by Maj Sjowall
Nothing had happened. Many women called Andersson had been interviewed, but none of them had made the now-famous phone call.
No more bodies had been found and all the children reported missing during the day had turned up safely.
Martin Beck walked to Fridhemsplan and took the subway home.
They had got through the day. It was over a week now since the last murder. Or rather the latest one.
He felt like a drowning man who has just found a foothold but who knows that it’s only a respite. That in a few hours it will be high tide.
25
It was early in the morning of Tuesday the twentieth of June and in the guardroom of ninth district police station things were still quiet. Police Officer Kvist sat at a table smoking and reading the paper. He was a young man with a fair beard. From behind the partition in the corner came the murmur of voices, interrupted now and then by the clatter of a typewriter. A telephone rang. Kvist looked up from his paper and saw Granlund lift the receiver inside the glass cage.
The door behind him opened and Rodin came in. He stopped inside the door and fastened his belt and shoulder strap. He was a good bit older than Kvist, both in years and length of service. Kvist had finished his training at the police school the year before and been transferred to ninth district quite recently.
Rodin went up to the table and picked up his cap. He slapped Kvist on the shoulder.
“Well, chum, let’s go. We’ll do one more round, then have coffee.”
Kvist stubbed out his cigarette and folded up the paper.
They went out the main door and started walking westwards along Surbrunnsgatan. Slowly side by side, with equally long steps and hands behind their backs.
“What was it Granlund said we were to do with that Andersson woman if we found her?” Kvist asked.
“Nothing. Ask if she was the one who called up headquarters on the second of June and blethered about a man on a balcony,” Rodin said. “Then we were to call Granlund.”
They passed Tulegatan and Kvist looked up towards Vanadis Park.
“Were you up there after the murder?” he asked.
“Yes,” Rodin said. “Weren’t you?” “No, it was my day off.”
They walked on in silence. Then Kvist said:
“I’ve never found a body. It must have looked horrible.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll see a lot of them before you’re through.”
“What made you join the police?” Kvist asked.
Rodin did not answer at once. Seemed to think it over. Then he said:
“My dad was a policeman. It seemed natural for me to be one too, though mom wasn’t too happy about it, of course. And you? What made you want to be a cop?”
“To do something for the good of the community,” Kvist said.
He gave a laugh and went on:
“At first I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I had only Bs in my school-leaving report, but I met a guy in the army when I was doing my national service who was going to be a policeman and he said that my grades were good enough to get me into the police school. Also, there’s a shortage of men in the force and … well, anyway, he talked me into it.”
“The pay’s pretty lousy,” Rodin said.
“Oh, I dunno,” Kvist said. “I got fourteen hundred kronor a month at training pay and now I’m up in the ninth salary grade.”
“Yes, it’s a bit better now than when I started.”
“I read somewhere,” Kvist said, “that the police force is recruited out of the twenty percent that does not go to trade schools or university, and that many of that twenty percent do as you did, take the same job as their fathers. It just so happened that your father was a policeman.”
“Yes. But I damn well wouldn’t have taken the same job if he’d been a garbage man,” Rodin said.
“They say that there are at least fifteen hundred jobs vacant all over the country,” Kvist said. “So, no wonder we have to do so much overtime.”
Rodin kicked aside an empty beer can lying on the sidewalk and said:
“You sure are up on statistics. Do you intend to become commissioner?”
Kvist laughed, slightly embarrassed.
“Oh, I just read an article about it. But maybe it’s not a bad idea to be commissioner. What do you think he earns?”
“Well, you ought to know, with all your reading.”
They had reached Sveavägen and the conversation flagged.
By the newsstand at the corner, outside the liquor store, stood a couple of distinctly drunken men, pushing each other. One of them kept shaking his fist and trying to strike the second man, but was evidently too drunk to succeed. The other man appeared slightly more sober and kept his antagonist at bay by pushing the flat of his hand against his chest. At last the more sober of the men lost patience and tumbled the spluttering troublemaker into the gutter.
Rodin sighed.
“We’ll have to take him with us,” he said, starting to cross the road. “I know him of old, he’s always making trouble.”
“Which one?” Kvist asked.
“The one in the gutter. The other can manage on his own.”
They strode quickly up to the men. A third and equally seedy-looking type who had been watching the altercation from the small garden outside the Metropole restaurant, moved off towards Odengatan with hard-won dignity, looking back anxiously over his shoulder.
The two policemen lifted the drunk out of the gutter and stood him on his feet. He was in his sixties, very lean and very underweight by the look of him. Several passers-by, classed as ordinary decent citizens, stopped at a distance and gaped.
“Well, Johansson, how are things today?” Rodin said.
Johansson’s head flopped and he made a feeble attempt to dust himself down.
“Jush f-fine, offisher. I was jush talking to my pal here, jush having a bit of f-fun, shee?”
His pal made a commendable attempt to straighten up and said:
“Nothing wrong with Oskar. He’ll be all right.”
“Scram,” Rodin said good-naturedly, waving him away.
Relieved, the man hurried out of harm’s way.
