by Maj Sjowall
“Business, as usual. What, I don’t really know. Viktor had so many irons in the fire. He used to say that himself, too. ‘I have a lot of irons in the fire.’ ”
“You knew all the people there, didn’t you?”
“I’ve seen them now and then. No, as a matter of fact, not the secretary who’d come with Hampus Broberg. I’d never seen her before.”
“Are you good friends with any of the others?”
“Not really.”
“Not with Mr. Linder, for example? He does live here in Malmö.”
“We’ve seen each other now and then. At company parties and things like that.”
“You don’t see each other privately?”
“No, only through my husband.”
She was answering in a monotone and seemed completely impassive.
“Your husband was giving a speech when he was shot. What was he talking about?”
“I wasn’t listening very carefully. He welcomed everyone and thanked people for their cooperation—things like that. They were all employees. Besides, we were going to leave for a while.”
“Leave?”
“Yes, we were going to go sailing on the West Coast for several weeks. We have a cottage in Bohuslän—I forgot to tell you that, of course. And then we were going to leave for Portugal.”
“And that meant that your husband wasn’t going to see his staff for a while?”
“Right.”
“And you weren’t, either?”
“What? No, I was going to accompany Viktor. We were going to play golf in Portugal. Later. In the Algarve.”
Månsson had lost the main battle. Her indolence made it impossible to determine when she was lying or telling the truth, and her feelings, if she had any, were well concealed. He formed a last question which he thought was idiotic and which in any case was meaningless. But it sort of belonged to the routine.
“Can you think of anyone or of any group who wanted to get rid of your husband?”
“No, I couldn’t possibly.”
Månsson raised himself up out of the Finnish super-armchair and said, “Thank you. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“You’re welcome.”
She followed him to the door. He was careful not to turn his head and look at the house of mourning.
They shook hands. He thought that she held his hand strangely, but only when he was sitting in the car did he realize that she had expected him to kiss it.
She had thin hands with long, narrow fingers.
The red Jaguar was gone.
It was insufferably warm.
“Oh, hell,” Månsson said to himself and turned on the ignition.
8
After a night of heavy and dreamless sleep, Martin Beck awoke late on Saturday morning, at five after nine. The evening before he’d eaten a hearty skånsk dinner with Månsson at the hotel, and he still felt slightly groggy, an aftereffect of what the kitchen had to offer in Scandinavia’s best-known restaurant.
After opening his eyes with a sense of general well-being, he lounged for several minutes, pondering the fact that his appetite had improved, and his sensitive stomach had begun to behave quite decently since he had been separated from his wife. So, his suffering, which had gone on for so many years, had been psychosomatic, which was exactly what he had suspected all along.
The evening had been very enjoyable and rather long. Early on, Månsson had suggested that they shouldn’t mull over the Palmgren case, since up to now there was so little that was concrete to say about it. This was obviously a good idea, for they were both in great need of a meal in peace and quiet, to be rounded off with a solid night’s sleep. Simply to feel free for several hours and to gather their forces for continuing the investigation. The material was meager, and they both had a feeling that the case was complicated and could be painfully difficult to solve.
Martin Beck threw off the sheet and got up. He pulled up the shade and looked with pleasure out the open window. It was already hot, and the sun was beaming. Beyond Ferdinand Broberg’s magnificent 1906 Post Office he saw the sparkling white hull of a boat on the Sound, blue and appealing despite the water pollution. The train ferry Malmöhus was making a wide swing, turning around outside of the harbor mouth in order to head the prow in the right direction. A fine boat, built at Kockum’s in 1945 and constructed according to time-honored principles.
When boats still looked like boats, Martin Beck thought.
Then he took off his pajamas and went into the bathroom.
He was standing under the shower when the telephone rang.
It rang many times before he’d managed to turn off the cold water, wrap a bath towel around himself, shuffle over to the night stand and pick up the receiver.
“Yes, this is Beck.”
“Malm here. How’s it going?”
How’s it going? The eternal question. Martin Beck frowned and said, “Hard to say at this point. The investigation has just begun.”
“I tried to contact you at the police station but only found Skacke,” the Chief Superintendent complained.
“I see.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“No,” said Martin Beck truthfully, “I wasn’t asleep.”
“You have to catch the murderer. On the double.”
“Okay.”
“A lot of pressure’s been put on me. Both the Chief and the Attorney General have been on me. And now the Foreign Office is involved, too.”
Malm’s voice was shrill and nervous, but that was only normal.
“So it’s got to be done quickly. As I said before, on the double.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” said Martin Beck.
The Chief Superintendent neglected to answer his question, but that was to be expected, since he knew next to nothing about practical police work. He wasn’t a very good administrator, either.
Instead he said, “This call is going through the hotel switchboard, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then you’ll have to ring me from another telephone. Dial my home number. As soon as possible.”
“I don’t think there’s any risk. You can keep talking,” Martin Beck said. “In this country only the police have time to tap people’s telephones.”
“No, no, it’s no good. What I have to say is extremely confidential and important. And this case takes precedence over anything else.”
“Why?”
“That’s just what I’m going to tell you. But you have to call back on a direct line. Go to the police station or somewhere. And fast. I’m in a tight spot. God knows, I wish I could get rid of the responsibility for this.”
“Bull,” Martin Beck said to himself.
“I can’t hear. What did you say?”
“Nothing. I’ll call back right away.”
He hung up, dried himself and put on his clothes at a leisurely pace.
After a suitable length of time, he picked up the receiver, requested an outside line and dialed the number of Malm’s home in Stockholm.
The Superintendent must have been hovering over the telephone, for he answered before the first signal had faded away.
“Yes, this is Superintendent Malm.”
“Beck here.”
“At last. Now listen carefully. I’m going to give you some information regarding Palmgren and his activities.”
“Not a moment too soon.”
“It’s not my fault. I was given these details only yesterday.”
He fell silent. All that could be heard was a nervous rustle.
“Well?” Martin Beck said finally.
“This is no ordinary murder,” Malm said.
“There aren’t any ordinary murders.”
The reply seemed to confound the man. After a moment’s reflection, he said, “Well, you are right, in a way. I haven’t had the same practical experience as you have …”
No, you really haven’t, Martin Beck thought.
“… since
mostly I’ve been involved with larger administrative problems.”
“Now, what was Palmgren involved in?” said Martin Beck impatiently.
“He was in business. Big business. As you know, there are certain countries with which we have very sensitive relations.”
“Such as?”
“Rhodesia, South Africa, Biafra, Nigeria, Angola and Mozambique, to name a few. It’s difficult for our government to maintain normal contacts with these nations.”
“Angola and Mozambique aren’t nations,” said Martin Beck.
“Now, don’t get hung up on details. Anyway, Palmgren did business with these countries, among others. A large part of his operations were located in Portugal. Even though his official headquarters were in Malmö, he’s thought to have made a great many of his most profitable transactions in Lisbon.”
“What did Palmgren deal in?”
“Weapons, among other things.”
“Other things?”
“Well, he handled practically everything. For example, he had a real estate company. Owns a lot of buildings here in Stockholm. The firm in Malmö is considered to be not much more than a façade, even if it’s a very impressive one.”
“Then he made piles of money?”
“Yes, to say the least. They’ve no idea how much.”
“What does Internal Revenue have to say about that?”
“A great deal. But they don’t know anything definite. Several of Palmgren’s companies are registered in Liechtenstein, and they believe that most of his income went into accounts in Swiss banks. Even though his operations here were handled impeccably, they’re well aware that records of the bulk of his money were inaccessible to the Internal Revenue people.”
“Where does this information come from?”
“Partly from the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, and from the Revenue people. Now maybe you understand why they’re so worried about this case higher up.”
“No, why?”
“You really don’t understand the implications?”
“Let’s say that I don’t quite grasp what you’re getting at.”
“Now listen to me,” Malm said, exasperated. “In this country there’s a small, but very militant, political group that violently opposes Sweden’s getting involved with the countries I just mentioned. And also a much larger group of people who believe the official assurances that there aren’t any Swedish interests in Rhodesia or Mozambique, for example. Palmgren’s activities have been kept pretty much under cover, and still are, but from certain sources we happen to know that extremist groups here were well acquainted with them, and that he was on their black list. To use a trite expression.”
“It’s better to use a trite expression than one that doesn’t make any sense,” Martin Beck said encouragingly. “How do we happen to know all this? About the black list?”
“The Security Division of the National Police Board has done some research into the matter. Certain influential people insist that the Security Division should take over the investigation.”
“Wait a second,” Martin Beck said.
He put down the receiver and began hunting for cigarettes. Finally he found a crumpled pack in his right pants pocket. During this time he was thinking feverishly. The National Police Board’s Security Division, known derisively as Sepo, was a special institution, despised by many but primarily renowned for its unsurpassed incompetence. On the rare occasions it had managed to break a case, or even seize a spy, without exception the culprit had been delivered by the public, trussed like a turkey on a platter and garnished with full evidence. Even the military counterespionage was more effective. Anyway, it was seldom talked about.
Martin Beck lit a cigarette and returned to the telephone.
“What in the world are you doing?” Malm asked suspiciously.
“Smoking,” Martin Beck said.
The Chief Superintendent said nothing. It sounded as though he had hiccupped or possibly gasped with surprise.
“What was that about Sepo?” Martin Beck asked.
“The Security Division? It’s been suggested that they should take over the investigation. And they seem to be interested in the case.”
“May I ask a question? Why would Security be interested?”
“Have you thought about the murderer’s modus operandi?” Malm said ominously.
