The Man on the Balcony

by Maj Sjowall

  W: Thank you. Meatballs and mashed potatoes. And we had ice cream afterwards.

  G: What did she drink?

  W: Milk.

  G: What did you do then?

  W: We watched TV for a while … it was a children’s program.

  G: And at seven o’clock or just after she went out?

  W: Yes, it had stopped raining then. And the news had started on

  TV. She’s not very interested in the news.

  G: Did she go out alone?

  W: Yes. Do you … you see it was quite light and the school vacation had begun. I told her she could stay out and play until eight. Do you think it … was careless of me? G: Certainly not. By no means. Then you didn’t see her again? W: No … not until … no, I can’t …

  G: The identification? We needn’t talk about that. When did you start getting worried?

  W: I don’t know. I was worried the whole time. I’m always worried when she’s not at home. You see, she’s all …

  G: But when did you start looking for her?

  W: Not until after half past eight. She’s careless sometimes. Stays late with a playmate and forgets to look at the time. You know, children playing …

  G: Yes. I see. When did you start searching?

  W: About a quarter to nine. I knew she had two playmates the same age she used to go to. I called up the parents of one of them but got no answer.

  MB: The family’s away. Gone out to their summer cottage over the weekend.

  W: I didn’t know that. I don’t think Eva did either.

  G: What did you do then?

  W: The other girl’s parents have no telephone. So I went there.

  G: What time?

  W: I can’t have got there until after nine, because the street door was locked and it took a while before I got in. I had to stand and wait until someone came. Eva had been there just after seven, but the other girl hadn’t been allowed out. Her father said he thought it was too late for little girls to be out alone at that hour. (Pause)

  W: Dear God if only I’d … But it was broad daylight and there were people everywhere. If only I hadn’t … G: Had your daughter left there at once?

  W: Yes, she said she’d go to the playground.

  G: Which playground do you think she meant?

  W: The one in Vanadis Park, at Sveavägen. She always went there.

  G: She can’t have meant the other playground, the one up by the water tower?

  W: I don’t think so. She never went there. And certainly not alone.

  G: Do you think she might have met some other playmates?

  W: None that I know of. She always used to play with those two.

  G: Well, when you didn’t find her at this other place, what did you do then?

  W: I … I went to the playground at Sveavägen. It was empty.

  G: And then?

  W: I didn’t know what to do. I went home and waited. I stood in the window watching for her.

  G: When did you call the police?

  W: Not until later. At five or ten past ten I saw a police car stop by the park and then an ambulance came. It had started raining again by then. I put on my coat and ran there. I … I spoke to a policeman standing there, but he said it was an elderly woman who had hurt herself.

  G: Did you go home again after that?

  W: Yes. And I saw the light was on in the apartment. I was so happy because I thought she had come home. But it was myself who had forgotten to put it out.

  G: At what time did you call the police?

  W: By half past ten I couldn’t stand it any longer. I called up a friend, a woman I know at work. She lives at Hökarängen. She told me to call the police at once.

  G: According to the information we have you called at ten minutes to eleven.

  W: Yes. And then I went to the police station. The one in Surbrunnsgatan. They were awfully nice and kind. They asked me to tell them what Eva looks … looked like and what she had on. And I’d taken a snapshot with me so they could see what she looked like. They were so kind. The policeman who wrote everything down said that a lot of children got lost or stayed too long at the home of some playmate but that they all usually turned up safely after an hour or two. And …

  G: Yes?

  W: And he said that if anything had happened, an accident or something, they’d have known about it by that time.

  G: What time did you get home again?

  W: It was after twelve by then. I sat up waiting … all night. I waited for someone to ring. The police. They had my telephone number, you see, but no one called. I called them up once more anyway. But the man who answered said he had my number written down and that he’d call up at once if … (Pause)

  W: But no one called. No one at all. Not in the morning either. And then a plainclothes policeman came and … and said … said that …

  G: I don’t think we need go on with this. W: Oh, I see. No.

  MB: Your daughter has been accosted by so-called molesters once or twice before, hasn’t she?

  W: Yes, last fall. Twice. She thought she knew who it was. Someone who lived in the same apartment house as Eivor, that’s the friend who has no telephone.

  MB: The one who lives in Hagagatan?

  W: Yes. I reported it to the police. We were up here, in this building, and they got Eva to tell a lady all about it. They gave her a whole lot of pictures to look at too, in a big album.

  G: There’s a record of all that. We got the material out of the files.

  MB: I know. But what I was going to ask is whether Eva was molested by this man later. After you reported him to the police?

  W: No … not as far as I know. She didn’t say anything … and she always tells me …

  G: Well, that’s about all, Mrs. Carlsson.

  W: Oh. I see.

  MB: Forgive my asking, but where are you going now? W: I don’t know. Not home to …

  G: I’ll come down with you and we can talk about it. We’ll think of something.

  W: Thank you. You’re very kind.

  • • •

  Kollberg switched off the tape recorder, stared gloomily at Martin Beck and said:

  “That bastard who molested her last fall …”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s the same one Rönn’s busy with downstairs. We went and fetched him straight off at midday yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “So far it’s merely a triumph for computer technique. He only grins and says it wasn’t him.”

