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different things in her handbag. Shall I enumerate them?'
    'Christ no,' said Gunvald Larsson.
    'Number four on the list and on the sketch is Alfons Schwerin, the survivor. He was lying on his back on the floor between the two longitudinal seats at the rear. You already know his injuries. He was hit in the abdomen and one bullet lodged in the region of the heart. He lives alone at Norra Stationsgatan 117. He is forty-three and employed by the highway department of the city council. How is he, by the way?'
    'Still in a coma,' Martin Beck said. 'The doctors say there's just a chance he'll regain consciousness. But if he does they don't know whether he'll be able to talk or even to remember anything.'
    'Can't you talk with a bullet in your belly?' Gunvald Larsson asked.
    'Shock,' said Martin Beck.
    He pushed back his chair and stretched himself. Then he lit a cigarette and stood in front of the sketch.
    ‘What about this one in the corner?' he said. 'Number eight?'
    He pointed to the seat at the very back of the bus in the right-hand corner. Rönn consulted his notes.
    'He got eight bullets in him. In the chest and abdomen. He was an Arab and his name was Mohammed Boussie, Algerian subject, thirty-six, no relations in Sweden. He lived at a kind of boarding house on Norra Stationsgatan. Was obviously on his way home from work at the Zig-Zag, that grill restaurant on Vasagatan. There's nothing more to say about him at the moment'
    'Arabia,' said Gunvald Larsson. 'Isn't that where there's usually an awful lot of shooting?'
    'Your political knowledge is devastating,' Kollberg said. 'You should apply for a transfer to Sepo.'
    'Its correct name is the Security Department of the National Police Board,' said Gunvald Larsson.
    Rönn got up, fished one or two pictures out of the pile and lined them up on the table.
    'This guy we haven't been able to identify,' he said. 'Number six. He was sitting on the outside seat immediately behind the middle doors and was hit by six shots. In his pockets he had the striking surface of a matchbox, a packet of Bill cigarettes, a bus ticket and 1,823 kroner in cash. That was all.'
    'A lot of money,' Melander said thoughtfully.
    They leaned over the table and studied the pictures of the unknown man. He had slithered down in the seat and lay sprawled against the back with arms hanging and his left leg stuck out in the aisle. The front of his coat was soaked in blood. He had no face.
    'Hell, it would have to be him’ Gunvald Larsson said. 'His own mother wouldn't recognize him.'
    Martin Beck had resumed his study of the sketch on the wall. Holding his left hand in front of his face he said, 'I'm not so sure there weren't two of them after all.'
    The others looked at him.
    'Two what?'Gunvald Larsson asked.
    "Two gunmen. Look at all the passengers, they never moved from their seats. Except the one who's still alive and he might have tumbled off afterwards.'
    'Two madmen?' Gunvald Larsson said sceptically. 'At the same time?'
    Kollberg went and stood beside Martin Beck.
    'You mean that someone should have had time to react if there had been only one? Hm, maybe. But he simply mowed them down.
    It happened rather fast, and when you think they were all caught napping ...'      
    'Shall we go on with the list? We'll find that out as soon as we know whether there was one weapon or two.'
    'Sure,' said Martin Beck. 'Go on, Einar.'
    'Number seven is a foreman called Johan Källström. He was sitting beside the man who has not yet been identified. He was fifty-two, married and lived at Karlbergsvägen 89. According to his wife he was coming from the workshop on Sibyllegatan, where he'd been working overtime. Nothing startling about him.'
    'Nothing except that he got a bellyful of lead on the way home from work,' said Gunvald Larsson.
    'By the window immediately in front of the middle doors we have Gösta Assarsson, number eight. Forty-two. Half his head was shot away. He lived at Tegnergatan 40, where he also had