Roseanna

by Wahlöö, Per

  But then, at the time when the photograph was taken, it had been summer and suddenly he remembered the fresh odour of flowers and wet shrubbery.

  Martin Beck opened a drawer and took out his magnifying glass. It was shaped like a scoop and there was an electric battery in the handle. When he pressed the button, the object under study was illuminated with a small bulb. It was a good photograph and he could quite clearly make out the skipper on the port side of the bridge and several of the passengers who were hanging on the railing. The forward deck of the ship was loaded with cargo, still another sign that the picture was far from new.

  He had just moved his glance slightly to the right when Kollberg walloped on the door with his fists and walked in.

  ‘Hi, were you frightened?’

  ‘Frightened to death,’ answered Martin Beck and felt his heart skip a beat.

  ‘Haven't you gone home yet?’

  ‘Sure. I'm sitting three storeys up in my apartment and eating chicken.’

  ‘By the way, when do we get paid?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I hope.’

  Kollberg collapsed in the visitor's chair.

  They sat quietly for a while. Finally Kollberg said: ‘That was a flop, wasn't it? Examining that tough guy you went down and mangled?’

  ‘He didn't do it.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you feel sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That's good enough for me. When you get right down to it there is a difference between seducing a twelve year old girl and killing a full grown woman.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And anyway, she would never have gone for a type like that. Not if I've read my Kafka right.’

  ‘No,’ Martin Beck agreed with conviction. ‘She wouldn't have.’

  ‘What did the guy in Motala think? Was he disappointed?’

  ‘Ahlberg? Yes, somewhat. But he's stubborn. What did Melander say, by the way?’

  ‘Nothing. I've known that fellow since our training days and the only thing that has ever depressed him was tobacco rationing.’

  Kollberg took out a notebook with a black cover and thumbed through it thoughtfully.

  ‘While you were away I went through everything again. I tried to make up a summary.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I asked myself, for example, the question that Hammar is going to ask us tomorrow: What do we know?’

  ‘And what did you answer?’

  ‘Wait a minute. It's better if you answer. What do we know about Roseanna McGraw?’

  ‘A little. Thanks to Kafka.’

  ‘That's right. I would even venture to say that we know all the important factors about her. Further: what do we know about the actual murder?’

  ‘We have the scene of the crime. We also know approximately how and when it happened.’

  ‘Do we actually know where it happened?’

  Martin Beck drummed his fingers on the top of the desk. Then he said:

  ‘Yes. In cabin A 7 on board the Diana.’

  ‘According to the blood-type that's right. But that would never hold as evidence.’

  ‘No, but we know it,’ said Martin Beck quickly.

  ‘Okay. We'll pretend that we know it. When?’

  ‘On the night of 4 July. After dark. In any event some time after dinner which ended at eight o'clock. Presumably some time between nine o'clock and midnight.’

  ‘How? Yes, on that point we have the autopsy report. We can also guess that she undressed herself, of her own free will. Or possibly under threat for her life. But that doesn't seem likely.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And so, last but not least, what do we know about the culprit?’

  Kollberg answered his own question in twenty seconds: ‘That the person in question is a sadist and sexually twisted.’

  ‘That the person in question is a man,’ Martin Beck added.

  ‘Yes, most likely. And pretty strong. Roseanna McGraw was clearly not dropped off a wagon.’

  ‘We know that he was on board the Diana’

  ‘Yes, if we assume that our earlier theory was correct.’

  ‘And that he must belong in one of two categories: passengers or the crew.’

  ‘Do we really know that?’

  It was silent in the room. Martin Beck massaged his hairline with the tips of his fingers. Finally he said: ‘It must be so.’

  ‘Must it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right, we'll say it is. But on the other hand, we don't have any idea what the murderer looks like or of his nationality. We have no fingerprints and nothing that can tie him to the crime. We don't know if he knew Roseanna McGraw earlier. We don't know where he came from, or where he went or where we could find him today.’

  Kollberg was very serious now.

  ‘We know damned little, Martin,’ he said. ‘Are we even absolutely sure that Roseanna McGraw didn't step off the boat in Gothenburg safe and sound? That someone didn't kill her afterwards? Someone who knew where she had come from and who might have transported her body back to Motala and then thrown it in?’

  ‘I've thought of that. But it's too absurd. Things don't happen that way.’

  ‘Since we haven't yet received the menu from the boat for those days, it is still theoretically possible. Even if it stretches the imagination. And even if we manage to prove, really prove, that she never got to Gothenburg, there is still another possibility: she could have gone ashore while the boat was in the lock chamber at Borenshult and met some nut who was wandering around in the bushes.’

  ‘In that case we ought to have found something.’

  ‘Yes, but “ought to” is a weak concept. There are things in this case that almost drive me crazy. How in hell could she disappear during half the trip without anyone noticing it, not even the room steward or the waiter in the dining room?’

  ‘The person who killed her must have stayed on board. He arranged the cabin to make it look normal and used. It was only a question of one night.’

  ‘Where did the sheets go? And the blankets? They must have had blood on them. He couldn't very well just sit down and start doing laundry. And if he had thrown everything in the water, where did he get fresh things from?’

