by Wahlöö, Per
She poured some more coffee and offered Martin Beck some biscuits, while she continued to talk, freely and a great deal, about her work routine, her fellow employees, and some passengers she remembered. It was another full hour before he left there.
The weather had got better. The streets were nearly dry and the sun shone down from a clear sky. Martin Beck didn't feel too well, due to the coffee, and he walked back to his office at Kristineberg. While he walked along the water at North Mälarstrand he thought about what he had learned of the two waitresses.
He hadn't learned anything at all from Karin Larsson but the visit to Växjö had convinced him that she knew the man but didn't dare talk about it.
From Göta Isaksson he had learned that:
Karin Larsson had met a man on board the Diana during the summer of 1961. Probably a deck passenger, who had possibly travelled with the boat several times that summer.
That two summers later, the summer of 1963, she had met a man, probably a deck passenger, who travelled with the boat now and then. The man could well have been identical to the one in the photograph, according to Göta Isaksson.
That she had seemed depressed and nervous that summer and had quit her job before the end of the season some time at the beginning of August, and had gone into hospital.
He didn't know why. Nor did he know which hospital she had gone to and how long she had stayed. The only chance seemed to be to ask her directly.
He dialled the number in Växjö as soon as he got back to his office but didn't get any answer. He suspected that she was asleep or else was working on an early shift.
During the course of the afternoon he called again several times and also a few times during the evening.
On his seventh attempt at two o'clock in the afternoon the following day, a voice which he thought belonged to the large woman in the blue bathrobe answered.
‘No, she's away.’
‘When?’
‘She left last night. Who's calling?’
‘A good friend. Where did she go?’
‘She didn't say. But I heard her call and ask about the trains to Gothenburg.’
‘Did you hear anything else?’
‘It sounded as if she was thinking about working on some boat.’
‘When did she decide to go?’
‘She must have decided awfully quickly. There was some man here yesterday morning and right after that she made up her mind to leave. She seemed changed.’
‘Do you know which boat she was going to begin working on?’
‘No, I didn't hear.’
‘Will she be gone long?’
‘She didn't say. Can I give her any message if I hear from her?’
‘No, thank you.’
She had gone away, in a great hurry. He was sure that she was already on some boat going far out of reach. And now he was certain of what had before been only a guess.
She was frightened to death of someone or something and he had to find out why.
21
The office at the Växjö hospital was quick in getting the information.
‘Larsson, Karin Elisabeth, yes, that's right, someone by that name did enter the women's clinic on 9 August and stayed until 1 October last year. For what? You will have to talk to the doctor about that.’
The doctor at the women's clinic said: ‘Yes, it's quite possible that I remember. I'll call you back after I've looked at the records.’
While Martin Beck waited he looked at the photographs and read through the description which they had made up after his conversation with Göta Isaksson. It was imperfect but a great deal better than the one they had a few hours earlier.
Height: approximately 6' 1". Body build: normal. Hair colour: ash blond. Eyes: presumably blue (green or grey), round, slightly protrudent. Teeth: white, healthy.
The phone call came an hour later. The doctor had located the records.
‘Yes, it was just as I thought. She came here on her own the evening of 9 August. I remember that I was just going to go home when they called me to take a look at her. They had taken her into the examining room and she was bleeding pretty heavily from her genitals. She had obviously been bleeding heavily for quite a while because she had lost a lot of blood and was in pretty bad shape. No direct danger of course. When I asked her what had happened, she refused to answer. It is not unusual in my department that the patient won't discuss the reason for their bleeding. You can figure the reason out yourself and anyway, it usually comes out sooner or later. But this one didn't say anything at all in the beginning and later on she lied. Do you want me to read directly from the record for you? Otherwise I can tell you in layman's language.’
‘Yes, please do,’ said Martin Beck. ‘My Latin isn't very good.’
‘Mine neither,’ said the doctor.
He came from southern Sweden and spoke calmly, evenly and methodically.
‘As I said, she bled profusely and had pain, so we gave her an injection. The bleeding came partially from the mouth of the uterus and partly from a wound in the vagina. At the mouth of the uterus and on the back part of the walls of the vagina were wounds which must have been made by a hard, sharp object. Around the muscles at the opening of the vagina there were splits which showed that the instrument must also have been terribly coarse. It isn't unusual for a woman who has undergone a careless or badly performed abortion, or has tried to do the abortion herself, to end up with bad wounds. But I can state that I have never seen anything like her condition in connection with an abortion. It seems totally impossible that she could have made such an attack on herself.’
‘Did she say that she had, that she had done it herself?’
‘Yes, that's what she claimed when she finally said something. I tried to get her to tell me how it had happened but she kept on saying that she had done it herself. I didn't believe her and she knew that I didn't believe her and finally she didn't even try to convince me but just kept repeating what she had already said; “I did it myself, I did it myself,” like a broken phonograph record. The strange part of it was that she hadn't even been pregnant. The uterus was damaged but if she had been pregnant it must have been in such an early stage that she couldn't possibly have known it herself.’
