martin Beck wanted to know anything in particular, he would have to ask, and furthermore would have to formulate his question clearly, in phrases that could not be misunderstood.
    The truth of the matter was simply that they worked together badly. Both of them had discovered this years before, and they therefore generally avoided situations where they had only one another to fall back on.
    Martin Beck’s opinion of Rönn was none too high, a circumstance the latter was well aware of and which gave him an inferiority complex. Martin Beck, for his part, recognized as his own failing a difficulty in establishing contact and thus became inhibited himself.
    Rönn had produced the beloved old murder kit, secured a number of fingerprints, and had plastic covers placed over several pieces of evidence in the room and on the ground outside, thereby ensuring that details that might prove valuable later on would not be effaced by natural causes or destroyed by carelessness. These pieces of evidence were mostly footprints.
    Martin Beck had a cold, as usual at this time of year. He snuffled and blew his nose and coughed and hacked and Rönn didn’t react. He did not, as a matter of fact, even say “Bless you.” This small civility was apparently not a part of his upbringing, nor of his vocabulary. And if he thought anything, he kept it to himself.
    There was no tacit communication between them and Martin Beck felt himself called upon to break the silence.
    “Doesn’t this whole ward seem a little old-fashioned?” he asked.
    “Yes,” Rönn said. “It’s supposed to be vacated the day after tomorrow and modernized or turned into something else. The patients are going to be moved to new wards in the central building.”
    Martin Beck’s thoughts moved promptly off in new directions.
    “I wonder what he used,” he said a while later, mostly to himself. “Maybe a machete or a samurai sword.”
    “Neither one,” said Rönn, who had just come into the room. “We’ve found the weapon. It’s lying outside, about twelve feet from the window.”
    They went outside and looked.
    In the cold white light of a spot lay a broad-bladed cutting