Roseanna

by Wahlöö, Per

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To say that I had met her. Where was she killed? In Gothenburg?’

  ‘No, on board the boat, in her cabin. While you were on board.’

  ‘That doesn't seem possible.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Someone must have noticed it. Every cabin was fully occupied.’

  ‘It seems even more impossible that you never heard anything about it. I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Wait, I can explain that. I never read the newspapers.’

  ‘There was a lot about this case on the radio, too, and on the television news programmes. This photograph was shown on Aktuellt. Several times. Don't you have a television?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But I only look at nature programmes and at films.’

  Martin Beck sat quietly and stared at the man. After a minute he said:

  ‘Why don't you read the papers?’

  ‘They don't contain anything that interests me. Only politics and … yes, things like you just mentioned, murders and accidents and other miseries.’

  ‘Don't you ever read anything?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I read several magazines, about sports, fishing, outdoor life, maybe even a few adventure stories sometimes.’

  ‘Which magazines?’

  ‘The Sportsman, just about every issue. All-Sport and Rekord-Magazine, I usually buy them, and Lektyr. I've read that one since I was little. Sometimes I buy some American magazines about sport fishing.’

  ‘Do you usually talk about the events of the day with your fellow workers?’

  ‘No, they know me and know that I'm not interested. They talk about things with each other, of course, but I seldom listen. That's actually true.’

  Martin Beck said nothing.

  ‘I realize that this sounds strange, but I can only repeat that it's true. You have to believe me.’

  ‘Are you religious?’

  ‘No, why do you ask?’

  Martin Beck took out a cigarette and offered the man one.

  ‘No thank you. I don't smoke.’

  ‘Do you drink?’

  ‘I like beer. I usually take a glass or two on Saturdays after work. Never anything stronger.’

  Martin Beck looked at him steadily. The man made no attempt to avoid his glance.

  ‘Well, we found you finally, anyway. That's the main thing.’

  ‘Yes. How did you do that, figure out that I was on board, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, it was accidental. Someone recognized you. It's like this: so far you are the only person we have been in contact with who has spoken to this woman. How did you meet her?’

  ‘I think that… now I remember. She happened to be standing next to me and asked me something.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I answered. As well as I could. My English isn't that good.’

  ‘But you often read American magazines?’

  ‘Yes, and that's why I usually take an opportunity to talk with Englishmen and Americans. To practise. It doesn't happen very often. Once a week I usually go to see an American film, it doesn't matter which. And I often look at detective films on the television, although the subject doesn't interest me.’

  ‘You spoke with Roseanna McGraw. What did you talk about?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Try to remember. It could be important.’

  ‘She talked a bit about herself.’

  ‘What, for example?’

  ‘Where she lived, but I don't remember what she said.’

  ‘Could it have been New York?’

  ‘No, she named some state in America. Maybe Nevada. I actually don't remember.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘She said that she worked in a library. I remember that very well. And that she had been to the North Cape and in Lapland. That she had seen the midnight sun. She also asked about a number of things.’

  ‘Were you together a lot?’

  ‘No, I couldn't say that. I spoke with her three or four times.’

  ‘When? During which part of the trip?’

  The man didn't answer immediately.

  ‘It must have been the first day. I actually remember that we were together between Berg and Ljungsbro, where the passengers usually get off the boat while the boat is in the locks.’

  ‘Do you know the canal area well?’

  ‘Yes, rather well.’

  ‘Have you been on it before?’

  ‘Yes, several times. I usually plan to ride part of the way on the boats when it fits in with my vacation plans. There aren't too many of those old boats left and it really is a fine trip.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘I can't exactly say right away. Maybe if I think about it, but it must have been at least ten times over the years. Different stretches. I only rode the whole way once, from Gothenburg to Stockholm.’

  ‘As a deck passenger?’

  ‘Yes, the cabins are booked well in advance. In addition, it's rather expensive to go as a cruise passenger.’

  ‘Doesn't it get uncomfortable without a cabin?’

  ‘No, not at all. You can sleep on a sofa in the salon under the deck if you want to. I am actually not terribly fussy about those things.’

  ‘So, you met Roseanna McGraw. You remember that you were with her at Ljungsbro. But later in the trip?’

  ‘I think that I spoke with her again on some other occasion, in passing.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don't actually remember.’

  ‘Did you see her during the latter part of the trip?’

  ‘Not that I can remember.’

  ‘Did you know where her cabin was?’

  No answer.

  ‘Did you hear the question? Where was her cabin?’

  ‘I'm really trying to remember. No, I don't think I ever knew.’

  ‘You were never inside her cabin?’

  ‘No. The cabins are usually terribly small and anyway, they are double cabins.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Well, there are a few singles. But not many. They are quite expensive.’

  ‘Do you know if Roseanna McGraw was travelling alone?’

  ‘I haven't thought about it. She didn't say anything about it, as far as I can remember.’

