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salesman, living in Kungsholmen, Stockholm. It was clean. Not one little traffic offence.
    No prison tattoos.
    ‘OK,’ said Kerstin Holm. ‘What did you see?’
    Eskil Carlstedt paused briefly, taking in air like a boxer does smelling salts, before getting started.
    ‘We had the table nearest the door. I was sitting with my back to the wall, so I was facing the bar. We got there pretty early, about seven thirty. The Hammarby tribe started to roll in just after nine. A bit surly, but hardly aggressive. One group took the last few seats, next to a little guy who was reading a book. Another group was standing next to our table. Then another gang appeared, six or seven people. They were a bit different. Aggression just beneath the surface, somehow. They were standing by the bar, the nearest section to us. Another bunch came in and found some space at the far end. The Smålanders, there were four of them, they were hemmed in between these two gangs. Then the Hammarby fans started attacking them. One of them prodded the biggest Smålander in the face with a rolled-up banner. He managed to run off with a friend. They got out onto the street, but two of them were left behind. It got all noisy and confused. One of the Smålanders pushed a guy over. He got back up slowly, and then suddenly he just hit the Smålander. I was busy paying. The guys had already gone, and the waitress was standing in the way, so I didn’t really see it happen. But I saw him when he ran past. He still had the handle of the glass in his hand. He was wearing a denim jacket, a Hammarby T-shirt and scarf, and he had mid-length, dirty-blond hair and a little moustache.’
    ‘Like yours?’ asked Hjelm.
    Eskil Carlstedt stared at him, insulted.
    ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Not at all. Like a country-bumpkin moustache. A mechanic’s moustache, biker moustache. Went partway down to his chin.’
    ‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’
    ‘I think so, yeah.’
    ‘How many of you were there together?’
    ‘Five.’
    ‘But when the doormen blocked the door, you were the only one left?’
    ‘The others had already gone. They were probably out on the street, waiting. We were going to the next pub. I was still there, paying. Like I said.’
    ‘Like you’ve said many times, yes,’ said Kerstin Holm. ‘Who were you with?’
    Eskil Carlstedt unfolded his arms, cast a quick glance at his watch and, finally, rubbed his hand over his smooth head.
    ‘Just a group of friends. A group of salesmen. We go out together a couple of times a week. Chase women.’
    ‘And listen to music,’ said Paul Hjelm.
    Carlstedt groaned. ‘Music? Listen, how long’s this going to take? I’ve already waited out there for a couple of hours, and I’ve got somewhere to be.’
    ‘We’ve got a witness who says that you were sitting in complete silence, not uttering a word, and that at least one of you had earphones in.’
    Carlstedt fell silent and looked at him furtively. Hesitant. He was thinking.
    ‘All right, OK, I understand. Yeah, Kalle’s in a band. Catwalks. Karl-Erik Bengtsson. We were listening to a demo. They could be really good. Record deal on the way.’
    ‘Were all of you listening?’
    ‘I don’t understand what this has to do with the killing.’
    ‘Were all of you listening?’
    ‘Yes. We only had one cassette player, so we had to take it in turns.’
    ‘So you passed the earphones around?’
    ‘Yeah. It took a while, so we didn’t talk so much.’
    ‘And the others? Can we get hold of them?’
    ‘Sure. They’re not witnesses, though. They were already outside when it happened.’
    ‘You said. Do you remember anything else?’
    ‘Like what?’ Eskil Carlstedt sighed, staring demonstratively at the clock.
    ‘Like who else was in the pub. We’re looking for witnesses.’
    ‘It was packed, for God’s sake. OK, OK, OK, fine. The people standing were mainly Hammarby fans. Before the tribe got there, everyone was sitting. The bar was