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Zusatztext “The best yet in a superb series of mysteries.”– Minneapolis Tribune . “One of the most authentic! gripping and profound collections of police procedurals ever accomplished.”–Michael Connelly “It’s hard to think of any other thriller writers (apart from Simenon perhaps) who can capture so much of a society in a couple of hundred pages and yet still hold true to the thriller form.”–Sean and Nicci French “Lively! stylistically taut . . . Sjöwall and Wahlöö changed the genre.”–Henning Mankell Informationen zum Autor Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö with a New Introduction by Michael Connelly Klappentext The stunning eighth installment in the Martin Beck mystery series by the renowned Swedish crime writing duo is a masterful take on a classic locked room mystery. With an introduction by Michael Connelly: "One of the most authentic, gripping, and profound collections of police procedurals ever accomplished." A young blonde in sunglasses robs a bank and kills a hapless citizen. Across town, a corpse with a bullet shot through its heart is found in a locked room-with no gun at the scene. The crimes seem disparate, but to Martin Beck they are two pieces of the same puzzle, and solving it becomes the one way he can escape the pains of his failed marriage and the lingering effects of a near-fatal bullet wound. Exploring the ramifications of egotism and intellect, luck and accident, this tour de force of detection bears the unmistakable substance and gravity of real life.-1- The bells of St. Maria struck two as she came out from the subway station on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan. Before hurrying on towards the Maria Square she halted and lit a cigarette. The din of the church bells reverberated through the air, reminding her of the dreary Sundays of her childhood. She'd been born and grown up only a few blocks from the Church of St. Maria, where she'd also been christened and confirmed-the latter almost twelve years ago. All she could remember about her confirmation classes was having asked the vicar what Strindberg had meant when he'd written of the "melancholy descant" of the St. Maria bells. But she couldn't recall his answer. The sun was beating down on her back. After crossing St. Paulsgatan she eased her pace, not wishing to break into a sweat. All of a sudden she realized how nervous she was and regretted not having taken a tranquillizer before leaving home. Reaching the fountain in the middle of the square, she dipped her handkerchief in the cool water and, walking away, sat down on a bench in the shade of the trees. She took off her glasses and rubbed her face with the wet handkerchief, polished her glasses with the hem of her light-blue shirt, and put them on again. The large lenses reflected the light, concealing the upper half of her face. She took off her wide-rimmed blue denim hat, lifted up her straight blond hair, so long it brushed against her shoulders, and wiped the nape of her neck. Then, putting on her hat, she pulled it down over her brow and sat quite still, her handkerchief crumpled up into a ball between her hands. After a while she spread the handkerchief out beside her on the bench and wiped the palms of her hands on her jeans. She looked at her watch: half past two. A few minutes to calm down before she had to go. When the clock struck 2 :45 she opened the flap of the dark-green canvas shoulder bag that lay in her lap, picked up her handkerchief, which by now was completely dry, and without folding it slipped it into the bag. Then she got up, slung the leather strap of the bag over her right shoulder, and started walking. Approaching Hornsgatan she grew less tense; everything, she persuaded herself, would work out fine. It was Friday, the last day of June, and for many people the summer vacation had just begun. On Hornsgatan, both on the street itself and on the sidewalks, the ...