  ‘There wasn't that much blood, the autopsy said so. And if the person who killed her was familiar with the vessel, he could have got fresh bedding from the supply closet.’

  ‘Would a passenger be that much at home on the boat? And wouldn't someone notice?’

  ‘It isn't so hard. Have you ever been on a passenger ship at night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Everyone goes to sleep. It's completely quiet and empty. Almost all the closets and cupboards are unlocked. When this boat passed Lake Vättern, during the night watch, there were only three people who were definitely awake. Those on watch, two on the bridge and one in the engine room.’

  ‘Shouldn't someone have noticed that she didn't get off in Gothenburg?’

  ‘There is no set procedure for getting off when the boat lands there. They tie up at Lilla Bommen and the passengers grab their things and rush down the gangway. On this particular trip, most people were in a hurry because the ship had been delayed. In addition, contrary to usual, it was dark when they got in.’

  Martin Beck stopped speaking and gazed at the wall for a while.

  ‘What irritates me most is that the passengers in the next cabin didn't notice anything,’ he said.

  ‘I can explain that, I found out just two hours ago that a Dutch couple had cabin A 3. Both were over seventy and nearly stone deaf.’

  Kollberg turned the page and scratched his head.

  ‘Our so called theory of how, when and where the crime took place is mainly built on principles of probability, logical assumptions and the application of some psychology. It certainly is weak on evidence. We have to hold to it in any case because it's all we have to go on. But we must also appraise the statistics in the same
way, right?’

  Martin Beck leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

  ‘Let's hear it,’ he said.

  ‘We know the names of eighty-six people who were on board. Sixty-eight passengers plus the eighteen that made up the crew. Thus far we have located, or in some way been in contact with, all of them, with the exception of eleven. But we know the nationalities, sexes, and — with three exceptions — the ages of all of them. Now, let's use a process of elimination. First of all we have to eliminate Roseanna McGraw. That leaves eighty-five. After that, all the women, eight in the crew and thirty-seven among the passengers. That leaves forty. Among these there are four boys under ten and seven men over seventy. That leaves twenty-nine. Furthermore, there was the captain and the helmsman. They were on watch between eight o'clock and midnight, giving each other alibis. They hardly had time to murder anyone. It's a bit less clear with the people in the engine room. Deduct those two and we have a grand total of twenty-seven. We have, however, the names of twenty-seven male persons between the ages of fourteen and sixty-eight. Twelve are Swedish, seven of whom were crew members, five Americans, three Germans, one Dane, one South African, an Englishman, a Frenchman, a Scot, a Turk and a Dutchman. The geographic spread is equally terrifying. One of the Americans lives in Texas, another in Oregon. The Englishman lives in Nassau in the Bahamas, the South African in Durban, and the Turk in Ankara. It's going to be one hell of a trip for whoever examines them. In addition, there are four out of this twenty-seven whom we haven't been able to locate. One Dane, and three Swedes. We haven't been able to show that any of these passengers have travelled with the canal boats earlier, in spite of the fact that Melander has ploughed through passenger lists for the past twenty-five years. My own theory is that none of the passengers could have done it. Only four of them were travelling in single cabins. The others ought to have been more or less observed by their spouses or whomever they shared a cabin with. None of them really knew their way around the boat well enough or the routine on board to have done it. That leaves the eight men in the crew, the helmsman, the two firemen, a cook, and three deck boys. We have already eliminated the chief engineer, he fell by the wayside because of his age. My theory is that none of them could have done it either. They were under too much observation by each other and the possibilities of fraternizing with the passengers were quite limited. So my theory says that no one murdered Roseanna McGraw. And it must be wrong. My theories are always wrong. Oh, the perils of thought.’

  It was quiet for thirty seconds. Then Kollberg said: ‘Now if it wasn't that creature Eriksson … Damn, but it was good luck that you got him arrested anyway… By the way, are you listening? Have you heard what I said?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Martin Beck absentmindedly. ‘Yes, I'm listening.’

  It was true. Martin Beck had been listening. But Kollberg's voice had sounded more and more distant during the last ten minutes. Two totally different ideas had suddenly occurred to him. One was an association with something he had heard someone say, and it had immediately penetrated the bottom of his unfulfilled and forgotten thoughts. The other was more tangible, a new plan of attack that could well be worked out.

  ‘She must have met someone on board,’ he said to himself.

  ‘Unless it was suicide,’ said Kollberg with a measure of irony.

  ‘Someone who didn't plan to kill her, at least in the beginning, and who also had no reason to keep himself hidden …’

  ‘Sure, that's what we think, but what difference does it make when we don't…’

  Martin Beck saw clearly a scene from his last July day in Motala. The ugly vessel, Juno, as she rounded the dredger and nosed in towards the harbour chamber.

  He straightened up, took out the old postcard, and stared at it.

