by Wahlöö, Per
A: How many deck passengers could you take on board?
W: At one time? Nowadays, seldom more than ten. Most of the time only two or three. Sometimes none at all.
A: What kind of people are they? Are they usually Swedish?
W: No, not at all. They are often foreigners. They can be anyone at all, although most of them are the kind that like boats and take the trouble to find out what the time-table is.
A: And their names are not placed on the passenger lists?
W: No.
A: Do the deck passengers have a chance to eat meals on board?
W: Yes, they can eat like the others if they want to. Often, in an extra sitting after the others have finished. There are fixed prices for the cost of the meal. À la carte, so to speak.
A: You said earlier that you haven't the slightest recollection of the woman in this photograph, and now you say that you think you recognize this man. There was no purser on board and, as the first mate, didn't you have the responsibility to take care of the passengers?
W: I take their tickets when they come on board and I welcome them. After that they are left in peace. The idea of this trip isn't to shout out a lot of tourist information. They get enough of that in other places.
A: Isn't it odd that you don't recognize these people? You spent nearly three days with them.
W: All the passengers look alike to me. Remember, I see two thousand of them every summer. In ten years that makes twenty thousand. And while I'm working I am on the bridge. There are only two of us who can take watches. That makes twelve hours a day.
A: This trip was a special one, anyway, with unusual events.
W: I still had a watch on the bridge for twelve hours in any case. And, anyway, I had my wife with me on that trip.
A: Her name isn't on the passenger list.
W: No, why should it be? Members of the crew have the right to take their dependants along on some of the trips.
A: Then the information that there were eighty-six people on board for this trip is not reliable. With deck passengers and dependants it could just as well have been one hundred?
W: Yes, of course.
A: Well, the man with the motor bike, the man in this picture, when did he leave the boat?
W: If I'm not even sure that I've ever seen him, how the devil should I know when he got off? A number of people who were in a hurry to catch trains, or planes, or other boats debarked at three o'clock in the morning as soon as we got to Lilla Bommen. Others stayed on and slept through the night and waited to debark in the morning.
A: Where did your wife get on board?
W: Here in Motala. We live here.
A: In Motala? In the middle of the night?
W: No, on the way up to Stockholm five days earlier. Then she left the boat on the next trip up, the eighth of July at four o'clock in the afternoon. Are you satisfied now?
A: How do you react when you think about what happened on that trip?
W: I don't believe that it happened as you say it did.
A: Why not?
W: Someone would have noticed it. Think about it, one hundred people on a small boat which is ninety feet long and fifteen feet wide. In a cabin which is as big as a rat trap.
A: Have you ever had anything other than a professional relationship with the passengers?
W: Yes, with my wife.
Martin Beck took the three photographs out of his inner pocket. Two of them had been made directly from the movie film. One was a partial blow-up of a black and white amateur picture from a group that Kafka had sent. They had two things in common: they depicted a tall man in a sports cap and a tweed jacket and they were both of very poor quality.
At this juncture hundreds of policemen in Stockholm, Gothenburg, Söderköping and Linköping had received copies of these pictures. In addition they had been sent to every public prosecutor's office and almost every police station from one end of the country to the other, and to several places in other countries.
They were poor photographs but anyone who was really acquainted with the man ought to have recognized him.
Maybe. But at their last meeting Hammar had said: ‘I think it looks like Melander.’
He had also said: ‘This is no case. It is a guessing contest. Have we any reason to believe that the man is a Swede?’
‘The motor bike.’
‘Which we are not sure was his.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes.’
Martin Beck put the pictures back in his inner pocket. He took Ahlberg's record of the hearing and looked back through several answers until he found the one he was looking for:
W: Yes, they can eat like the others, if they want to. Often, in an extra sitting after the others have finished …
He thumbed through the papers and took out a list of the canal boats' personnel for the last five years. He read through the list, took his pen from the desk holder and placed a mark next to one of the names. It read:
Göta Isaksson, waitress, Polhems Street 7, Stockholm. Employed at the SHT Restaurant from 15 October, 1964. The Diana, 1959-1961, the Juno, 1962, the Diana, 1963, the Juno, 1964.
There was no notation that either Melander or Kollberg had examined her.
Both telephone numbers for the taxi companies were busy and after he had dismissed the thought of getting hold of a radio car, he put on his hat and coat, turned up his collar and walked through the slush to the subway.
The head waiter at the SHT Restaurant seemed harassed and irritated, but showed him to one of Miss Göta's tables right next to the swinging doors which led to the kitchen. Martin Beck sat down on the banquette and picked up the menu. While he was reading it, he looked out over the restaurant.
Almost all the tables were taken and only a few of the patrons were women. At several tables there were men sitting alone, most of them in late middle age. To judge by their familiar manner with the waitresses, most of them ate there quite often.
Martin Beck watched the waitresses who rushed in and out through the swinging doors. He wondered which of them was Miss Göta and it took almost twenty minutes before he found out.
She had a round, friendly face, large teeth, short rumpled hair, the colour of which Martin Beck described as ‘hair colour’.
He ordered small sandwiches, meatballs and an Amstel beer and ate slowly while he waited for the lunchtime rush to ebb away. When he had finished eating and had downed four cups of coffee, Miss Göta's other tables were empty and she came over to his.
He told her why he had come and showed her the photograph. She looked at it for a while, laid it down on the table, and took a breath before answering.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I recognize him. I don't have any idea of who he is but he has travelled with the boats several times. Both the Juno and the Diana, I believe.’
Martin Beck took the picture and held it up before her.
‘Are you certain?’ he asked. ‘The picture isn't very clear, it could be someone else.’
‘Yes, I'm certain. He was always dressed like that, by the way. I recognize the jacket and that cap.’
‘Do you remember if you saw him this past summer? You were on the Juno then, weren't you?’
‘Yes. Let me think. I don't really think so. I see so many people. But the summer before last, I know that I saw him several times. Twice, in any case. I was on the Diana then and the girl I worked with, the other waitress, knew him. I remember that they used to talk to each other. He wasn't a regular passenger. I think he only went part of the way. He was a deck passenger. In any event he used to eat at the second or third sitting and he didn't come to all of the meals. But I think he usually got off in Gothenburg.’
‘Where does your friend live?’
‘I wouldn't exactly call her my friend, we only worked together. I don't know where she lives, but she usually went to Växjö at the end of the season.’
Miss Göta shifted her weight to the other foot and crossed he
r hands over her stomach as she looked up at the ceiling.
‘Yes, that's right. Växjö. I think she lives there.’
‘Do you know how well she knew this man?’
‘No, I really don't. I think she was a bit taken with him. She used to meet him sometimes when we were off duty although we weren't actually supposed to mix with the passengers. He looked quite pleasant. Attractive in a way …’
‘Can you describe him? I mean hair colour, the colour of his eyes, height, age, and so forth.’
‘Well, he was pretty tall. Taller than you are, I think. Not thin, not fat, but stockily built, one could say. He had rather broad shoulders, and I think he had blue eyes. I'm not sure about that, of course. Light hair, the kind called ash blond, a little lighter than mine. I didn't see his hair very much because he usually had that cap on. And he had nice teeth, I do remember that. His eyes were round … I mean I think he was a little pop-eyed. But he was definitely good looking. He could be between thirty-five and forty.’
Martin Beck asked a few more questions but didn't get much more information. When he got back to his office he looked through the list again and soon found the name he was looking for. There was no address given, only a notation that she had worked on the Diana from 1960 until 1963.
It took him only a few minutes to find her name in the Växjö telephone book but he had to wait a long time before she answered the telephone. She seemed very unwilling to meet him but she couldn't really refuse.
Martin Beck took the night train and arrived in Växjö at 6.30 a.m. It was still dark and the air was mild and hazy. He walked through the streets and watched the city awaken. At a quarter to eight he was back at the railway station. He had forgotten his galoshes and the dampness had begun to penetrate the thin soles of his shoes. He bought a newspaper at the kiosk and read it, sitting on a bench in the waiting room with his feet up against a radiator. After a while he went out, looked for a cafe which was open, drank some coffee and waited.
At nine o'clock he got up and paid his bill. Four minutes later he was standing in front of the woman's door. The name Larsson was on a metal plate and above it was a calling card with the name Siv Svensson printed in an ornate style.
The door was opened by a large woman in a light blue bathrobe.
‘Miss Larsson?’ said Martin Beck.
The woman tittered and disappeared. From inside the apartment he heard her voice: ‘Karin, there's a man at the door asking for you.’
He didn't hear an answer but the large woman came back and asked him to come in. Then she disappeared.
He stood in the small, dark hall with his hat in his hand. It was several minutes before a pair of curtains were pushed aside and a voice said to him, ‘Come in.’
‘I wasn't expecting you this early,’ said the woman who was standing inside.
She had grey streaks in her dark hair which was swept up sloppily from her neck. Her face was thin and seemed small in relation to her body. Her features were even and pretty but her skin was sallow and she had not had time to put on any make-up. There were still traces of mascara around her eyes, which were brown and slightly slanted. Her green jersey dress was tight across her breasts and her broad hips.
‘I work late every night so I usually sleep late in the morning,’ she said with some annoyance.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Martin Beck. ‘I have come to ask your help in a matter which has a connection with your employment on the Diana. Did you work there last summer too?’