Rodin and Kvist took a firm grip under the drunk’s arms and started hauling him towards the taxi stand twenty yards farther off.
The taxi driver saw them coming, got out and opened the door to the back seat. He was one of the cooperative types.
“You’re going to have a ride in a taxi, Johansson,” Rodin said. “And then you can sleep.”
Johansson crawled meekly into the taxi, collapsed on the back seat and fell asleep. Rodin propped him up in the corner and said over his shoulder to Kvist:
“I’ll book him and see you at the station. Buy a few cakes on the way back.”
Kvist nodded and as the taxi swung out from the curb he walked slowly back to the newsstand at the corner. He looked around for Johansson’s mate and discovered him in Surbrunnsgatan, a few yards away from the liquor store. When Kvist took a couple of steps towards him the man waved him away with both hands and started walking up towards Hagagatan.
Kvist watched the man until he had disappeared around the corner. Then he turned on his heel and returned to Sveavägen.
The saleswoman in the newsstand stuck her head out of the opening and said:
“Thank you. Those drunkards ruin my business. And they’re always hanging about just here.”
“It’s the liquor store that attracts them,” Kvist said.
In a way he felt sorry for Johansson and his like, knowing that part of their trouble was that they had nowhere to spend their time.
He saluted and walked on. A little farther down Sveavägen he saw a shop sign: BAKERY. Looking at his watch, he thought he might as well buy the cakes there and go back to the station and have coffee.
A little bell tinkled as he opened the door of the bakery. An elderly woman in a checked smock stood at the counter talking to the woman who was serving her.
Kvist put his hands
behind his back and waited. He inhaled the smell of fresh-baked bread, thinking that these small bakeries were getting rare.
Soon they’ll vanish altogether and you’ll be able to buy nothing but mass-produced bread in plastic wrapping and the entire Swedish nation will eat exactly the same loaves and buns and cakes, thought Police Officer Kvist.
Kvist was only twenty-two but often had the feeling that his childhood was in the distant past. He listened with half an ear to the conversation between the two women.
“And to think old Palm in Number 81 went and died,” said the fat woman in the smock.
“Yes, but just as well he did really,” the shopwoman said. “He was so old and decrepit.”
She was gray-haired and elderly and wore a white coat. Casting a glance at Kvist, she quickly put the goods into the customer’s shopping bag.
“Will that be all, Mrs. Andersson?” she asked. “No cream today?”
The customer picked up her bag and puffed.
“No, no cream today, thank you. And charge it as usual, please. Good morning.”
She moved towards the door and Kvist hurried to open it for her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Andersson, dear,” the shopwoman said.
The fat woman squeezed past Kvist with a nod by way of thanks.
He smiled to himself at the “dear” and was about to close the door behind her when a thought struck him. The shopwoman stared at him blankly as, without saying a word, he hurried out into the street and shut the door behind him.
As he caught up with her the woman in the check smock was already halfway inside the entrance next to the bakery. Saluting quickly, he said:
“Excuse me, madam, is your name Andersson?”
“Ye-es …?”
Taking her shopping bag, he held open the door for her. When it had shut behind them he said:
“Forgive my asking, but was it by any chance you who called up police headquarters on the morning of Friday the second of June?”
“The second of June? Ye-es, I did call the police. Maybe it was the second. What of it?”
“Why did you make that call?” Kvist asked.
He could not help betraying his eagerness and the woman called Andersson looked at him in astonishment.
“I spoke to a detective or whatever he was. A very rude man. Didn’t seem in the least interested. I only wanted to report something I’d noticed. That man had been standing there on his balcony for …”
“Do you mind if I come up with you and use your phone?” Kvist asked, already on his way to the elevator.
“I’ll explain on the way up,” he said.
26
Martin Beck put down the phone and shouted to Kollberg. Then he buttoned his jacket, put his cigarettes and a box of matches in his pocket and looked at his wrist watch. Five to ten. Kollberg appeared in the doorway.
“What are you bawling for?” he said.
“They’ve found her. Mrs. Andersson. Granlund in ninth district just called up. She lives in Sveavägen.”
Kollberg vanished into the next room, fetched his jacket and was still struggling into it when he came back.
“Sveavägen,” he said thoughtfully, looking at Martin Beck. “How did they get hold of her? Door-to-door?”
“No, a young officer from ninth met her in a bakery when he went in to buy cakes.”
As they went downstairs Kollberg said:
“Isn’t it Granlund who says that coffee breaks should be abolished? Perhaps he’ll change his mind now.”
Mrs. Andersson regarded them critically through the crack in the door.
“Was it either of you I spoke to when I called up that morning?” she asked.
“No,” Martin Beck said politely. “You spoke to Detective Inspector Larsson.”
Mrs. Andersson undid the safety chain and admitted them to a small, dark hall.
“Detective inspector or not, he was very rude. As I said to the young officer who came up with me, the police ought to be grateful that people do report things. Who knows, I said to him, if people didn’t report things you might not have any work. But step inside, please, and I’ll get the coffee.”
