by Maj Sjowall
'Where are you off to?"
'Just going down to Motala for a couple of days," Martin Beck replied. "Something there I must look at."
'Oh."
'Be back inside a week. But Kollberg will be home today. He's on duty here as from tomorrow. So you needn't worry."
'I'm not worrying."
'By the way, those robberies…"
“Yes?”
'No, it doesn't matter."
'If he does it twice more well get him," Melander said from the next room.
'Exactly," said Martin Beck. "So long."
'So long," Gunvald Larsson replied.
3
MARTIN BECK got to Central Station nineteen minutes before the train was due to leave and thought he would fill in the time by making two telephone calls.
First home.
'Haven't you left yet?" his wife said.
He ignored this rhetorical question and merely said:
'll1 be staying at a hotel called the Palace. Thought you'd better know."
'How long will you be away?"
'A week."
'How do you know for certain?"
This was a good question. She wasn't dumb at any rate, Martin Beck thought.
'Love to the children," he said, adding after a moment, "take care of yourself."
'Thanks," she said coldly.
He hung up and fished another coin out of his trouser pocket. There was a line in front of the call boxes and the people standing nearest glared at him as he put the coin in the slot and dialed the number of southern police headquarters. It took about a minute before he got Kollberg on the line.
'Beck here. Just wanted to make sure you were back."
'Very thoughtful of you," Kollberg said. "Are you still here?"
'How's Gun?"
'Fine. Big as a house of course."
Gun was Kollberg's wife; she was expecting a baby at the end of August. "Ill be back in a week."
'So I gather. And by that time I shall no longer be on duty here."
There was a pause, then Kollberg said:
'What takes you to Motala?"
'That fellow…"
'Which fellow?"
'That junk dealer who was burned to death the night before last. Haven't you…"
"I read about it in the papers. So what?"
'I'm going down to have a look."
'Are they so dumb they can't clear up an ordinary fire on their own?"
'Anyway they've asked…"
'Look here," Kollberg said. "You might get your wife to swallow that, but you can't kid me. Anyway, I know quite well what they've asked and who has asked it. Who's head of the investigation department at Motala now?" "Ahlberg, but…"
'Exactly. I also know that you've taken five vacation days that were due to you. In other words you're going to Motala in order to sit and tipple at the City Hotel with Ahlberg. Am I right?" "Well…"
'Good luck," Kollberg said genially. "Behave yourself."
'Thanks."
Martin Beck hung up and the man standing behind him elbowed his way roughly past him. Beck shrugged and went out into the main hall of the station.
Kollberg was right up to a point. This in itself didn't matter in the least, but it was vexing all the same to be seen through so easily. Both he and Kollberg had met Ahlberg in connection with a murder case three summers earlier. The investigation had been long and difficult and in the course of it they had become good friends. Otherwise Ahlberg would hardly have asked the national police board for help and he himself would not have wasted half a day's work on the case.
The station clock showed that the two telephone calls had taken exactly four minutes; there was still a quarter of an hour before the train left. As usual the big hall was swarming with people of all kinds.
Suitcase in hand, he stood there glumly, a man of medium height with a lean face, a broad forehead and a strong jaw. Most of those who saw him probably took him for a bewildered provincial who suddenly found himself in the rush and bustle of the big city.
'Hi, mister," someone said in a hoarse whisper. He turned to look at the person who had accosted him. A girl in her early teens was standing beside him; she had lank fair hair and was wearing a short batik dress. She was barefoot and duty and looked the same age as his own daughter. In her cupped right hand she was holding a strip of four photographs, which she let him catch a glimpse of.
It was very easy to trace these pictures. The girl had gone into one of the automatic photo machines, knelt on the stool, pulled her dress up to her armpits and fed her coins into the slot.
The curtains of these photo cubicles had been shortened to knee height, but it didn't seem to have helped much. He glanced at the pictures; young girls these days developed earlier than they used to, he thought. And the little slobs never thought of wearing anything underneath either. All the same, the photos had not come out very well.
'Twenty-five kronor?" the child said hopefully. Martin Beck looked around in annoyance and caught sight of two policemen in uniform on the other side of the hall. He went over to them. One of them recognized him and saluted. "Cant you keep the kids here in order?" Martin Beck said angrily.
'We do our best, sir."
The policeman who answered was the same one who had saluted, a young man with blue eyes and a fak, well-trimmed beard.
Martin Beck said nothing but turned and walked towards the glass doors leading out to the platforms. The girl in the batik dress was now standing farther down the hall, looking furtively at the pictures, wondering if there was something wrong with her appearance.
Before long some idiot was sure to buy her photographs. Then off she would go to Humlegården or Mariatorget and buy purple hearts or marijuana with the money. Or perhaps LSD.
The policeman who recognized him had had a beard. Twenty-four years earlier, when he himself joined the force, policemen had not worn beards.
By the way, why hadn't the other policeman saluted, the one without a beard? Because he hadn't recognized him?
Twenty-four years ago policemen had saluted anyone who came up to them even if he were not a superintendent. Or had they?
In those days girls of fourteen and fifteen had not photographed themselves naked in photo machines and tried to sell the pictures to detective superintendents ia order to get money for a fix.
