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off with coffee and brandy. Martin Beck had had several boring hours. He had gone up to the station for a spell with Rönn and Strömgren, but that had not been particularly rewarding. He had never liked Strömgren and his relationship with Rönn was complicated. The simple truth was that he no longer had any friends left at the station on Kungsholmsgatan; both there and at the National Police Administration there were a number of people who admired him, others who detested him, and a third group, the largest, who quite simply envied him. Out at Västberga, too, he had no friends since Lennart Kollberg had left. Benny Skacke had applied for the job and got it, on MartinBeck’s recommendation. Their relationship was fairly good, but from that to genuine warmth was a long step. Sometimes he just sat and stared into space, wishing Kollberg were back; to be perfectly honest—and he found that easy nowadays—he mourned for him the way you mourn for a child or a lost love.
    He sat chatting for a while in Rönn’s room, but not only was Rönn indifferent company, he also had a lot to do.
    “Wonder how things are with Gunvald,” said Rönn. “I wouldn’t mind trading places with him. Bullfights and palm trees and expense-account dinners, boy oh boy!”
    Rönn specialized in giving Martin Beck a guilty conscience. Why couldn’t he have been offered that trip, he who certainly needed more encouragement than anyone else?
    It was impossible to tell Rönn the truth—that he had actually been discriminated against simply because they considered it impossible to send out a runny-nosed northerner, a man with a notably unrepresentative appearance who could only with the greatest goodwill be said to speak passable English.
    But Rönn was a good detective. He had been nothing much to start with, but now he was undoubtedly one of the section’s greatest assets.
    As usual, Martin Beck tried but failed to find something encouraging to say, and shortly he left.
    Now he was sitting with Rhea, and that in truth was quite a different matter. The only trouble was that she seemed sad.
    “This trial,” she said. “Christ, it’s depressing! And the people who decide things! The prosecutor is just a buffoon. And the way he stared at me, as if he’d never seen a girl before.”
    “Bulldozer,” said Martin Beck. “He’s seen lots of girls and anyhow he’s not your type.”
    “And the defense lawyer doesn’t even know his client’s name! That girl hasn’t a hope in heaven.”
    “It’s not over yet. Bulldozer wins almost all his cases, but if he does lose one occasionally, it’s always to Braxén. Do you remember that Swärd business?”
    “Do I remember!” said Rhea. She laughed hoarsely. “When you came and stayed at my place the first time. The locked room and all that. Two years ago almost. How could I not remember?”
    She looked happy, and nothing could have made him happier. They had had good times since then, full of talk, jealousy, friendly quarrels and, not least, good spells of sex, trust and companionship. Although he was over fifty and thought he had experienced most things, he had still opened up with her. Hopefully, she shared his feelings about the relationship, but on that point he was more uncertain. She was physically stronger and the more free-thinking of the two of them, presumably also more intelligent, anyhow quicker-thinking. She had plenty of bad points, among others that she was often cross and irritable, but he loved them. Perhaps that expression was stupid or far too romantic, but he could find no better one.
    He looked at her and became aware that he had stopped being jealous. Her large nipples were thrusting out beneath the material, her shirt was carelessly buttoned, she had taken off her sandals and was rubbing her naked feet against each other under the table. Now and again she bent down and scratched her ankles. But she was herself and not his; perhaps that was the best thing about her.
    Her face