by Maj Sjowall
'No," Kollberg said. "We won't let him go."
10
SURE ENOUGH, the man's name was Eriksson. He was a warehouse laborer and it didn't take an expert to see that he was an alcoholic. He was sixty years old, tall, bald and emaciated. His whole body twitched and shook.
Kollberg and Martin Beck questioned him for two hours, which were equally wretched for all concerned.
The man admitted the same disgusting details over and over again. At intervals he sniffled and sobbed, calling heaven to witness that he had gone straight home from the restaurant on Friday afternoon. At any rate he couldn't remember anything else.
After two hours he confessed that he had stolen two hundred kronor in July 1964 and a cycle when he was eighteen. He then did nothing but snivel. He was a human wreck, an outcast from the dubious fellowship that surrounded him, and utterly alone.
Kollberg and Martin Beck regarded him gloomily and sent him back to the cell.
At the same time other men from the division, and from the fifth district, tried to find someone in the apartment house at Hagagatan who could either confirm or confute his alibi They were not successful.
The autopsy report available about four o'clock that afternoon was still preliminary. It spoke of strangulation, finger marks on the neck and sexual assault. Out-and-out rape had not been established.
Otherwise the report contained negative information. There was no indication that the girl had had a chance to resist. No scrapings of skin had been found under the nails and no bruises on arms and hands, though there were some on the lower abdomen, as if caused by blows of a fist
The technical division had examined her clothes, and had nothing unusual to report. Her pants, however, were missing. They couldn't be found anywhere. They had been white cotton, size 6, and a well-known make.
In the evening the men detailed to go around from door to door had handed out five hundred stenciled questionnaires. Only one reply of any interest had been received. An eighteen-year-old girl by the name of Majken Jansson, who lived in the apartment house at Sveavägen 103 and was the daughter of a businessman, said that she and a boyfriend her own age had spent about twenty minutes in Vanadis Park sometime between eight and nine. She wasn't sure of the exact time. They had seen nothing and heard nothing.
Asked what they had been doing in Vanadis Park, she had replied that they had been at a family dinner party and had just gone out to get a breath of air.
'A breath of air," Melander said thoughtfully.
'Between the legs, no doubt," Gunvald Larsson said.
Larsson had been in the regular navy and was still in the reserve. Now and then he gave vent to his below-decks humor.
Hour after hour dragged past. The investigation machinery went grinding on. The time was already past one o'clock on the night between Sunday and Monday when Martin Beck came home to Bagarmossen. Everyone was asleep. He took a can of beer out of the icebox and made a cheese sandwich. Then he drank the beer and threw the sandwich into the garbage bag.
After he had got into bed he lay for a while thinking of the alcoholic warehouse laborer called Eriksson, who three years ago had stolen two hundred kronor from a workmate's coat.
Kollberg couldn't get to sleep. He lay in the dark staring at the ceiling. He too thought of the man called Eriksson whose name had been in the vice squad's register. He also considered the fact that if the man who had committed the murder in Vanadis Park was not in the register, then computer technology was about as much good to them as it had been to the American police in their hunt for the Boston strangle!. In other words, none at all. The Boston strangler had killed thirteen people, all lone women, in two years without leaving a single clue.
Now and then he looked at his wife. She was asleep, but twitched every time the baby in her body kicked.
11
IT WAS MONDAY afternoon, fifty-four hours after the dead girl had been found in Vanadis Park.
The police had appealed to the public for help through the press, radio and television, and over three hundred tips had already come in. Each item of information was registered and examined by a special working group, after which the results were studied in detail.
The vice squad combed its registers, the forensic laboratory dealt with the meager material from the scene of the crime, the computers worked at high pressure, men from the assault squad went around the neighborhood knocking on doors, suspects and possible witnesses were questioned, and as yet all this activity had led nowhere. The murderer was unknown and still at large.
The papers were piling up on Martin Beck's desk. Since early morning he had been working on the never-ceasing stream of reports and interrogation statements. The telephone had never stopped ringing, but in order to get a breathing space he had now asked Kollberg to take his calls during the next hour or so. Gunvald Larsson and Melander were spared all these telephone calls; they sat behind closed doors sifting material.
Martin Beck had had only a few hours' sleep during the night and he had skipped lunch so as to have time for a press conference, which had yielded the journalists very little.
He yawned and looked at the time, astonished that it was already a quarter past three. Gathering up a bundle of papers that belonged to Melander's department, he knocked at the door and went in to Melander and Larsson.
Melander did not look up when he entered the room. They had worked together for so long that he knew Martin Beck's knock. Gunvald Larsson glared at the bundle of papers in Martin Beck's hand and said:
'Good God, have you brought still more? We're swamped with work already."
Martin Beck shrugged and put the papers down at Melander's elbow.
'I was going to order some coffee," he said. "Like some?"
Melander shook his head without looking up.
'Good idea," Gunvald Larsson said.
Martin Beck went out, shut the door behind him and collided with Kollberg, who had come rushing up. Martin Beck saw the frantic expression on Kollberg's round face and asked:
'What's up with you?"