‘What do you think had happened?’
‘Some perverse maniac. It sounds crazy to say it right out but I am almost sure she was trying to protect someone. I was worried about her so we kept her here until 1 October although we could well have let her go earlier. In addition, I hadn't given up hope that she might speak up and tell us about it. But she kept on denying everything else and finally we had to let her go home. There was nothing more I could do. I did speak about it to some acquaintances in the police force here, and they must have done something, but never came up with anything.’
Martin Beck said nothing.
‘As I told you I don't know exactly what happened,’ said the doctor. ‘But it was some kind of a weapon, it's not easy to say what. Maybe a bottle. Has something happened to her?’
‘No. I only wanted to talk with her.’
‘That isn't going to be particularly easy.’
‘No,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Thank you for the help.’
He put his pen back in his pocket without having made a single note.
Martin Beck rubbed his hairline with the tips of his fingers while he looked at the picture of the man in the sports cap.
He thought about the woman in Växjö whose fear had caused her to hide the truth so stubbornly and carefully and had now driven her to flee from all questions. He stared at the photograph and mumbled, ‘Why?’ But he knew already that there was only one answer to that question.
The telephone rang. It was the doctor.
‘I forgot something that might be of interest to you. The patient in question had been in the hospital earlier, at the end of December 1962, to be exact. I forgot it, partly because I was on vacation then, partly because she was in another section of the hospital. But I read about it
in her record when I took care of her. That time she had broken two fingers, the index finger and the middle finger on her left hand. That time, too, she refused to say how it had happened. Someone asked her if she had fallen down some stairs and at first she had replied that it had happened that way. But according to the doctor who took care of her at the time, that wasn't likely. The fingers had been broken backwards, towards the back side of her hand, but otherwise there were no other wounds at all. I don't know much more than that. She was treated as usual with gypsum and the like and she healed normally.’
Martin Beck thanked him and hung up the receiver. He picked it up immediately again and dialled the number of the SHT Restaurant. He heard a lot of noise from the kitchen and someone calling out ‘Three beef à la Lindström!’ right next to the receiver. A few minutes later Göta Isaksson answered.
‘It's so noisy here,’ she said. ‘Where were we when she got sick? Yes, I do remember that. We were in Gothenburg then. She wasn't there when the boat left in the morning and then they didn't get a replacement for her until we got into Töreboda.’
‘Where did you stay in Gothenburg?’
‘I used to stay at the Salvation Army Hotel on Post Street but I don't know where she stayed. Presumably on board or at some other hotel. I'm sorry but I have to go now. The customers are waiting.’
Martin Beck called Motala and Ahlberg listened silently.
‘She must have gone to the hospital in Växjö directly from Gothenburg,’ he said, finally. ‘We had better find out where she stayed on the night of the eighth and ninth of August. It must have happened then.’
‘She was in pretty bad shape,’ said Martin Beck. ‘It's strange that she could get herself to Växjö in that condition.’
‘Maybe the man that did it lived in Gothenburg. In that case it must have happened in his house.’
He was silent for a moment. Then he said:
‘If he does it one more time, we'll get him. Even though she wouldn't say who he was, she knew his name.’
‘She's frightened,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Frightened to death as a matter of fact.’
‘Do you think it's too late to get hold of her?’
‘Yes,’ replied Martin Beck. ‘She knew what she was doing when she ran off. As far as we are concerned she can be out of reach for years. We also know what she did.’
‘What did she do?’ asked Ahlberg.
‘She fled for her life,’ said Martin Beck.
22
The trampled, dirty snow was packed on the streets. Melting snow fell from the rooftops and dropped from the large, yellow star which hung between the buildings on either side of Regering Street. The star had been hanging there for a few weeks in spite of the fact that Christmas was still almost a month away.
Hurried people crowded the pavements and a steady stream of traffic filled the streets. Now and then a car would increase its speed and sneak into an opening in the line of cars, spraying muddy snow with its wheels.
Patrolman Lundberg seemed to be the only person who was not in a hurry. With his hands behind his back he walked down Regering Street towards the south staying close to the rows of Christmas decorated windows. Melting snow from the rooftops fell in heavy drops on his patrolman's hat and the slush squeaked under his galoshes. Near NK, he turned off onto Småland Street where the crowds and the traffic weren't as heavy. He walked carefully down the hill and outside of the house where the Jakob Police Station once stood. He stopped and shook the water from his hat. He was young and new to the police force and didn't remember the old police station which had been torn down several years ago and whose district is now part of the Klara Police Station.
Constable Lundberg belonged to the Klara police force and had an errand on Småland Street. At the corner of Norrland Street was a cafe. He entered it. He had been told to collect an envelope from one of the waitresses there.
