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Esta es la turbadora tercera entrega de la serie detectivesca protagonizada por Martin Beck, serie iniciada en los años sesenta einspiradora de gran parte de la novela negra escrita a partir de entonces. Alguien se dedica a asesinar niñas en los ya no tan pacíficos parques de Estocolmo: las asesina después de haber abusado de ellas.Los ciudadanos están preocupados y temerosos. El inspector de policía Martin Beck tiene dos testigos: un insensible maleante que nopiensa hablar y un niño de tres años que no puede decir demasiado. El abnegado trabajo de la policía parece no conducir a ningunaparte, y cada día que pasa, mayor es la probabilidad de que se produzca otro asesinato. Pero entonces Beck recuerda a alguien -o recuerda algo- que conoció u oyó por casualidad. Un thriller de ritmo implacable, que mezcla el más inhumano de los crímenes con la humanidad de los hombres que deben resolverlos.La perseverancia, la frustración y el horror se entretejen en una labor policial tan conmovedora y creíble como cautivadora.
258 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1967
The man on the balcony had observed all this. The balcony was the ordinary kind with tubular iron rail and sides of corrugated metal. He had stood leaning on the rail, and the glow of this cigarette had been a tiny dark-red spot in the dark. At regular intervals he had stubbed out a cigarette, carefully picked the butt – barely a third of an inch long — out of the wooden holder and placed it beside the others. Ten of these butts were already neatly lined up along the edge of the saucer on the little garden table.Unease, though, turns to horror as the man’s gaze fixates on a small girl who steps into the street from her apartment building and the scene is set for an unsettling and gripping thriller as the Stockholm police search for a killer who stalks and kills small children in the city's parks.
"Put that filthy handkerchief away. I don't want your germs."Or Beck's bleak assessment of the police's ability to provide reassurance and security to a troubled city:
Rönn, who was a mediocre policeman with mediocre imagination and a mediocre sense of humor, considered for a moment the possibility of being the first interrogator in the history of crime to extract a confession by sneezing, but refrained.
And in Stockholm and its suburbs by this time there were over a million frightened people.
The hunt was entering its seventh abortive day.
And they were the bulwarks of society.
Some bulwarks.