“Modus operandi.” I wonder where he read that, Martin Beck thought. Aloud he said, “Yes, I’ve thought about it.”
“As far as I can see, it presents many similarities to a classic political killing. A fanatic who thinks about one thing only, which is to carry out the task in hand, and who doesn’t worry about whether he gets caught or not.”
“Yes, there’s something to that,” Martin Beck admitted.
“Many people think that there’s a great deal to it. Among them the Security Division.”
Malm paused, probably for the sake of effect. Then he said, “Now, as you know, I hold no brief for the personnel of the Security Division and have no inside knowledge of their affairs. But I’ve been tipped off that they’re sending down one of their specialists. But then they’ve probably already done it. There are also secret agents stationed in Malmö.”
Martin Beck put out the half-smoked cigarette from pure disgust.
“Officially, the responsibility for the investigation lies with us,” said Malm. “But presumably we can count on the Security Division’s making a parallel investigation, so to speak.”
“I see.”
“Yes, and that, of course, means avoiding conflicts.”
“Certainly.”
“But above all it means getting your hands on the murderer as soon as possible.”
Before the secret police do, Martin Beck thought. In that case, there’s no big rush for once.
“As soon as possible,” Malm said with determination.
And he continued: “It’ll be a feather in your cap, at the very least.”
“I don’t have a cap.”
“This is nothing to joke about.”
“I can always buy one though.”
“This is nothing to joke about,” Malm repeated disparagingly. “Besides, this is urgent.”
Martin Beck gazed defeatedly at the sun-drenched panorama outside of the window. Hammar had been troublesome in his fashion, especially during his last few years, but at least he had been a policeman.
“What’s your view on how the investigation should be set up?” Martin Beck asked blandly.
Malm did some heavy thinking. Finally he came up with the following solution: “That is a detail which I’m turning over to you and your assistants with complete confidence. You do have a great deal of experience.”
It was beautifully said. The Chief Superintendent also sounded quite happy when he continued, “And now we’ll give it all we’ve got, right?”
“Right,” Martin Beck said automatically.
He was thinking about something else. Then he said, “Then Palmgren’s firm here in Malmö is more or less of a front?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. On the contrary, it’s probably an excellent operation.”
“What kind of business is it?”
“Import and export.”
“Of what?”
“Herring.”
“Herring?”
“Yes,” said Malm with surprise. “Didn’t you know that? They buy up herring from Norway and Iceland and then export it. Where, I don’t know. The whole thing is managed legitimately, as far as I can see.”
“What about the company in Stockholm?”
“It’s mainly a realty company, but …”
“But what?”
“Experts claim that Palmgren made his real fortune somewhere else, with means that we have no way of checking on or becoming involved with.”
“Okay, I understand.”
“Furthermore, I’d like to impress a couple of things on you.”
“What things?”
“In the first
place, that Palmgren was a powerful man in this country, with many influential friends, quite apart from his African and other foreign deals.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“Therefore we must proceed with caution.”
“I see. And secondly?”
“That you take into consideration the possibility that this could be a political killing.”
“Yes,” Martin Beck said and for once grew serious, “I’ll take that into consideration.”
With that the conversation was terminated.
Martin Beck called the police station. Månsson hadn’t been heard from yet, Skacke was busy, and Backlund had gone out.
That was a good idea. Go out.
The weather was tempting, and besides, it was Saturday.
The foyer was rather crowded when he went down several minutes later. People were checking in and out in several different languages, but in the crowd in front of the reception desk was someone who couldn’t help but attract attention.
He was a rather young, corpulent man, dressed in a hounds tooth checked suit of modern, youthful cut, a striped shirt, yellow shoes and socks of the same fierce color. His hair was wavy and shiny; he also had a little upturned mustache, no doubt waxed and prepared with a mustache form. The man was leaning nonchalantly on the reception desk. He had a flower in his buttonhole and was carrying a copy of Esquire rolled up under his arm.
He looked like a model out of a discothèque advertisement.
Martin Beck knew him. His name was Paulsson, and he was a First Assistant Detective from Stockholm.
When Martin Beck walked over to leave his room key, Paulsson gazed at him with a look that was so exquisitely empty and indolent that three other people felt it necessary to turn around and stare.
The secret police were on the scene.
Martin Beck suddenly felt an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. Without looking at his secret colleague, he turned around abruptly and went out into the sun.
In the middle of Mälar Bridge, he turned around and studied the special style of the hotel building. It wasn’t bad. The impressive façade had been preserved, and the tall art nouveau tower was a striking element of the cityscape. He even knew who had designed the building once upon a time—Frans Ekelund.
Paulsson was standing on the hotel steps spying. Because of his appearance, which looked almost like a disguise, there was hardly a public enemy who would not recognize him. Besides, he had an amazing gift for being seen on TV in connection with demonstrations and other public brawls.