While he waited, he leaned against the counter and looked around. It was ten o'clock in the morning and only three or four tables were occupied. Directly across from him, a man was sitting with a cup of coffee. Lundberg thought that his face looked familiar and searched his memory. The man began to reach for money in his trouser pocket, and while he was doing so he looked away from the constable.
Lundberg felt the hair on his neck stiffen.
The man on the Göta Canal!
He was almost sure that it was him. He had seen the photograph up at the station house several times and his picture was etched in his memory. In his eagerness he almost forgot the envelope, which was given to him the same second as the man got up and left a few coins on the table. The man was bare-headed and wasn't wearing an overcoat. He moved towards the door and Lundberg established that he was the same height and had the same build and hair colouring as the description.
Through the glass doors he could see the man turn to the right and, with a quick tip of his hat to the waitress, he hurried after him. About thirty feet up the street the man went into a driveway door and Lundberg reached it just in time to see the door close after the man. There was a sign on the door which said: J. A. ERIKSSON MOVING COMPANY/OFFICE. In the upper part of the door there was a glass window. Lundberg went up to the doorway slowly. He tried to look into the glass window as he went by but was only able to make out another glass window at a right angle to the door. Inside were two trucks with J. A. ERIKSSON MOVING COMPANY painted on their doors.
He passed the office door again, more slowly this time. With his neck outstretched, he looked in more carefully. Inside the glass windows were two or three partitions with doors leading to a corridor. On the nearest door which led to the smallest partitioned area and had a window in the glass, he could read the word CASHIER. On the next door there was a sign saying OFFICE — Mr F. Bengtsson.
The tall man was standing there behind the counter, talking on the telephone. He stood turned towards the window with his back to Lundberg. He had changed from his jacket into a thin, black office coat and was standing with one hand in his pocket. A man in a windbreaker and a fur cap came in through the door farthest back on the short side of the corridor. He had some papers in his hands. When he opened the office door he looked towards the outer door and saw Lundberg who continued calmly out the doorway.
He had done his first shadowing.
‘Now damn it,’ said Kollberg. ‘We can begin.’
‘Presumably he has his lunch hour at twelve o'clock,’ said Martin Beck. ‘If you hurry, you can get there. Clever boy, that Lundberg, if he's right. Call in when you can this afternoon so that Stenström can relieve you.’
‘I think I can manage myself today. Stenström can jump in this evening. So long.’
At a quarter to twelve Kollberg was at his place. There was a bar right across the street from the moving company and he sat down there by the window. On the table in front of him was a cup of coffee and a small, red vase with a tired tulip in it, a twig of evergreen, and a dusty, plastic Santa Claus. He drank his coffee slowly and never took his eyes off the driveway across the street. He guessed that the five windows to the left of the driveway door belonged to the moving company, but he couldn't distinguish anything behind the glass due to the fact that the bottom halves of the windows were painted white.
When a truck with the moving company's name on the doors came out of the driveway, Kollberg looked at the clock. Three minutes to twelve. Two minutes later the office door opened and a tall man in a dark grey coat and a black hat came out. Kollberg put the money for his coffee on the table, got up, took his hat as he followed the man with his eyes. The man stepped off the kerb, and crossed the street past the bar. When Kollberg came out on to the street he saw the man turn the corner onto Norrland Street. He followed him but didn't have to go far. There was a cafeteria about sixty feet from the corner which the man entered.
There was a line in front of the counter where the man waited patiently. When he got there he took a tray, grabbed a small container of milk, some bread and butter, ordered something at th
e window, paid, and sat down at an empty table with his back to Kollberg.
When the girl at the window shouted ‘One salmon!’ he got up and went to get his plate. He ate slowly and with concentration and only looked up when he drank his milk. Kollberg had got a cup of coffee and placed himself so that he could see the man's face. After a while he was even more convinced that this really was the man on the film.
He neither drank coffee nor smoked after his meal. He wiped his mouth carefully, took his hat and coat and left. Kollberg followed him down to Hamn Street where he crossed over to the King's Gardens. He walked rather quickly and Kollberg stayed about sixty feet behind through the East Allé. At Mollin's fountain he turned to the right, passed the fountain which was half filled with dirty, grey snow, and continued up on the West Allé. Kollberg followed him past the ‘Victoria and Blanche’ cafe, across the street to NK, down Hamn Street to Småland Street, where he crossed the street and disappeared into the driveway door.
‘Oh yes,’ thought Kollberg, ‘that was certainly exciting.’
He looked at his watch. Lunch and the walk had taken exactly three-quarters of an hour.
Nothing particular happened during the afternoon. The trucks returned, still empty. People went in and out of doors. A station wagon drove out and came back. Both trucks went out again and when one of them came back it almost collided with the station wagon which was on its way out.
Five minutes before five one of the truck drivers came out of the driveway door with a heavy, grey-haired woman. At five o'clock the other driver came out. The third had still not come back with his truck. Three more men followed him out and crossed the street. They entered the bar and loudly ordered their beers which they received and drank in silence.