The Laughing Policeman. Джонатан Франзен

then it had only some 300 yards left to the end of the line.

      The only person to observe the vehicle at this moment was a man who stood flattened against a house wall over 150 yards farther up Norrbackagatan. He was a burglar who was about to smash a window. He noticed the bus because he wanted it out of the way and had waited for it to pass.

      He saw it slow down at the corner and begin to turn left with its side lights blinking. Then it was out of sight. The rain pelted down harder than ever. The man raised his hand and smashed the pane.

      What he did not see was that the turn was never completed.

      The red doubledecker bus seemed to stop for a moment in the middle of the turn. Then it drove straight across the street, climbed the sidewalk and burrowed halfway through the wire fence separating Norra Stationsgatan from the desolate freight depot on the other side.

      Then it pulled up.

      The engine died but the headlights were still on, and so was the lighting inside.

      The misty windows went on gleaming cosily in the dark and cold.

      And the rain lashed against the metal roof.

      The time was three minutes past eleven on the evening of 13 November, 1967.

      In Stockholm.

       3

      Kristiansson and Kvant were radio patrol policemen in Solna.

      During their not-very-eventful careers they had picked up thousands of drunks and dozens of thieves, and once they had presumably saved the life of a six-year-old girl by seizing a notorious sex maniac who was just about to assault and murder her. This had happened less than five months ago, and although it was a fluke it constituted a feat which they intended to live on for a long time.

      On this particular evening they had not picked up anything at all, apart from a glass of beer each; as this was perhaps against the rules, it had better be ignored.

      Just before ten thirty they got a call on the radio and drove to an address at Kapellgatan in the suburb of Huvudsta, where someone had found a lifeless figure lying on the front steps. It took them only three minutes to drive there.

      Sure enough, sprawling in front of the street door lay a human being in frayed black trousers, down-at-heel shoes and a shabby pepper-and-salt overcoat. In the lit hallway inside stood an elderly woman in slippers and dressing gown. She was evidently the one who had complained. She gesticulated at them through the glass door, then opened it a few inches, stuck her arm through the crack and pointed demandingly to the motionless form.

      ‘A-ha, and what's all this?’ Kristiansson said.

      Kvant bent down and sniffed.

      ‘Out cold,’ he said with deeply-felt distaste. ‘Give us a hand, Kalle.’

      ‘Wait a second,’ Kristiansson said.

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘Do you know this man, madam?’ Kristiansson asked more or less politely.

      ‘I should say I do.’

      ‘Where does he live?’

      The woman pointed to a door three yards farther inside the hall.

      ‘There,’ she said. ‘He fell asleep while he was trying to unlock the door.’

      ‘Oh yes, he has the keys in his hand,’ Kristiansson said, scratching his head. ‘Does he live alone?’

      ‘Who could live with an old bastard like that?’ the lady said.

      ‘What are you going to do?’ Kvant asked suspiciously.

      Kristiansson didn't answer. Bending down, he took the keys from the sleeper's hand. Then he jerked the drunk to his feet with a grip that denoted many years' practice, pushed open the front door with his knee and dragged the man towards the flat. The woman stood on one side and Kvant remained on the outer steps. Both watched the scene with passive disapproval.

      Kristiansson unlocked the door, switched on the light in the room and pulled off the man's wet overcoat. The drunk lurched, collapsed on to the bed and said, ‘Thanksh, Miss.’

      Then he turned over on his side and fell asleep. Kristiansson laid the keys on a kitchen chair beside the bed, put out the light, shut the door and went back to the car.

      ‘Good night, madam,’ he said.

      The woman stared at him with pursed lips, tossed her head and disappeared.

      Kristiansson did not act like this from love of his fellow humans, but because he was lazy.

      None knew this better than Kvant. While they were still serving as ordinary beat officers on the beat in Malmö, he had many a time seen Kristiansson lead drunks along the street and even across bridges in order to get them into the next precinct.

      Kvant sat at the wheel. He switched on the ignition and said sourly, ‘Siv oftentimes says I'm lazy. She should see you.’

      Siv was Kvant's wife and also his dearest and often sole subject of conversation.

      ‘Why should I get puked on for nothing?’ Kristiansson said philosophically.

      Kristiansson and Kvant were similar in build and appearance. Both were 6 feet 1 inch tall, fair, broad-shouldered and blue-eyed. But they had widely different temperaments and didn't always see eye to eye. This was one of the questions upon which they were not in agreement.

      Kvant was incorruptible. He never compromised over things he saw, but on the other hand he was an expert at seeing as little as possible.

      He drove slowly, in glum silence, following a twisting route from Huvudsta that led past the Police Training College, then through an area of communal garden plots, past the railway museum, the National Bacteriological Laboratory, the School for the Blind, and then zigzagging through the extensive university district with its various institutions, finally emerging via the railway administration buildings on to Tomtebodavägen.

      It was a brilliantly thought-out course, leading through areas which were almost guaranteed to be empty of people. They met not a single car the whole way and saw only two living creatures, first a cat and then another cat.

      When they reached the end of Tomtebodavägen, Kvant stopped the car with the radiator one yard from the Stockholm city limit and let the engine idle while he considered how to arrange the rest of their shift.

      I wonder if you've got the cheek to turn around and drive back the same way. Kristiansson thought. Aloud he said, ‘Can you lend me 10 kronor?’

      Kvant nodded, took his wallet out of his breast pocket and handed the note to his colleague without even a glance at him. At the same instant he made a quick decision. If he crossed the city limits and followed Norra Stationsgatan for some five hundred yards in a north-easterly direction they would only need to be in Stockholm for two minutes. Then he could turn in to Eugeniävagen, drive across the hospital area and continue through Haga Park and along by the Northern Cemetery, finishing up finally at police headquarters. By that time their shift would be over and the chance of seeing anyone on the way should be infinitesimal.

      The car drove into Stockholm and turned left onto Norra Stationsgatan.

      Kristiansson tucked the 10 kronor into his pocket and yawned. Then he peered out into the pouring rain and said, Over there, running this way's a bastard.'

      Kristiansson and Kvant were from Skåne, in the far South, and their sense of word order left much to be desired.

      ‘He has a dog, too,’ Kristiansson said. ‘And he's waving at us.’

      ‘It's not my table,’ Kvant said.

      The man with the dog, an absurdly small dog which he practically dragged after him through the puddles, rushed out into the road and