  ‘And you never went with her to her cabin?’

  ‘No, actually not.’

  ‘At Ljungsbro, what did you talk about there?’

  ‘I remember that I asked her if she wanted to see the church at the Vreta monastery, which is right near there. But she didn't want to. And anyway, I'm not sure that she understood what I meant.’

  ‘What else did you talk about?’

  ‘I don't actually remember. Nothing in particular. I don't think we spoke that much. We walked part of the way along the canal. A lot of other people did too.’

  ‘Did you see her with anyone else?’

  The man sat quietly. He looked towards the window expressionlessly.

  ‘This is a very important question.’

  ‘I understand that. I'm trying to remember. She must have spoken with other people while I stood next to her, some other American or Englishman. I don't remember anyone in particular.’

  Martin Beck got up and walked over to the water pitcher.

  ‘Do you want something to drink?’

  ‘No thank you. I'm not thirsty.’

  Martin Beck drank a glass of water and walked back, pressed a button under the desk, stopped the tape recorder and took off the tape.

  A minute later Melander came in and went to his desk.

  ‘Will you take care of this, please,’ he said.

  Melander took the tape and left.

  The man called Folke Bengtsson sat completely straight in his chair and looked at Martin Beck with blue, expressionless eyes.

  ‘As I said before, you are the only person we know who remembers, or will admit that he has talked to her.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘It wasn't possibly you that killed her?’


  ‘No, as a matter of fact it wasn't. Do you believe that?’

  ‘Someone must have done it.’

  ‘I didn't even know that she was dead. And not even what her name was. You surely don't believe that…’

  ‘If I had thought that you would admit it, I wouldn't have asked the question in that tone of voice,’ said Martin Beck.

  ‘I understand … I think. Were you fooling?’

  ‘No.’

  The man sat quietly.

  ‘If I told you that we know for a fact that you were inside that woman's cabin, what would you say?’

  He didn't answer for about ten seconds.

  ‘That you must be wrong. But you wouldn't say that if you weren't certain, isn't that right?’

  Martin Beck said nothing.

  ‘In that case I must have been there without knowing what I was doing.’

  ‘Do you usually know what you are doing?’

  The man lifted his eyebrow slightly.

  ‘Yes, I usually do,’ he said.

  Then he said, positively:

  ‘I wasn't there.’

  ‘You understand,’ said Martin Beck. ‘This case is highly confusing.’

  ‘Thank God that isn't going on the tape,’ he thought.

  ‘I understand.’

  Martin Beck stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you a steady relationship with any woman?’

  ‘No. I'm a confirmed bachelor, I'm used to living alone.’

  ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No, I was an only child.’

  ‘And grew up with your parents?’

  ‘With my mother. My father died when I was six. I hardly remember him.’

  ‘Have you no relationships with women?’

  ‘Naturally, I'm not totally inexperienced. I am going on forty.’

  Martin Beck looked steadily at him.

  ‘When you need female company do you usually turn to prostitutes?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Can you name some woman who you have been with for either a longer or shorter period of time?’

  ‘Maybe I can, but I don't choose to.’

  Martin Beck pulled out the desk drawer a little bit and looked down into it. He rubbed his index finger along his lower lip.

  ‘It would be best if you named someone,’ he said haltingly.

  ‘The person who I'm thinking of at the moment, with whom my relationship was … most lasting, she … Yes, she's married now and we aren't in contact with one another any more. It would be painful for her.’

  ‘It would still be best,’ said Martin Beck without looking up.

  ‘I don't want to bring her any unpleasantness.’

  ‘It won't be unpleasant for her. What's her name?’

  ‘If you can guarantee … her married name is Siv Lindberg. But I ask you really …’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Lidingö. Her husband is an engineer. I don't know the address. Somewhere in Bodal I think.’

  Martin Beck took a last glance at the picture of the woman from Lincoln. Then he closed the drawer again and said:

  ‘Thank you. I am sorry that I have to ask these kinds of questions. But, unfortunately, it's part of my job.’

  Melander came in and sat down at his desk.

  ‘Would you mind waiting a few minutes,’ Martin Beck said.

  In the room one flight below, the tape recorder played back the last replies. Martin Beck stood with his back against the wall and listened.

  ‘Do you want something to drink?’

  ‘No thank you. I'm not thirsty.’

  The Public Prosecutor was the first person to say something.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Let him go.’

  The Public Prosecutor looked at the ceiling, Kollberg at the floor, and Ahlberg at Martin Beck.

  ‘You didn't press him very hard,’ said the Prosecutor. ‘That wasn't a very long examination.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And if we hold him?’ asked the Prosecutor.

  ‘Then we have to let him go by this time on Thursday,’ Hammar replied.

  ‘We don't know anything about that.’

  ‘No,’ said Hammar.

  ‘All right,’ said the Prosecutor.