Kollberg and Martin Beck went into the living room. Even though the apartment was on the third floor and the window gave onto the street, the room was rather dark. It was large, but the heavy, old furniture took up most of the floor space. One half of the window was slightly open, the other half mostly hidden by tall pot plants. The curtains were cream-colored and fussily draped.
In front of a brown plush sofa stood a round mahogany table set with coffee cups and a plate of cakes. Two tall armchairs with antimacassars stood one on each side of the table.
Mrs. Andersson came in from the kitchen carrying a china coffeepot. She poured out the coffee and then sat down on the sofa, which groaned beneath her weight.
“Can’t talk without coffee,” she said cheerfully. “Do tell me now, has anything happened about that man opposite?”
Martin Beck started to say something but his words were drowned by the wail of an ambulance tearing along the street below. Kollberg closed the window.
“Haven’t you read the papers, Mrs. Andersson?” Martin Beck asked.
“No, when I’m in the country I never read the papers. I came home last night. Have another cake, gentlemen. Go on, do, they’re just fresh from the bakery downstairs. By the way, that’s where I met that nice young man in uniform, though how he could know I was the one to call up the police, I’m sure I don’t know. Anyway, I did and it was the second of June, a Friday, I remember quite well, because my sister’s husband’s name is Rutger and it was his name day, and when I was there with them at the coffee party I told them about that rude inspector or whatever he was and it was only an hour or two after I had called up.”
Here she had to get her breath and Martin Beck put in quickly:
“Would you mind showing us that balcony?”
Kollberg had already gone over to the window. The woman heaved herself up.
“The third balcony from the bottom,” she said, pointing. “Beside that window with no curtains.”
They looked at the balcony. The apartment to which it belonged seemed to have only two windows onto the street, a large one near the balcony door and a smaller one.
“Have you seen the man recently?” Martin Beck asked.
“No, not for some time. You see, I was in the country over the weekend, but before that I didn’t see him for some days.”
Kollberg caught sight of a pair of binoculars between two flower pots on the window sill. He picked them up and looked through them at the apartment house opposite. The balcony door and the windows were shut. The windowpanes reflected the daylight and he could not make out anything inside the dark rooms.
“Rutger gave me those binoculars,” the woman said. “They’re naval ones. Rutger used to be a naval officer. I usually look at that man through the binoculars. If you open the window you can see better. Don’t go thinking I’m inquisitive, now, but you see I had an operation on my leg at the beginning of April and that was when I discovered that man. After the operation, that is. I had this incision in my leg and I couldn’t walk and it hurt so much I couldn’t sleep either, so I sat here at the window most of the time, watching. I thought there was something very peculiar about a man who had nothing better to do than stand there staring. Ugh. There was something nasty about him.”
While the woman was talking Martin Beck took out the identikit picture that had been drawn from the mugger’s description and showed it to her.
“Quite like him,” she said. “Not very well drawn, if you ask me. But there’s a likeness all right.”
“Do you remember when you saw him last?” Kollberg asked, handing the binoculars to Martin Beck.
“Well, it’s some days ago now. Over a week. Let’s see now … yes, I think the last time was when I had the woman in to clean. Wait and I’ll have a look.”
Opening the writing desk, she took out a calendar.
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“Let’s see now … Last Friday, that’s it. We cleaned the windows. He was standing there in the morning but not in the evening and not the next day. Yes, that’s right. Since then I haven’t seen him. I’m sure of that.”
Martin Beck lowered the binoculars and glanced swiftly at Kollberg. They didn’t need a calendar to remember what had happened on that Friday.
“On the ninth, that is,” Kollberg said.
“That’s right. Now what about another cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Martin Beck said.
“Oh, just a drop, come on.”
“No, thank you,” Kollberg said.
She filled up the cups and sank down onto the sofa. Kollberg perched on the arm of the chair and popped a small almond biscuit into his mouth.
“Was he always alone, that man?” Martin Beck asked.
“Well, I’ve never seen anyone else there at any rate. He looks the lonely type. Sometimes I almost feel sorry for him. It’s always dark in the apartment and when he’s not standing on the balcony he sits at the kitchen window. He does that when it rains. But I’ve never seen anyone with him. But do sit down and have some more coffee and tell me what’s happened to him. Just think, my calling up did the trick after all. But it took an awfully long time.”
Martin Beck and Kollberg had already gulped down their coffee. They stood up.
“Thanks very much, Mrs. Andersson. Good-bye. No, please don’t bother to see us out.”
They retreated towards the hall.
When they came out of the main entrance Kollberg, law-abiding, started walking towards the pedestrian crossing fifty yards away, but Martin Beck took him by the arm and they hurried across the road towards the apartment house on the other side.
27
Martin Beck walked up the three flights, Kollberg took the elevator. They met outside the door and looked at it attentively. An ordinary brown wooden door that opened inwards, with Yale lock, mail slot of brass and a tarnished white-metal nameplate, on which was engraved in black letters: I. FRANSSON. There was not a sound in the whole building. Kollberg put his right ear to the door and listened. Then he knelt down with his right knee on the stone floor and very cautiously pushed up the flap of the mail slot about half an inch. Listened. Lowered the flap as silently as he had raised it. Got up and shook his head.