Kollberg gripped his arm and said, so fast that the words tumbled over each other:
'Martin, it has happened again! He has done it again! In Tanto Park."
They drove across the West Bridge with sirens full on, and on the radio they heard that all available squad cars had been directed to Tanto Park to cordon it off. All that Martin Beck and Kollberg had been told before leaving headquarters was that a girl had been found dead near the open-air theater, that the circumstances were similar to the murder in Vanadis Park and that the body had been found so soon after the crime that there was a chance the murderer had not yet got very far.
As they drove past the Zinkensdamm athletic field they saw a couple of black-and-white cars turn into Wollmar Yxkullsgatan. One or two more were standing in Ringvägen and inside the park.
They pulled up outside the row of old wooden houses in Sköldgatan. The road into the park was blocked by a car with a radio aerial. On the footpath they saw a uniformed police officer stop some children who were on their way up the hill.
Martin Beck strode swiftly towards the officer, leaving
Kollberg to follow as best he could. The policeman saluted and pointed up into the park. Martin Beck strode on without slacking his pace. The park was very hummocky and not until he had passed the theater and climbed' the slope did he see some men standing in a semicircle with their backs to him. They were in a hollow about thirty yards from the road. Farther away, where the road forked, a uniformed policeman was on guard to keep inquisitive people away.
As he went down the slope Kollberg caught up with him. They could hear the policemen down there talking, but they fell silent as Beck and Kollberg approached. The men saluted and stepped aside. Martin Beck heard Kollberg panting.
The girl was lying on her back in the grass with both arms bent over her head. The left leg was bent and the knee drawn up so high to the side that the thigh lay at right angles to the body. The right leg
lay stretched out obliquely from the trunk. Her face was turned upwards, with half-closed eyes and open mouth. Blood had trickled down from the nostrils. A skipping rope of yellow transparent plastic was wound tightly around her neck in several coils. She was wearing a yellow sleeveless cotton dress buttoned right down the front. The three bottom buttons had been torn off. She had no pants. On her feet were white socks and red sandals. She looked about ten years old. She was dead.
Martin Beck saw all this during the few seconds he was able to keep his eyes on her. Then he turned and looked towards the road. Two of the men from the technical division were running down the slope. They were dressed in gray-blue coveralls and one of them was carrying a large gray metal box. The second man had a coil of rope in one hand and a black bag in the other. As they got nearer the man with the rope called:
'That bastard who has left his car in the middle of the road will have to move it so that we can drive up."
Then, glancing at the dead girl, he ran down to the road fork and began cordoning off the area with the rope.
A radio policeman in a leather jacket was standing beside the road speaking, into a walkie-talkie while a plainclothes man stood beside him listening. Martin Beck recognized the plainclothes man. His name was Manning and he belonged to the protection squad in second district.
Manning caught sight of Martin Beck and Kollberg, said a few words to the radio policeman and then came up to them.
'It seems as if the whole area is cordoned off now," he said. "As far as possible."
'How long since she was found?" Martin Beck asked.
Manning looked at his wrist watch.
'It's twenty-five minutes since the first car got here," he said.
'And you've no description to go on?" Kollberg asked.
'No, unfortunately."
'Who found her?" Martin Beck asked.
'A couple of small boys. They gave the alarm to a radio car that was driving along Ringvägen. She was still warm when they got here. Doesn't seem to be long since it happened."
Martin Beck looked around him. The technical division car was driving down the slope, closely followed by the doctor's.
From the hollow where the dead child's body lay nothing could be seen of the allotment gardens that began behind a mound about fifty yards to the west. Above the treetops the upper stories of one of the apartment houses in Tantogatan were visible, but the railroad that divided the street from the park was hidden by the greenery.
'He couldn't have chosen a better spot in the whole of Stockholm," Martin Beck said.
'A worse one, you mean," Kollberg said.
He was right. Even if the man guilty of the little girl's death was still within the area, he had a pretty good chance of escaping. The park is the biggest in the inner part of the city. Next to Tanto Park itself there are allotment gardens and cottages, and below them, on the shore of Arstaviken, is a straggling line of small boatyards, storehouses, workshops, scrapyards and ramshackle wooden huts. Between Wollmar Yxkullsgatan, which cuts through the area from Ringvägen to the water, and Hornsgatan lies the Högalid Institution for alcoholics, consisting of several large, irregularly placed buildings. Round about are several more storehouses and wooden sheds. Between the institution and the Zinkensdamm athletic field is yet another colony of allotment gardens. A viaduct over the railroad connects the south side of the park with Tantogatan, where five gigantic apartment houses have been built on the rocks nearest the water. Farther up, at the corner of Ringvägen, is the Tanto workingmen's hostel, consisting of a line of low, sprawling wooden huts.
Martin Beck sized up the situation as almost hopeless. He did not see how they could possibly catch the murderer here and now. For one thing, they didn't even have his description; for another, he was sure to have made a clear getaway by this time. Thirdly, the alcoholics* home and the working-men's hostel could supply them with so many suspicious individuals that it would take days to question them.
The next hour confirmed his doubts. When the doctor had finished his preliminary examination he could merely say that the girl had been strangled and probably raped, and that death had occurred quite recently. The dog van had arrived soon after Martin Beck and Kollberg, but the only scent the dogs picked up led straight out of the park towards Wollmar Yxkullsgatan. The plainclothes policemen in the protection squad were questioning possible witnesses, as yet without result. A number of people had been in the park and the allotment gardens, but no one had seen or heard anything that could be connected with the murder.
The time was ten minutes to five and on the sidewalk of Ringvägen a group of people stood staring inquisitively at the apparently aimless work of the police. Reporters and photographers had arrived in a stream; some of them had already returned to their editorial offices to supply readers with juicy descriptions of the second murder of a little girl in Stockholm within the space of three days, committed by a maniac who was still at large.
Martin Beck caught sight of Kollberg's round behind in the open door of a radio car that was parked on the gravel nearest Ringvägen. He broke away from a cluster of journalists and went up to Kollberg, who was leaning into the car and speaking on the radio. He waited until Kollberg had finished speaking and then pinched his behind. Kollberg backed out of the car and straightened up.
'Oh, it's you. I thought it was one of the dogs."
'Do you know if anyone has told the girl's parents?" Martin Beck asked.
'Yes," Kollberg replied. "We're spared that."
'I thought I'd go and talk to the boys who found her. They live over there in Tantogatan."
'Okay," Kollberg said. "Ill stay here."
'Fine. Be seeing you," Martin Beck said.
The boys lived in one of the big bow-shaped apartment houses in Tantogatan and Martin Beck found them both at home. They were suffering from shock after their awful experience, but at the same time could not hide the fact that they found it all very exciting.
They told Martin Beck how they had stumbled on the girl while playing in the park. They had recognized her at once, as she lived in the same apartment house as they did. Earlier in the day they had seen her in the playground behind the house where they lived. She had been skipping together with two girls of her own age. As one of them was in the same class as the boys, they could tell Martin Beck that her name was Lena Oskarsson, that she was ten years old and lived next door.
The next apartment block looked exactly like the one the boys lived in. He took the swift automatic elevator to the seventh floor and rang the doorbell. After a while the door was opened and then shut again immediately. He had not seen anyone through the crack of the door. He rang the bell a second time. The door was opened at once and he now realized why he had not seen anyone the first time. The boy standing inside looked about three years old and his flaxen-colored head was about a yard below the level of Martin Beck's eyes.
The lad let go the door handle and said in a high-pitched, clear voice:
'Hi, good afternoon."
Then he ran into the apartment and Martin Beck heard him call:
'Mommy! Mommy! Big man come."
About half a minute passed before his mother came to the door. She looked anxiously and questioningly at Martin Beck and he hastened to show his identity disk.
'I'd like a word with your daughter if she's at home," he said. "Does she know what has happened?"
'To Annika? Yes, we heard just now from a neighbor. It's horrible. How can such a thing happen in broad daylight? But come in. I'll get Lena."
Martin Beck followed Mrs. Oskarsson into the living room. Apart from the furniture, it was identical with the room he had just left. The little boy was standing in the middle of the floor, looking at him with expectant curiosity. He was holding a toy guitar.
'Go into your room and play, Bosse," his mother said.
Bosse took no notice, and she didn't seem to expect him to.
She went over and moved some toys off the sofa by the balcony window.
> 'It's rather untidy here," she said. "Won't you sit down, and I'll get Lena."
She left the room and Martin Beck smiled at the little boy. His own children were twelve and fifteen and he had forgotten how to make conversation with three-year-olds.
'Can you play that guitar?" he asked.
'Not lay," the boy said. "You lay."
'No, I can't play."
'Yes, you lay," the boy persisted.
Mrs. Oskarsson came in, picked up the boy and the guitar and carried him firmly out of the room. He screamed and kicked and his mother said over her shoulder:
'll1 be back in a minute. You can be talking to Lena."
The boys had said that Lena was ten years old. She was tall for her age and rather pretty, despite a slight pout. She was dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt and she bobbed shyly.
'Sit down," Martin Beck said. "We can talk better then."
She sat on the edge of one of the armchairs with her knees pressed together.
'Your name's Lena, isn't it," he said.
'Yes."
'And mine's Martin. You know what has happened?"
'Yes," the girl said, staring at the floor. "I heard… Mom told me."
'I know you must be upset, but I have to ask you one or two things."
'Yes."
'You were together with Annika earlier today, weren't you?"
'Yes, we played together. Ulla and Annika and I."
'Where did you play?"
She nodded towards the window.
'First in the yard down here. Then Ulla had to go home for lunch, so Annika and I came home here. Then Ulla called for us and we went out again."
'Where to?"
'To Tanto Park. I had to take Bosse with me and there are swings there and he likes that."
'Do you know what the tune was then?"
'Oh, half past one, getting on for two maybe. Mom might know."
'So then you went to Tanto Park. Did you see if Annika met anyone there? If a man spoke to her or anything?"
'No, I didn't see her talking to anyone."
'What did you do in Tanto Park?"
The girl stared out of the window for a while. She seemed to be thinking back.