  Martin Beck nodded. He walked out of the room and up the stairs and he still felt ill and had some discomfort in the left part of his chest.

  Melander and the man called Folke Bengtsson seemed as if they hadn't moved at all since he had left them.

  ‘I am sorry that it was necessary to bother you. Can I offer you transportation home?’

  ‘I'll take the subway, thank you.’

  ‘Maybe that's faster.’

  ‘Yes, actually.’

  Martin Beck walked with him to the ground floor out of routine.

  ‘Goodbye then.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  An ordinary handshake.

  Kollberg and Ahlberg were still sitting and looking at the tape recorder.

  ‘Shall we continue to tail him?’ asked Kollberg. ‘No.’

  ‘Do you think he did it?’ asked Kollberg. Martin Beck stood in the middle of the floor and looked at his right hand.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I'm sure he did.’

  24

  The apartment house reminded him, in a basic way, of his own in the southern part of Stockholm. It had narrow flights of stairs, standardized nameplates on the doors and incinerator doors between each floor. The house was on Fredgat Road in Bodal and he took the Lidingö train to get there.

  He had chosen the time carefully. At a quarter past one, Swedish office workers are sitting at their desks and small children are having their afternoon naps. Housewives have turned on some music on the radio and sit down to have a cup of coffee with saccharin tablets.

  The woman who opened the door was small, blonde and blue-eyed. Just under thirty and rather pretty. She held on to the doorknob anxiously, as if prepared to close the door immediately.

  ‘The police? Has anything happened? My husband …’

  Her face was frightened and confused. It was also fetching, Martin Beck thought. He showed her his identification, which seemed to calm her.

  ‘I don't understand how I can help you but, by all means, come in.’

  The furniture arrangement was nondescript, gloomy and neat. But the view was marvellous. Just below lay Lilla Värtan and two tugboats were in the process of bringing a freighter to the pier. He would have given a lot to have traded apartments with her.

  ‘Do you have children?’ he asked as a diversion.

  ‘Yes, a little girl ten months old. I've just put her in her crib.’

  He took out the photographs.

  ‘Do you know this man?’

  She blushed immediately, looked away, and nodded uncertainly.

  ‘Yes, I knew him. But — but it was several years ago. What has he done?’

  Martin Beck didn't answer at once.

  ‘You understand, this is very unpleasant. My husband …’

  She was searching for the right words.

  ‘Why don't we sit down,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Forgive me for suggesting it.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

  She sat down on the sofa, tense and straight.

  ‘You have no reason to be afraid or worried. The situation is this: we are interested in this man, for several reasons, as a witness. They have nothing to do with you, however. But it is important that we get some general information about his character from someone who has, in one way or another, been together with him.’

  This statement didn't seem to calm her particularly.

  ‘This is terribly unpleasant,’ she said. ‘My husband, you understand, we have been married for nearly two years now, and he doesn't know anything … about Folke. I haven't told him, about that man … but, yes, naturally, as you can understand, he must surely have known
that I had been with someone else… before …’

  She was even more confused and blushed profusely.

  ‘We never speak about such things,’ she said.

  ‘You can be completely calm. I am only going to ask you to answer some questions. Your husband will not know what you say, or anyone else for that matter. In any case, no one that you know.’

  She nodded but continued to look stubbornly to the side.

  ‘You knew Folke Bengtsson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When and where did you know him?’

  ‘I … we met more than four years ago, at a place, a company where we both worked.’

  ‘Eriksson's Moving Company?’

  ‘Yes, I worked there as a cashier.’

  ‘And you had a relationship with him?’

  She nodded with her head turned away from him.

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘One year,’ she said, very quietly.

  ‘Were you happy together?’

  She turned and looked at him uncertainly and raised her arms in a helpless gesture.

  Martin Beck looked over her shoulder and out the window towards a dismal, grey winter sky.

  ‘How did it begin?’

  ‘Well, we … saw each other every day and then we began to take our coffee breaks together and then lunches. And … yes, he took me home several times.’

  ‘Where did you live?’

  ‘On Uppland Street.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Oh no. I was still living with my parents then.’

  ‘Did he ever come upstairs with you?’

  She shook her head, energetically, still without looking at him. ‘What else happened then?’

  ‘He invited me to the cinema a few times. And then … yes, he asked me to dinner.’

  ‘At his house?’

  ‘No, not at first.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In October.’

  ‘How long had you been going out with him by then?’

  ‘Several months.’

  ‘And then you began a real relationship?’

  She sat quietly for a long while. Finally she said: ‘Do I have to answer that question?’

  ‘Yes, it is important. It would be better if you answer here and now. It would save a great deal of unpleasantness.’

  ‘What do you want to know? What is it that you want me to say?’

  ‘You had intimate relations with one another, didn't you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘When did it begin? The first time you were there?’

  She looked at him helplessly.