Roseanna

by Wahlöö, Per

  He sat quietly for a while.

  ‘If, indeed, I have understood it,’ he said.

  The woman looked thoughtfully at him.

  ‘I think I understand,’ she said, finally. ‘I have read every word that has been written about her, over and over again. I've seen the film at least twenty times. I have chosen clothing that would seem to fit and I have practised in front of the mirror for hours. But I'm not starting off with much. My personality and hers are completely different. Her habits were different too. I haven't lived as she did and I'm not going to either. But I'll do the best I can.’

  ‘That's fine,’ said Martin Beck.

  She seemed unapproachable and it wasn't easy to get through to her. The only thing he knew about her private life was that she had a daughter who was five years old and lived in the country with her grandparents. It seemed that she had never been married. But in spite of the fact that he didn't know her very well, he thought a great deal of her. She was shrewd, and down to earth, and dedicated to her job. That was a lot to say about someone.

  It was four o'clock in the afternoon before he heard from her again.

  ‘I've just been there. I went directly home afterwards.’

  ‘Well, he isn't going to come and break down the door right away. How did it go?’

  ‘I think it went well. As well as one could wish. The bureau will be delivered tomorrow.’

  ‘What did he think of you?’

  ‘I don't know. I got a feeling that he lit up a little bit. It's hard to say when I don't really know how he acts.’

  ‘Was it difficult?’

  ‘To be honest, it wasn't very hard. I thought he seemed rather nice. He's attractive, too, in some way. Are you sure that he's the right guy? That's not to say that I have had a great deal of experience with murderers, but I find it difficult to think of him as the man who murdered Roseanna McGraw.’

  ‘Yes, I'm sure. What did he say? Did he get your telephone number?’

  ‘Yes, he wrote the address and telephone number down on a loose sheet of paper. And I told him that I have a house phone but that I don't answer it if I am not expecting someone so that it's best to telephone ahead. In general, he didn't say very much.’

  ‘Were you alone in the room with him?’

  ‘Yes. There was a fat, old lady on the other side of the glass partition but she couldn't hear us. She was talking on the telephone and I couldn't hear her.’

  ‘Did you get a chance to talk with him about anything other than the bureau?’

  ‘Yes, I said that the weather was miserable and he said, it certainly was. Then I said that I was glad that Christmas was over and then he said that he was too. I added that when one was alone as I was, Christmas could be sad.’

  ‘What did he say then?’

  ‘That he, too, was alone and thought that it was rather dismal at Christmas, even though he usually spent it with his mother.’

  ‘That sounds fine,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Did you talk about anything else?’

  ‘No, I don't think so.’

  It was silent on the other end of the telephone for a while. Then she added: ‘Yes, I asked him to write down the address and telephone number of the company for me so that I wouldn't have to look it up in the telephone book. He gave me a printed business card.’

  ‘And then you left?’

  ‘Yes, I couldn't stand around and chatter any longer but I took my time leaving. I had opened my coat and so forth. To show my tight sweater. Yes, by the way, I said that if they didn't get there with the bureau during the day, it didn't make any difference to me since I was almost always home at night waiting for someone to call. But he thought that the bureau would get there during the morning.’

  ‘That's fine. Listen, we thought we'd have a rehearsal this evening. We are going to be at the Klara Police Station. Stenström will play Bengtsson and telephone you. You answer, call me at Klara, and we'll come to your house and wait for Stenström. Do you follow me?’

  ‘Yes, I understand. I'll telephone you as soon as Stenström has called. About what time?’

  ‘I'm not going to tell you. You won't know what time Bengtsson will call.’

  ‘No, you are right. And, Martin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was actually charming in some way. Not at all unpleasant or snappy. Although it's certain that Roseanna McGraw must have thought so too.’

  The day room in the Fourth District Station House at Regering Street was neat and proper although it offered very few possibilities for entertainment.