  “Which proves?”

  “Nothing, of course. He has no alibi either. Says he was at home asleep in his one-room apartment at Hagagatan. Can’t quite remember, he says.”

  “Can’t remember?”

  “He’s a complete alcoholic,” Kollberg said. “At any rate we know that he sat drinking at the Röda Berget restaurant until he was chucked out at about six o’clock. It doesn’t look too good for him.”

  “What did he do last time?”

  “Exposed himself. He’s an ordinary exhibitionist, as far as I can make out. I have the tape of the interview with the girl here. Yet another triumph for technology.”

  The door opened and Rönn came in.

  “Well?” Kollberg asked.

  “Nothing so far. We’ll have to let him come round a bit. Seems done in.”

  “So do you,” Kollberg said.

  He was right; Rönn looked unnaturally pale and his eyes were swollen and red-rimmed.

  “What do you think?” Martin Beck asked.

  “I don’t know what to think,” Rönn replied. “I think I’m sickening for something.”

  “You can do that later,” Kollberg said. “Not now. Let’s listen to this tape.”

  Martin Beck nodded. The spool of the recorder started turning again. A pleasant female voice said:

  “Questioning of schoolgirl Eva Carlsson born fifth of February nineteen fifty-nine. Examining officer Detective Inspector Sonja Hansson.”

  Both Martin Beck and Kollberg frowned a
nd missed the next few sentences. They recognized the name and voice all too well. Sonja Hansson was a girl whose death they had very nearly brought about two and a half years earlier when they used her as decoy in a police trap.

  “A miracle she stayed on in the force,” Kollberg said.

  “Yes,” Martin Beck agreed.

  “Quiet, I can’t hear,” Rönn said.

  He had not been mixed up in it that time.

  “… so then this man came up to you?”

  “Yes. Eivor and I were standing at the bus stop.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He smelled nasty and he had a funny walk, and he said … it was so funny what he said.”

  “Can you remember what it was?”

  “Yes, he said, ‘Hello, little girlies, will you jerk me off if I give you five kronor?’ “

  “Do you know what he meant by that, Eva?”

  “No, it was so funny. I know what jerk is, because sometimes the girl sitting next to me at school jerks my elbow. But why did the man want us to jerk his elbow? He wasn’t sitting down and writing or anything, and anyway …”

  “What did you do then? After he had said that?”

  “He said it several times. Then he walked off and we crept after him.”

  “Crept after him?”

  “Yes, shadowed him. Like on the movies or TV.”

  “Did you dare to?”

  “Humph, there was no harm in it.”

  “Oh yes, Eva, you should watch out for men like that.”

  “Humph, he wasn’t dangerous.”

  “Did you see which way he went?”

  “Yes, he went into the apartment house where Eivor lived and two floors above hers he took out a key and went inside.”

  “Did you both go home then?”

  “Oh no. We crept up and looked at the door. It had his name on it, see.”

  “Yes, I see. And what was his name?”

  “Eriksson, I think. We listened through the mail slot too. We could hear him mumbling.”

  “Did you tell your mother about it?”

  “Humph, it was nothing. But it was funny.”

  “But you did tell your mother about what happened yesterday?”

  “About the cows, yes.”

  “Was it the same man?”

  “Ye-es.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Almost.”

  “How old do you think this man is?”

  “Oh, about twenty at least.”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “Oh, about forty. Or fifty.”

  “Is this man older or younger than I am, do you think?”

  “Oh, much older. Much, much older. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight. Well, can you tell me what happened yesterday?”

  “Well, Eivor and I were playing hopscotch in the doorway and he came up and stood there and said, ‘Come along up with me, girlies, and you can watch me milking my cows.’ “

  “I see. And what did he do then?”

  “Humph, he couldn’t have cows up in his room. Not real ones.”

  “What did you say, you and Eivor?”

  “Oh, we didn’t say anything, but afterwards Eivor said she was ashamed because her hair ribbon had come undone so she wasn’t going home with anybody.”

  “Did the man go home then?”

  “No, he said, ‘Well, I’ll just have to milk my cows here then.’ Then he undid his trousers and …”

  “Yes?”

  “I say, do you think that if Eivor’s hair ribbon hadn’t come undone, we might have been murdered? How exciting …”

  “No, I don’t think so. The man undid his trousers, you said?”

  “Yes, and then he took out that thing that men do wee-wee with …”

  The clear childish voice was cut off in the middle of the sentence as Kollberg reached out and switched off the tape recorder. Martin Beck looked at him. Propped his head on his left hand and rubbed his nose with his knuckles.

  “The funny thing about this is …” Rönn began.

  “What the hell are you saying,” Kollberg barked.

  “Well, he admits it now. The time before, he swore blind he didn’t, and the girls got more and more uncertain about identifying him, so nothing came of it. But now he confesses. Says he was drunk both times, else he wouldn’t have done it.”

  “Oh, so he admits it now,” Kollberg said.

  “Yes.”

  Martin Beck glanced inquiringly at Kollberg. Then he turned to Rönn and said:

  “You didn’t get any sleep last night, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’d better go home and catch up on it.”

  “Shall we let this fellow go?”

  “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 strangler. 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: