by Maj Sjowall
Since he was a Chief Inspector in the National Homicide Squad, it might be supposed that he was meditating on the ax murder on the South Side, which was still unsolved after a week. Or on the unidentified female corpse that had been fished up from Riddarfjärden the day before. But that wasn’t the case.
He was brooding over what he should buy for his dinner party that night.
At the end of May, Martin Beck had found a two-room apartment on Köpmangatan and moved away from home. He and Inga had been married for eighteen years, but the marriage had been on the rocks for some time, and in January, when his daughter Ingrid had moved in with a friend, lock, stock and barrel, he’d talked to his wife about separating. At first she’d protested, but when the lease was ready, and she was faced with the facts, she accepted. Rolf, their fourteen-year-old; was her favorite, and Martin Beck suspected that she was actually pleased to be alone with the boy.
The apartment was cozy and large enough, and when he’d finally arranged the few things he’d taken with him from his and Inga’s home out in the dismal suburb of Bagarmossen and bought what he still needed, he’d had an attack of recklessness and invited his three best friends for dinner. Considering that, at best, his knowledge of cooking consisted of boiling eggs and brewing tea, that was reckless to say the least; he realized that now. He tried to recollect what Inga used to serve when they had company, but managed only to evoke diffuse images of hearty dishes whose preparation and ingredients were totally foreign to him.
Martin Beck lit another cigarette and thought with confusion of Sole Walewska and filet of veal à la Oscar. Not to mention cæur de filet provençale. Furthermore, there was one more detail that he hadn’t taken into consideration when he extended his unpremeditated invitation. He had never seen three people with appetites so voracious as those of the forthcoming guests.
Lennart Kollberg, who was the person he worked with most closely, was both a gourmet and a gourmand; he’d had the chance to observe this the times he’d ventured down to the lunchroom. In addition, Kollberg’s size indicated a strong interest in the delicacies of the table—not even an ugly knife wound in the stomach about a year earlier had been able to remedy that peculiarity. Gun Kollberg didn’t have her husband’s figure, but did have quite a good appetite. Åsa Torell, now a colleague of his, too, since she had been placed on the Vice Squad after graduating from the Police Academy, was a real Gargantua.
He remembered very distinctly how small, thin and spindly she’d looked a year and a half earlier, when her husband, Martin Beck’s youngest Assistant Detective, had been shot to death on a bus by a mass murderer. She’d got over the worst now, regained her appetite and even become a little rounder. Presumably she had an astounding metabolic rate.
Martin Beck considered asking Åsa to come earlier so she could help, but dismissed the thought.
A meaty fist rapped on the door, which was promptly opened, and Kollberg came into the room.
“What are you sitting here thinking about?” he said, throwing himself into the extra chair, which creaked precariously under his weight.
Nobody would suspect that Kollberg knew more about burglars’ tricks and the science of self-defense than perhaps anyone else on the force.
Martin Beck took his feet down from the drawer and pushed the chair nearer the desk. He put out his cigarette carefully before answering.
“About that ax murder in Hjorthagen,” he lied. “Nothing new’s turned up?”
“Have you seen the autopsy report? It says that the guy died after the first blow. He had an unusually thin skull.”
“Yes, I’ve seen it,” Martin Beck said.
“We’ll have to see when we can talk to his wife,” Kollberg said. “She’s still in deep shock, according to what they said at the hospital this morning. Maybe she bludgeoned him to death herself, who knows?”
He stood up and walked over to open the window.
“Close it,” said Martin Beck.
Kollberg closed the window.
“How can you stand it?” he complained. “It’s like an oven in here.”
“I’d rather be baked than poisoned,” Martin Beck said philosophically.
The South police station was located very near to Essinge Parkway, and when the traffic was heavy, like now, at the beginning of vacation time, it was obvious how thick the air was with exhaust fumes.
“You’ll only have yourself to blame,” Kollberg said and lumbered over to the door. “Try to survive until tonight, anyway. Did you say seven?”
“Yes, seven,” Martin Beck said.
“I’m hungry already,” said Kollberg provocatively.
“Glad you can come,” Martin Beck said, but the door had already slammed shut behind Kollberg.
A moment later the telephone began ringing and people arrived with papers to sign, reports to read and questions to answer, and he had to push aside all thoughts of the evening’s menu.
At quarter to four he left the police station and took the subway to Hötorgshallen. There he walked around shopping for such a long while that finally he had to take a taxi home to Gamla Stan to have time to fix everything.
At five to seven he’d finished setting the table and surveyed his work.
There was matjes herring on a bed of dill, sour cream and chives. A dish of carp roe with a wreath of diced onion, dill and lemon slices. Thin slices of smoked salmon spread out on fragile lettuce leaves. Sliced hard-boiled eggs. Smoked herring. Smoked flounder. Hungarian salami, Polish sausage, Finnish sausage and liver sausage from Skåne. A large bowl of lettuce with lots of fresh shrimp. He was especially proud of that, since he had made it himself and to his surprise it even tasted good. Six different cheeses on a cutting board. Radishes and olives. Pumpernickel, Hungarian country bread, and French bread, hot and crusty. Country butter in a tub. Fresh potatoes were simmering on the stove, sending out small puffs of dill fragrance. In the refrigerator were four bottles of Piesporter Falkenberg, cans of Carlsberg Hof and a bottle of Løjtens schnapps in the freezer compartment.
Martin Beck felt very satisfied with the results of his efforts. Now only the guests were missing.
Åsa Torell arrived first. Martin Beck mixed two Campari sodas for them and she made a tour of inspection, drink in hand.
The apartment consisted of a bedroom, living room, kitchen, bathroom and hall. The rooms were small, but easy to take care of and comfortable, too.
“I don’t really have to ask if you like it here,” Åsa Torell said.
“Like most native Stockholmers, I’ve always dreamed of having an apartment in Gamla Stan,” Martin Beck said. “It’s great to get along on my own, too.”
Åsa nodded. She was leaning against the window frame, her ankles crossed, holding the glass with both hands. Small and delicate, she had big brown eyes, short dark hair and tanned skin, and she looked healthy, calm and relaxed. It made Martin Beck happy to see her so, for it had taken her a long time to get over Åke Stenström’s death.
“How about you?” he asked. “You moved not very long ago, too.”
“Come see me sometime and I’ll show you around,” said Åsa.
After Stenström’s death, Åsa had lived with Gun and Lennart Kollberg for a while, and since she didn’t want to return to the apartment where she’d lived with him, she’d exchanged it for a one-room apartment on Kungsholmsstrand. She had also quit her job at a travel agency and started studying at the Police Academy.
Dinner was a great success. Despite the fact that Martin Beck didn’t eat much himself (he did so seldom, if ever), the food was disposed of rapidly. He wondered anxiously if he’d underestimated their appetites, but when the guests stood up from the table, they seemed full and content, and Kollberg discreetly unbuttoned the waistband of his pants. Åsa and Gun preferred schnapps and beer to wine, and when the dinner was over, the Løjtens bottle was empty.
Martin Beck served cognac with coffee, raised his glass and said, “Now let’s all get a real good hangover tomorrow, when w
e have time off on the same day for once.”
“I don’t have time off,” Gun said. “Bodil comes and jumps on my stomach at five and wants breakfast.”
Bodil was the Kollbergs’ almost two-year-old daughter.
“Don’t think about it,” Kollberg said. “I’ll take care of her tomorrow, hungover or not. And don’t talk about work. If I’d been able to get a decent job, I’d have quit after that incident a year ago.”
“Don’t think about it now,” Martin Beck said.
“It’s damned hard not to,” Kollberg said. “The whole police force here is going to fall apart sooner or later. Just look at those poor clods from the country, who meander around in their uniforms and don’t know what to do with themselves. And what an administration!”
“Oh, well,” Martin Beck said to divert him and grasped his cognac.
Even he was very worried, most of all by the way in which the force had been politicized and centralized after the recent reorganization. That the quality of the personnel on patrol was getting lower all the time hardly improved things. But this was hardly the proper occasion to discuss the matter.
“Oh, well,” he repeated wistfully and lifted his glass.
After coffee Åsa and Gun wanted to wash the dishes. When Martin Beck protested, they explained that they loved to wash dishes anywhere but at home. He let them have their way and carried in whisky and water.
The telephone rang.
Kollberg looked at the clock.
“A quarter after ten,” he said. “I’ll be damned if it isn’t Malm telling us that we have to work tomorrow anyway. I’m not here.”
Malm was Chief Superintendent of Police and had succeeded Hammar, their previous chief, who had recently retired. Malm had come from nowhere, that is to say from the National Police Board, and his qualifications appeared to be exclusively political. Anyway, it seemed a bit mysterious.
Martin Beck picked up the receiver.
Then he grimaced eloquently.
Instead of Malm, it was the National Chief of Police, who said gratingly, “Something’s happened. I have to ask you to go to Malmö first thing tomorrow morning.”
Then he added, somewhat belatedly, “Please excuse me if I’m disturbing you.”
Martin Beck didn’t respond to that, but said, “To Malmö? What’s happened?”
Kollberg, who’d just mixed a highball for himself, raised his eyes and shook his head. Martin Beck gave him a look of defeat and pointed to his glass.
“Have you heard of Viktor Palmgren?” said the Chief of Police.
“The executive? The V.I.P.?”
“Yes.”
“Of course I’ve heard of him, but I don’t know much about him other than that he has a million different companies and he’s loaded. Oh, yeah, he also has a beautiful young wife who was a model or something. What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s dead. He died tonight at the neurosurgical clinic in Lund after he was shot in the head by an unknown assailant in the dining room of the Savoy in Malmö. It happened last night. Don’t you have newspapers out in Västberga?”
Martin Beck again refrained from replying. Instead he said, “Can’t they take care of it themselves down in Malmö?”
He took the glass of whisky Kollberg offered him and took a drink.
“Isn’t Per Månsson on duty?” he continued. “He surely ought to be capable of …”
The Chief of Police cut him off impatiently.
“Of course Månsson is on duty, but I want you to go down and help him. Or rather to take charge of the case. And I want you to leave as soon as you can.”
Thanks a lot, thought Martin Beck. A plane did leave Bromma at a quarter to one in the morning, but he didn’t plan to be on it.
“I want you to leave early tomorrow,” the Chief of Police said.
Obviously he didn’t know the schedule.
“This is an extremely complicated, sensitive matter. And we have to solve it without delay.”
It was quiet for a moment. Martin Beck sipped his drink and waited. Finally the other man continued, “It’s the wish of someone higher up that you take charge of this.”
Martin Beck frowned and met Kollberg’s questioning look.
“Was Palmgren that important?” he said.
“Obviously. There were strong vested interests in certain areas of his operations.”
Can’t you skip the clichés and come out with it? Martin Beck thought. Which interests and which certain areas of which operations?
Evidently it was important to be cryptic.
“Unfortunately I don’t have a clear idea of what kind of operations he was engaged in,” he said.
“You’ll be informed about all that eventually,” the Chief of Police said. “The most important thing is that you get to Malmö as quickly as possible. I’ve talked to Malm, and he’s willing to release you. We have to do our utmost to apprehend this man. And be careful when you talk to the press. As you can well understand, there’s going to be a good deal written about this. Well, when can you leave?”
“There’s a plane at nine-fifty in the morning, I think,” Martin Beck said hesitantly.
“Fine. Take it,” said the Chief of Police and hung up.