  It was a quarter past eight and Martin Beck had read the evening paper twice, just about everything except the sports pages and the classified advertisements. For the past two hours Ahlberg and Kollberg had been playing chess, which obviously took away any desire they might have had to talk. Stenström was sleeping in a chair near the door with his mouth open. He could be excused because he had been working on another case the night before. Anyway, he was there to play the villain and didn't need to be on the alert.

  At twenty minutes past eight Martin Beck went over to Stenström and poked him.

  ‘Let's start now.’

  Stenström got up, went over to the telephone, and dialled a number.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Can I come over? Yes? Fine.’

  Then he went back to his chair and fell asleep.

  Martin Beck looked at the clock. Fifty seconds later the telephone rang. It was tied into a direct line and reserved for their use. No one else could use it.

  ‘This is Beck.’

  ‘It's Sonja, hi. He just called. He's coming in half an hour.’

  ‘I got it.’

  He put down the phone.

  ‘Now let's get started, boys.’

  ‘You can just as well give up,’ said Ahlberg across the chess board.

  ‘Okay,’ said Kollberg. ‘One to nothing, in your favour.’

  Stenström opened one eye.

  ‘Which way shall I come from?’

  ‘Any way you want to.’

  They went down to the car which was parked in the police station's driveway. It was Kollberg's own car and he drove. When he swung out onto Regering Street he said: ‘Can I be the one to stand in the closet?’

  ‘Oh, no. That's Ahlberg's job.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he's the only one who can go into the house without the risk of being recognized.’

  Sonja Hansson lived on Runeberg Street, three flights up in the house on the corner facing Eriksberg Square.

  Kollberg parked between the Little Theatre and Tegner Street. They separated. Martin Beck crossed the street, went into the shrubbery and hid himself in the shadow of Karl Staaff's statue. From there he had a fine view of her house and also of Eriksberg Square as well as of the most important parts of the surrounding streets. He saw Kollberg walk casually down the south side of Runeberg Street with exquisite nonchalance. Ahlberg determinedly held his course towards the front door, opened it, and went in, as if he were a tenant on his way home. Forty-five seconds from now Ahlberg would be in the apartment and Kollberg in his place in the arch under Eriksberg Street. Martin Beck pushed his stop watch and looked at the time. It had been exactly five minutes and ten seconds since he had hung up the telephone after his conversation with Sonja Hansson.

  It was raw and he turned up his coat collar and mumbled threateningly at a drunk who tried to bum a cigarette from him.

  Stenström had really done his best.

  He arrived twelve minutes early and from a completely unexpected direction. He sneaked around the corner from the Eriksberg Park stairs and walked with a group of cinemagoers. Martin Beck didn't see him until he slunk into the house.

  Kollberg had also functioned satisfactorily because he and Martin Beck met in front of the door.

  They went in together, unlocked the inner glass doors, and neither of them said anything.

  Kollberg took the stairs. He was supposed to stand half a flight below the apartment and
not advance before he received the signal. Martin Beck tried to get the elevator down by pressing the button but it didn't come. He ran up the stairs and passed the surprised Kollberg on the second floor. The elevator was up on the third floor. Stenström had put it out of commission by not closing the inside door. Thus he had succeeded in ruining that part of the plan which had Martin Beck taking the elevator to the floor above the apartment and arriving at it from above.

  It was still quiet in the apartment but Stenström must have depended upon speed, because after only thirty seconds they heard a muffled shriek and some noise. Martin Beck had his key ready and ten seconds later he was in Sonja Hansson's bedroom.

  The girl sat on the bed. Stenström stood in the middle of the floor and yawned while Ahlberg held his right arm loosely against his back.

  Martin Beck whistled and Kollberg thundered into the apartment like an express train. In his haste he knocked over the table in the hall. He hadn't had any doors to open.

  Martin Beck rubbed his nose and looked at the girl.