‘No, last summer I was on a boat that went to Leningrad,’ answered the woman.
She was still standing up and looked at Martin Beck cautiously. He sat down in one of the flowery easy chairs. Then he gave her the picture. She took it and looked at it. A nearly imperceptible change crossed her face, her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but when she handed the picture back to him her face was stiff and dismissing.
‘Yes?’
‘You know this man, don't you?’
‘No,’ she answered, without the slightest hesitation.
She walked across the room and took a cigarette out of a glass box which lay on the tile table in front of the window. She lit the cigarette and sat down on the sofa across from Martin Beck.
‘What do you mean? I've never seen him. Why are you asking?’
Her voice was calm. Martin Beck looked at her for a while. Then he said:
‘I know that you know him. You met him on the Diana the summer before last.’
‘No, I've never seen him. You had better go now. I have to get some sleep.’
‘Why are you lying?’
‘You have no right to come here and be impertinent. You had better leave now, as I said.’
‘Miss Larsson. Why won't you admit that you know who he is? I know that you are not telling the truth. If you don't tell the truth now, it could be unpleasant for you later on.’
‘I don't know him.’
‘Since I can prove that you have been seen with this man several times, it would be better to tell the truth. I want to know who the man in the photograph is and you can tell me. Be reasonable.’
‘This is a mistake. You must be wrong. I don't know who he is. Please leave me alone.’
During the conversation Martin Beck looked steadily at the woman. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa and constantly tapping her index finger against her cigarette although there wasn't any ash to knock off. Her face was tense and he saw how her jawbones moved under her skin.
She was frightened.
He stayed in the flowery chair and tried to get her to talk. But now, she said nothing at all, only sat stiffly on the sofa and peeled pieces of orange coloured nail polish off her fingernails. Finally, she got up and walked back and forth across the room. After a while Martin Beck also got up, took his hat, and said goodbye. She didn't answer. She stood there stiff and dismissing with her back turned towards him.
‘You will hear from me again,’ he said.
Before he left he laid his card on the table.
It was evening before he got back to Stockholm. He went directly to the subway and went home.
The next morning he telephoned Göta Isaksson. She wasn't going to work until the afternoon shift so that he was welcome to stop by whenever he wanted. One hour later he sat in her small apartment. She made some coffee in the kitchenette and when she had poured it and sat down opposite him, he said:
‘I went down to Växjö yesterday and talked with your colleague. She denied that she had known the man. And she seemed frightened. Do you know why she won't admit that she knew him?’
‘I have no idea. I actually know very little about her. She wasn't particularly talkative. We did work together for three summers but she seldom said anything about herself.’
‘Do you remember if she used to talk about men during the time you were together?’
‘Only one. I remember that she said she had met a nice man on the boat. That must have been the second summer we worked together.’
She cocked her head and counted to herself.
‘Yes, it must have been the summer of '61.’
‘Did she speak about him often?’
‘She mentioned him from time to time. It seemed as if she was seeing him too now and then. He must have been on several trips or else have met her in Stockholm or Gothenburg. Maybe he was a passenger. Maybe he was there because of her. What do I know?’
‘You never saw him?’
‘No. I've really never thought about it until now when you started asking questions. It could have been the same man as the one in the picture although it seemed as if she hadn't met him until two summers ago. And then she never said anything.’
‘What did she say about him the first summer? 1961?’
‘Oh, nothing special. That he was nice. I think that she said that he was refined in some way. I suspect that she meant that he was well mannered and polite and so forth, as if ordinary people weren't good enough for her. But then she stopped talking a
bout him. I think it was over or else something happened between them because she seemed rather depressed towards the end of that summer.’
‘The following summer, did you see each other then?’
‘No, she was still on the Diana then and I was working on the Juno. We saw each other a few times in Vadstena, I think. The boats meet there, but we never spoke. Won't you have some more coffee?’
Martin Beck could feel his stomach reacting but he couldn't bring himself to say No.
‘Has she done anything? I mean, you're asking so many questions.’
‘No,’ said Martin Beck. ‘She hasn't done anything but we want to get hold of the man in the photograph. Do you remember if she said or did anything the summer before last which could have any connection with the man in this picture?’
‘No, not that I remember. We shared a cabin and she was sometimes out at night. I suspect that she was meeting some man, but I'm not the type that meddles in other people's business. But I know that she wasn't particularly happy. I mean that if she was in love with someone, she should have seemed happy. But she wasn't. To the contrary, she was nervous and sad. Almost a bit strange. But that could have been because she was sick. She quit before the end of the season, a month early, I think. She just didn't show up one morning and I had to work alone the whole day before they found a replacement. They said that she had gone to the hospital, but no one knew what was wrong with her. She didn't come back that summer in any event. I haven't seen her since.’