  ‘Lennart,’ he said to Kollberg. ‘How many cameras were used during those days? At least twenty-five, more likely thirty, maybe even forty. At each lock, people went on shore to take pictures of the boat and of each other. There must be pictures from that trip pasted into twenty or thirty family albums. All kinds of pictures. The first ones were probably taken right at the pier in Stockholm, and the last ones in Gothenburg. Let's say that twenty people took thirty pictures each during those three days. That's about one roll per person, and some might have taken more. Lennart, that means there must be at least six hundred photographs … Do you understand … six hundred photographs. Maybe even a thousand.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kollberg slowly. ‘I understand what you mean.’

  17

  ‘It will be a terrible job, of course,’ said Martin Beck.

  ‘No worse than what we're already doing,’ answered Kollberg.

  ‘Maybe it's only a wild idea. I could be completely wrong.’

  This was a game that they had played many times before, Martin Beck doubting and needing support. He knew in advance what the answer would be and he also knew that Kollberg knew he knew. Even so, they stuck to their ritual.

  ‘It will have to give us something,’ said Kollberg stubbornly.

  And after a few seconds he added: ‘Anyway, we have a head start. We already know where they are, with a few exceptions, and we've already had contact with most of them.’

  It was easy for Kollberg to sound convinced. That was one of his specialities.

  After a while Martin Beck asked: ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Ten minutes past seven.’

  ‘Is there anyone on the list who lives in the vicinity?’

  Kollberg studied his notebook.

  ‘Nearer than you think,’ he said. ‘On North Mälarstrand. A retired colonel and his wife.’

  ‘Who's been there? You?’

  ‘No, Melander. Nice people,’ he said.

  ‘Was that all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The street was wet and slippery and Kollberg swore bitterly when his back wheels skidded. Three minutes later they were there.

  The colonel's wife opened the door.

  ‘Axel, there are two gentlemen from the police here,’ she called in towards the living room in a very loud voice.

  ‘Ask them to come in,’ roared the colonel. ‘Or would you rather I came out and stood in the hall?’

  Martin Beck shook the rain off his hat and walked in. Kollberg wiped his feet energetically.

  ‘We are having manoeuvre weather,’ bellowed the colonel. ‘Please excuse me, gentlemen, for not getting up.’

  On the low table in front of him was a half-played game of dominoes, a cognac glass, and a bottle of Rémy Martin. Nearby, the television was blaring away deafeningly.

  ‘Manoeuvre weather, as I said. Would you gentlemen like to have some cognac? That's the only thing that helps.’

  ‘I'm driving,’ shouted Kollberg as he looked seriously at the bottle.

  It took ten seconds before Martin Beck's feelings of solidarity won out. He shook his head.

  ‘You do the talking,’ he said to Kollberg.

  ‘What was that?’ the colonel screamed.

  Martin Beck managed a smile and made a nonchalant gesture. He was convinced that the least attempt to enter into the discussion would ruin his voice for a whole week. The conversation continued.

  ‘Photographs? No, we never take pictures any more. I see so poorly and Axel always forgets to wind the film after he's taken a picture. That nice young man who was here two weeks ago asked the same thing. He was such a nice boy.’

  Martin Beck and Kollberg exchanged a quick look, not only in astonishment, over the remarkable statement about Melander.

  ‘But strangely enough,’ thundered the colonel, ‘Major Jentsch … But of course, naturally you don't know who he is. We sat with him and his wife during the trip. A procurement officer, a most pleasant man. As a matter of fact we were commissioned the same year but the unfortunate end of the campaign against the Bolsheviks put an end to his career. You know, the promotions came quickly as long as the war continued, but after 1945, that was that. Well, it w
asn't so serious for Jentsch. He was a procurement officer and they were worth their weight in gold right after the war. I remember he received a Director's position with a food company in Osnabrück. Yes, we had some things in common, a lot to talk about, and the time passed quickly. A great deal, as I said. For nine months, maybe it was eleven as a matter of fact, well, in any case he had been the liaison officer with the Blue Division. You know about the Blue Division? The Spanish élite troops that Franco put in against the opposition. And I must say, we often tear apart the Italians and Greeks and Spaniards and others here at home … yes, we rip them up pretty well, but I must say, as I have said, that these boys, in the Blue Division, in other words, they really could …’

  Martin Beck turned his head and looked with despair at the television screen which was now showing a programme that must have been at least a month old about picking beets in southern Sweden. The colonel's wife was watching the programme attentively and seemed unconscious of her surroundings.

  ‘I understand,’ Kollberg screamed.

  Then he took a deep breath and with admirable strength of voice and direction continued:

  ‘What was it you began to say about photographs?’

  ‘What? Oh yes, I was saying that strangely enough Major Jentsch was an expert in handling a camera, in spite of the fact that he doesn't hear or see any better than we do. He took a lot of photographs on the trip and just a few days ago we received a whole envelope full of them from him. I think that was very thoughtful of him. It must have been expensive for him to have them printed for us. They are very good photographs. Pleasant memories no matter what.’

  Martin Beck moved towards the television and lowered the volume a little. It had happened instinctively, in self-protection, without his really having been conscious of what he had done. The colonel's wife looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  ‘What? Yes, naturally. Missan, will you get the photographs we received from Germany. I would like to show them to these gentlemen.’

  Martin Beck watched the woman who was called Missan from under knotted eyebrows as she got out of her TV chair.