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  She had chosen the realistic style he had hoped for. She was barefoot and bare-legged and had on a thin, short-sleeved cotton robe which stopped just above her knees. He was sure that she didn't have anything on underneath.

  ‘I'll put something else on and make some coffee,’ she said.

  They went into the other room. She came in almost immediately, dressed in sandals, jeans and a brown sweater. Ten minutes later the coffee was ready.

  ‘My door key sticks,’ said Ahlberg. ‘I have to wiggle it like the devil.’

  ‘That doesn't matter so much,’ said Martin Beck. ‘You won't ever be in as much of a hurry as we are.’

  ‘I heard you on the stairs,’ said Stenström. ‘Just as she opened the door.’

  ‘Rubber soles,’ said Kollberg.

  ‘Open it faster,’ said Martin Beck.

  ‘The key hole in the closet is great,’ said Ahlberg. ‘I saw you almost the entire time.’

  ‘Take the key out next time,’ said Stenström. ‘I really wanted to lock you in.’

  The telephone rang. They all stiffened.

  The girl picked up the receiver.

  ‘Yes, hello … hi… no, not tonight… well, I'm going to be busy for a while … have I met a man?… yes, you could say that.’

  She hung up and met their glances.

  ‘That was nothing,’ she said.

  28

  Sonja Hansson stood in the bathroom rinsing out her washing. When she turned off the water she heard the telephone ringing in the living room. She ran in and picked up the receiver without even taking time to dry her hands.

  It was Bengtsson.

  ‘Your bureau is on the way,’ he said. ‘The truck ought to be there in about fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Thanks. It was very nice of you to call. Otherwise, I wouldn't open the door, as I told you. I didn't think you would get it here so early. Shall I come down to your office and pay the bill or …’

  ‘You can pay the driver. He has the invoice with him.’

  ‘Fine. I'll do that, Mr … ?’

  ‘The name's Bengtsson. I hope you'll be satisfied with our service. The truck will be there in fifteen minutes, as I said.’

  ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’

  When he hung up she dialled Martin Beck's number.

  ‘The bureau will be here in fifteen minutes. He just telephoned. I almost missed the call. It was just luck that I heard the phone. I didn't think of it before, but when the water's running in the bath I can't hear the phone.’

  ‘You had better not bathe for a while,’ Martin Beck replied. ‘Seriously, though, you have to be near the telephone all the time. You can't go up to the attic or down to the laundry or anything like that.’

  ‘No. I know. Shall I go down to his office as soon as the bureau has come?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Then call me.’

  Martin Beck sat in the same room as Ahlberg. As he hung up the phone, Ahlberg looked at him questioningly.

  ‘She's going there in about half an hour,’ Martin Beck told him.

  ‘We'll just have to wait then. She's a great gal. I like her.’

  When they had waited for over two hours Ahlberg said: ‘Surely nothing could have happened to her now …’

  ‘Keep calm,’ Martin Beck answered. ‘She'll call.’

  She called after they had waited another half hour.

  ‘Have you been waiting long?’

  Martin Beck grimaced.

  ‘What happened?’ he said, and cleared his throat.

  ‘I'll start at the beginning. Two drivers came with the bureau twenty minutes after I talked with you. I hardly glanced at it and told the men where it should go. After they left I noticed it was the wrong bureau and I went down to the office to complain.’

  ‘You were there quite a long time.’

  ‘Yes. He had a customer when I arrived. I waited outside the counter and he looked at me several times. It seemed as if he was trying to hurry the customer. He was very distressed about the bureau and I said that the mistake was mine, not the firm's. We almost got into an argument about whose fault it was. Then he went to find out if someone could bring the right bureau this evening.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But he couldn't arrange it. He promised to see that it would be delivered tomorrow morning, though. He said that he would have liked to bring it himself, and I said that was too much to ask although it certainly would have been pleasant.’

  ‘Okay. Did you leave then?’

  ‘No. Of course I stayed on.’