Anyway, he was not a bit pleased with the new title he had got at the beginning of the year. He was not pleased with his new office at southern police headquarters out in the noisy industrial area at Västberga. He was not pleased with his suspicious wife and with the fact that someone like Gunvald Larsson could be made a detective inspector.
Martin Beck sat by the window in his first-class compartment, pondering all this.
The train glided out of the station and past the City Hall. He caught sight of the old white steamer Mariefred, that still plied to Gripsholm, and the publishing house of Norstedt, before the train was swallowed up in the tunnel to the south. When it emerged into daylight again he saw the green expanse of Tantolunden—the park that he was soon going to have nightmares about—and heard the wheels echo on the railroad bridge.
By the time the train stopped at Södertälje he was in a better mood. He bought a bottle of mineral water and a stale cheese sandwich from the metal handcart that now replaced the restaurant car on most of the express trains.
4
'WELL," AHLBERG SAID, "that's how it happened. It was rather chilly that night and he had one of those old-fashioned electric heaters that he stood beside the bed. Then he kicked off the blanket in his sleep and it fell down over the heater and caught fire."
Martin Beck nodded.
'It seems quite plausible," Ahlberg said. "The technical investigation was completed today. I tried to phone you but you had already left"
They were standing on the site of the fire at Borenshult and between the trees they could glimpse the lake and the flight of locks where they had found a dead woman three years earlier. All that
remained of the burned-down house were the foundation and the base of the chimney. The fire brigade had, however, managed to save a small outhouse.
'There were some stolen goods there," Ahlberg said. "He was a fence, this fellow Larsson. But he'd been sentenced before, so we weren't surprised. We'll send out a list of the things."
Martin Beck nodded again, then said:
'I checked up on his brother in Stockholm. He died last spring. Stroke. He was a fence too."
'Seems to have run in the family," Ahlberg said.
'The brother never got caught but Melander remembered him."
'Oh yes, Melander… he's like the elephant, he never forgets. You don't work together any more, do you?"
'Only sometimes. He's at headquarters in Kungsholmsga-tan. Kollberg too, as from today. It's crazy, the way they keep moving us about."
They turned their backs on the scene of the fire and went back to the car in silence.
A quarter of an hour later Ahlberg drew up in front of the police station, a low yellow brick building at the corner of Prästgatan and Kungsgatan, just near the main square and the statue of Baltsar von Platen. Half-turning to Martin Beck he said:
'Now that you're here with nothing to do you might as well stay for a couple of days." Martin Beck nodded.
'We can go out with the motorboat," Ahlberg said. That evening they dined at the City Hotel on the local specialty from Lake Vättern, a delicious salmon trout. They also had a few drinks.
On Saturday they took the motorboat out on the lake. On Sunday too. On Monday Martin Beck borrowed the motor-boat. And again on Tuesday. On Wednesday he went to Vadstena and had a look at the castle.
The hotel he was staying at in Motala was modern and comfortable. He got on well with Ahlberg. He read a novel by Kurt Salomonson called The Man Outside. He was enjoying himself.
He deserved it. He had worked very hard during the winter and the spring had been awful. The hope that it would be a quiet summer still remained.
5
THE MUGGER had nothing against the weather.
It had started to ram early in the afternoon. At first heavily, then in a steady drizzle which had stopped about seven o'clock. But the sky was still overcast and oppressive and the rain was obviously going to start again soon. It was now nine o'clock and dusk was spreading under the trees. Half an hour or so still remained before lighting-up time.
The mugger had taken off his thin plastic raincoat and laid it beside him on the park bench. He was wearing tennis shoes, khaki trousers and a neat gray nylon pullover with a monogram on the breast pocket. A large red bandanna handkerchief was tied loosely around his neck. He had been in the park or its immediate vicinity for over two hours, observing people closely and calculatingly. On two occasions he had studied the passers-by with special interest and each time it had been not one person but two. The first couple had been a young man and a girl; both were younger than himself, the girl was dressed in sandals and a short black-and-white summer dress, the boy wore a smart blazer and light-gray trousers. They had made their way to the shady paths in the most secluded corner of the park. There they had stopped and embraced. The girl had stood with her back to a tree and after only a few seconds the boy had thrust his right hand up under her skirt and inside the elastic band of her panties and started digging with his fingers between her legs. "Someone might come," she said mechanically, but she had immediately moved her feet apart. The next second she had closed her eyes and started to twist her hips rhythmically, at the same time scratching the back of the boy's well-trimmed neck with the fingers of her left hand. What she had done with her right hand he had not been able to see, although he had been so close to them that he had caught a glimpse of the white lace panties.
He had walked on the grass, following them with silent steps, and stood crouched behind the bushes less than a dozen yards away. He had carefully weighed the pros and cons. An attack appealed to his sense of humor, but on the other hand the girl had no handbag and also he might not be able to stop her from screaming, which in its turn might impede the practice of his profession. Besides, the boy looked stronger and broader across the shoulders than he had first thought, and anyway it wasnt at all certain that he had any money in his wallet. An attack seemed unwise, so he had crept away as silently as he had come. He was no Peeping Tom, he had more important things to do; in any case, he presumed there wasn't much more to see. Before long the young couple had left the park, now suitably far apart. They had crossed the street and entered an apartment house, the outside of which indicated stable middle-class respectability. In the doorway the girl had straightened her panties and bra and drawn a moistened fingertip along her eyebrows. The boy had combed his hair.