5
Viktor Palmgren died at seven-thirty-three on Thursday evening. As recently as half an hour before the official declaration of death, the doctors involved in his case said that his constitution was strong and the much-discussed general condition not so serious.
On the whole, the only thing wrong with him was that he had a bullet in his head.
Present at the instant of death were his wife, two brain surgeons, two nurses and a first assistant detective from the police in Lund.
There had been general agreement that an operation would have been much too risky, which seemed fairly sensible, even to a layman. For the fact remained that Palmgren had been conscious from time to time and on one occasion in such good shape that they could communicate with him.
The detective, who felt more dead than alive by this time, had asked him a couple of questions: “Did you get a good look at the man who shot you?” And, “Did you recognize him?”
The answers had been unambiguous, positive to the first question and negative to the second. Palmgren had seen the would-be killer, but for the first and last time in his life.
That didn’t exactly make it any more comprehensible. In Malmö Månsson’s face was creased with heavy lines of misgiving, and he yearned for his bed, or at least for a clean shirt.
It was an unbearably hot day, and the main police station was by no means air-conditioned.
The only small lead he’d had to go on had been bungled.
Those Stockholmers, Månsson thought.
But he didn’t say it, out of consideration for Skacke, who was sensitive.
Furthermore, how much had that lead been worth?
He didn’t know.
Maybe nothing.
But still. The Danish police had questioned the staff of the hydrofoil Springeren, and one of the hostesses on board during the nine o’clock trip from Malmö to Copenhagen had noticed a man, primarily because he had insisted on standing on the afterdeck during the first part of the thirty-five-minute journey. His appearance, meaning mostly his clothing, corresponded somewhat to the scanty description.
Something actually seemed to fit together.
The fact is, you don’t stand up on the deck of these hydrofoils, which in most respects resemble airplanes more than boats. It’s even doubtful whether you would be permitted to stand out in the fresh air during the passage. Eventually the man had wandered down and sat in one of the armchairs. He hadn’t purchased tax-free chocolate, liquor or cigarettes on board and thus hadn’t left any written notes behind him. To buy anything, you have to fill out a printed order form.
Why had this person tried to remain on deck for as long as possible?
Perhaps to throw something into the water.
In that case, what?
The weapon.
If, in fact, the same person was involved. If, in which case, he wanted to get rid of the weapon.
If, in fact, the man in question hadn’t been afraid of becoming seasick and had therefore preferred the fresh air.
“If, if, if,” Månsson mumbled to himself and broke his last toothpick between his teeth.
It was an abominable day. In the first place, the heat, which was next to unbearable when you were forced to sit inside. Moreover, inside the windows, you were completely unprotected from the blazing afternoon sun. In the second place, this passive waiting. Waiting for information, waiting for witnesses who had to exist but didn’t get in touch.
The examination of the scene of the crime was going badly. Hundreds of fingerprints had been found, but there was no reason to assume that any of them belonged to the man who had shot Viktor Palmgren. They’d placed their greatest hopes on the window, but the few prints on the glass were much too blurred to be identified.
Backlund was most irritated by not being able to find the empty shell.
He called several times about that.
“I don’t understand where it could have gone,” he said with annoyance.
Månsson thought that the answer to that question was so simple that even Backlund should be able to think it out for himself. Therefore he said with mild irony, “Let me know if you have a theory.”
They couldn’t find any footprints, either. Quite naturally, since so many people had tramped around in the dining room, and also because it’s next to impossible to find any usable impressions on wall-to-wall carpeting. Outside the window the man had stepped into a window box before hopping down onto the sidewalk. To the great detriment of the flowers, but offering scarcely any information to the criminal technicians.
“This dinner,” Skacke said.
“Yes, what about it?”
“It seems to have been some sort of business meeting rather than a private gathering.”
“Maybe so,” Månsson said. “Do you have the list of the people who were seated at the table?”