  ‘Was he hard to talk to?’

  ‘Not particularly. He seemed a little shy.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Oh, about how terrible the traffic is and how much better Stockholm was before. And then I said that it was no city to be alone in, and he agreed, although he said he rather liked to be alone.’

  ‘Did he seem pleased to talk to you?’

  ‘I think so. But I couldn't hang around forever. He mentioned that he liked to go to the cinema but other than that he didn't go out very much. Then, there wasn't much more to say. So I left. He walked out to the door with me and was very polite. What do we do now?’

  ‘Nothing. Wait.’

  Two days later Sonja Hansson went back to the moving company again.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for your help and tell you that I received the bureau. I'm sorry to have caused so much trouble.’

  ‘It was no trouble at all,’ Folke Bengtsson said. ‘Welcome back. What can I do for you?’

  A man walked into the room and interrupted. He was clearly the head of the firm.

  When she left the office she knew Bengtsson was looking at her over the counter and before she reached the outer door, she turned and met his glance.

  A week went by before the experiment was repeated. Once again the pretext was a transportation problem. She hadn't been in her apartment on Runeberg Street very long and she was still in the process of gathering some furniture from the attics of various relatives.

  After still another five days she stood in his office again. It was just before five o'clock and because she was passing by, she thought she'd drop in.

  Sonja Hansson sounded annoyed when she telephoned in.

  ‘He still isn't reacting?’ Martin Beck asked.

  ‘Only moderately. You know, I don't believe it's him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He seems so shy. And rather uninterested. I've pressed hard these last few times, practically given him an open invitation. Seven out of ten men would have been sitting outside my door howling like wolves by now. I guess I just don't have any sex appeal. What should I do?’

  ‘Keep on.’

  ‘You ought to get someone else.’

  ‘Keep on.’

  Continue. But for how long? Hammar's look became more questioning each day that passed. And each time Martin Beck looked in the mirror the face that he
met was more and more haggard.

  The electric clock on the wall at the Klara Police Station ticked away another three uneventful nights. Three weeks had passed since the dress rehearsal. The plan was well conceived but it didn't seem as if they would ever have the chance to put it into effect. Absolutely nothing had happened. The man called Folke Bengtsson lived a quiet, routine life. He drank his butter-milk, went to work, and slept nine hours each night. But they were almost losing contact with their normal environments and the outer world. The hounds chased themselves to death without the fox even noticing it, Martin Beck thought.

  He stared angrily at the black telephone which hadn't rung for three weeks. The girl in the apartment on Runeberg Street knew that she should only use it for one specific situation. They called her twice each evening to check. Once at six o'clock and again at midnight. That was the only thing that happened.

  The atmosphere in Martin Beck's home was strained. His wife didn't say anything but the doubting look in her eyes was more and more unmistakable each time he looked at her. She had given up faith in this project a long time ago. It had not produced results and kept him away from home night after night. And he neither could nor would explain.

  It was somewhat better for Kollberg. At least Melander and Stenström relieved him every third night. Ahlberg kept occupied by playing chess by himself. That was called solving problems! All topics of conversation had long since been pre-empted.

  Martin Beck had lost the train of thought in the newspaper article he was pretending to read. He yawned and looked at his exemplary colleagues who, eternally silent, sat directly opposite each other, their heads heavy with profound thoughts.

  He looked at the clock. Five to ten. Yawning again, he got up stiffly and went out to the toilet. He washed his hands, rinsed his face with cold water, and went back.

  Three steps from the door he heard the telephone ring.

  Kollberg had already finished the conversation and hung up.

  ‘Has he … ?’

  ‘No,’ said Kollberg. ‘But he's standing outside on the street.’

  This was unexpected, but actually, it changed nothing. During the next three minutes Martin Beck analysed the plan in detail. Bengtsson couldn't force the downstairs door and even if he managed to, he would hardly have time to get upstairs before they got there.