At half past eight his attention focused on the next two people. A red Volvo had stopped in front of the hardware store at the street corner. Two men were in the front seat One of them got out and went into the park. He was bareheaded and wore a beige-colored raincoat. A few minutes later the second man had got out and gone into the park another way; he was wearing a cap and tweed jacket but had no overcoat. After about fifteen minutes they had returned to the car, from different directions and at an interval of some minutes. He had stood with his back to them, looking into the window of the hardware store, and he had overheard clearly what they said.
'Well?"
'Nothing."
'What do we do now?"
'Lill-Jans Wood?"
'In this weather?"
'Well…"
'Okay. But then we have coffee."
'Okay."
They had banged the car doors and driven off.
And now it was nearly nine o'clock and he sat on the bench waiting.
He caught sight of her as soon as she entered the park and knew at once which path she would take. A dumpy, middle-aged woman with overcoat, umbrella and large handbag. Looked promising. Maybe she kept a fruit and tobacco stand. He got up and put on the plastic raincoat, cut across the lawn and crouched down behind the bushes. She came on along the path, was almost abreast of him now—in five seconds, perhaps ten. With his left hand he drew the bandanna handkerchief up over his nose and thrust the fingers of his right hand into the brass knuckles. She was only a few yards away now. He moved swiftly and his footsteps on the wet grass were almost silent.
But only almost. He was still a yard behind the woman when she turned around, saw him and opened her mouth to scream. Unreflectingly he struck her across the mouth as hard as he could. He heard a crunch. The woman dropped her umbrella and staggered, then fell to her knees, clutching her handbag with both hands as if she had a baby to protect.
He struck her again, and her nose crunched under the brass knuckles. She fell back, her legs doubled under her, and didn't utter a sound. She was streaming with blood and seemed hardly conscious, but all the same he took a handful of sand from the path and strewed it over her eyes. At the same instant that he tore open the handbag her head flopped to one side, her jaw fell open, and she started to vomit.
Wallet, purse, a wrist watch. Not so bad.
The mugger was already on his way out of the park. As if she'd been protecting a baby, he thought. It could have been such a nice neat job. The silly old bitch.
A quarter of an hour later he was home. The time was half past nine on the evening of June 9, 1967, a Friday. Twenty minutes later it started to rain.
6
IT RAINED all night but on Saturday morning the sun was shining again, hidden only now and then by the fluffy white clouds that floated across the clear blue sky. It was June 10, the summer vacation had begun, and on Friday evening long lines of cars had crawled out of town on their way to country cottages, boat jetties and camping sites. But the city was still full of people who, as the weekend promised to be fine, would have to make do with the makeshift country life offered by parks and open-air swimming pools.
The time was a quarter past nine and a line was already waiting outside the pay window of the Vanadis Baths. Sun-thirsty St
ockholmers, craving for a swim, streamed up the paths leading from Sveavägen.
Two seedy figures crossed Frejgatan against the red light. One was dressed in jeans and a pullover, the other in black trousers and a brown jacket which bulged suspiciously over the left-hand breast pocket. They walked slowly, peering bleary-eyed against the sun. The man with the bulge in his jacket staggered and nearly bumped into a cyclist, an athletic man of sixty or so in a light-gray summer suit, with a pair of wet swimming trunks on the baggage carrier. The cyclist wobbled and had to put one foot to the ground.
'Clumsy idiots!" he shouted, as he rode pompously away.
'Stupid old fool,'* the man with the jacket said. "Looks like a damned tycoon. Why, he might have knocked me down. I might have fallen and broken the bottle."
He stopped indignantly on the sidewalk and the mere thought of how near he had been to disaster made him shudder and raise his hand to the liquor in his jacket.
'And do you think he'd have paid for it? Not goddam likely. Sitting pretty, he is, in a swanky apartment at Norr Mälarstrand with his icebox full of champagne, but the sonof-abitch wouldn't think of paying for a poor bum's bottle of liquor that he'd broken. Dirty bastard!"
'But he didn't break it," his friend objected quietly.
The second man was much younger; he took his irate com-, panion by the arm and piloted him into the park. They climbed the slope, not towards the pool like the others but on past the gates. Then they turned off onto the path leading from Stefan's Church to the top of the hill. It was a steep pull and they were soon out of breath. Halfway up the younger man said:
'Sometimes you can find a few nickels in the grass behind the tower. If they've been playing poker there the night before. We might scrape enough together for another half-bottle before the liquor stores close…"
It was Saturday and the liquor stores shut at one o'clock.
'Not a hope. It was raining yesterday."
'So it was," the younger man said with a sigh.
The path skirted the fence of the bathing enclosure, which was teeming with bathers, some of them tanned so dark that they looked like Negroes, some of them real Negroes, but most of them pale after a long winter without even a week in the Canary Islands.