by Maj Sjowall
“Being vulgar isn’t going to get you anywhere. I’m not going to say anything anyway. Least of all to you.”
“Sure you are. Otherwise …”
She looked at him derisively and said, “Otherwise, what?”
“Otherwise I’ll get a local patrolman in uniform to go around with me to every house in a mile’s radius. I’ll introduce myself and say that my sister is such a goddamn idiot that I have to ask other people for help.”
She stared at him speechless. At last she said tonelessly, “Do you mean you’d have the nerve to …”
“You’re damn right, that’s what I mean. So you’d better cough something up right now.”
Her friend was now following the dialogue with discreet but obvious interest.
After a long, strained silence, his sister said resignedly, “Yes, I suppose you really are capable of doing something like that.”
And immediately afterward, “What do you want to know?”
“Do you know Broberg?”
“Yes.”
“And Palmgren?”
“Casually. We’ve been at a party or two together. But …”
“But what?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Well, what has Broberg been up to these last few days?”
“It’s none of my business.”
“Quite right. But I’ve got a damn good idea that you’ve been peeking every time anyone has made a move in that house. Well?”
“His family went away last Friday.”
“I know that already. What else?”
“He sold his wife’s car that same day. A white Ferrari.”
“How do you know that?”
“A buyer was here. They stood outside of the house bargaining.”
“Well, how about that! What else?”
“I don’t think Mr. Broberg’s slept at home the last few nights.”
“How do you know that? Have you been in his house to check?”
With a despairing look, she said, “You’re worse than ever.”
“Now answer, goddammit.”
“It’s hard to keep from noticing what goes on in the house next door.”
“Yeah, especially if you’re nosy. So he hasn’t been there?”
“In fact, he’s been there several times. From what I’ve seen, he’s moved some things out.”
“Has anybody besides that car dealer been there?”
“We-e-ell …”
“Who and when?”
“On Friday he came with a blond girl. They stayed for a couple of hours. Then they carried some things out to the car. Suitcases and some other things.”
“I see. Keep going.”
“There were some people there yesterday. A very distinguished couple and a guy who looked like an attorney. They walked around looking at everything, and the guy who I think was an attorney took notes the whole time.”
“What do you think it was all about?”
“I think he was trying to sell the house. I think he was successful, too.”
“Did you hear what they said?”
“I couldn’t help hearing bits and pieces.”
“Of course,” Gunvald Larsson said drily. “It sounds like he sold the house?”
“Yes.”
“With the furniture and the rest of the crap?”
“What a filthy mouth you have!”
“You don’t have to worry about that. Just answer. Why do you think he really managed to sell the house?”
“Because I heard snatches of the conversation. For example, they said that quick deals are always the best and that the transaction favored both parties, under the circumstances.”
“Tell me more.”
“They parted like old friends. Shook hands and slapped each other on the back. Broberg handed over some things. Keys, among other things, I think.”
“What happened then?”
“They drove away. In a black Bentley.”
“What about Broberg?”
“He stayed behind for a couple of hours.”
“And did what?”
“Burned something in the fireplaces. Both chimneys smoked for a long time. I thought …”
She broke off.
“What did you think?”
“That it was peculiar, considering the weather. There’s a heat wave.”
“And then?”
“He went around drawing all the blinds. Then he drove away. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Kid Sister,” said Gunvald Larsson kindly.
“Yes, what is it?”
“You would’ve made a good cop.”
She made an indescribable grimace and said, “Are you going to go on torturing me?”
“Sure. How well do you know Broberg?”
“We’ve seen each other now and then. That’s hard to avoid when you’re neighbors.”
“What about Palmgren?”
“Casually, as I said. We were at several parties together at Broberg’s home. Once we had a party in the garden here, and he came. You know, in situations like that one always invites the neighbors, on principle. Palmgren just happened to be at Broberg’s then, so he came over, too.”
“Was he alone?”
“No. His wife was with him. Young and terribly charming.”
“I see.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Well,” Gunvald Larsson said, “what’s your opinion of these people?”
“They’re very well-to-do,” she said neutrally.
“You are, too. You and your phony baron.”
“Yes,” she said, “that’s correct.”
“Birds of a feather flock together,” Gunvald Larsson said philosophically.
She looked at him for a long time and then said sharply, “I want you to understand something, Gunvald.”
“What?”
“That these people, Broberg and Palmgren, weren’t like us. I mean, they do have a lot of money, especially Palmgren. Did, rather. But they lack style and finesse. They’re ruthless businessmen who step on everyone and everything in their way. I’ve heard that Broberg is some kind of profiteer and that Palmgren did very questionable business abroad. For people like that, their money does give them admission to all the most select circles, but they still lack something. They’ll never be completely accepted.”
“Um-hmm, well, there’s something to that, let me tell you. Then, in other words, you don’t accept Broberg?”
“No, I do, but solely because of his money. It was the same thing with Palmgren. His fortune gave him influence pretty much everywhere. You must realize that this society has grown dependent on people like Palmgren and Broberg. In many cases, they have more leverage in the way the country’s run than either the Government or Parliament and such. So even people like us have to accept them.”
Gunvald Larsson looked at her with disgust.
“Well, if you say so,” he said. “But I think that in the not-too-distant future, things are going to happen that will make you and that whole damn upper-class riffraff of yours extremely surprised.”
“What would that be?”
“Are you so damn stupid that you don’t notice what’s happening around us? In the whole world?”
“Don’t shout at me,” she said coldly. “We aren’t children any more. And now, I think it’s time for you to get lost.”
“I already was. You forget I’ve been a sailor.”
“Hugold is coming any minute. And I don’t want you here then.”
“He has short working hours, I gather.”
“Yes, he does. People with highly qualified jobs often do. Goodbye, Gunvald.”
He stood up.
“Well, you’ve been helpful, at any rate,” he said.
“I wouldn’t have said a word if you hadn’t blackmailed me.”
“Yeah, I realize.”
“As far as I’m concerned, it could easily be another ten years before I see you again.”
“For me too. Bye-bye.�
��
She didn’t answer.
Her girlfriend stood up and said, “I’d better be off now, too.”
Gunvald Larsson looked at her. She was tall and slim—tall enough to come up to his shoulder at least. Gracefully and elegantly dressed. Just enough make-up. Just right, generally speaking. He hadn’t seen a car outside and said, “Can I give you a lift into town?”
“Yes, please.”
They left.
Gunvald Larsson glanced over at the house that evidently wasn’t Broberg’s any longer and shrugged.
When they were sitting in the car he checked to see if she was wearing a wedding ring. She wasn’t.
“Excuse me, I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
“Lindberg. Sonja Lindberg. I remember you from when I was little.”
“Oh, really?”
“You were much taller than I was, of course. Then as now.”
He found her attractive. Maybe he should ask her out. Well, it could wait. No hurry. He could call her up one of these days.
“Where should I drop you off?” he asked.
“On Stureplan, please. My practice is on Birger Jarlsgatan. I live there too.”
Good, he thought. That makes asking unnecessary.
Neither of them said anything before he’d stopped on Stureplan.
“Good-bye and thank you,” she said and extended her hand.
He took it. It was slender, dry and cool.
“Bye, Sonja,” he said.
He closed the door and drove on.
In his office on Kungsholmsgatan there were about fifteen messages, including one from Kollberg, who was in Västberga and wanted him to call back.
Gunvald Larsson got the most urgent work out of the way before he dialed the number of the South police station.
“Hello,” said Kollberg.
Gunvald Larsson related what he’d heard but avoided naming the source.
“Good job, Larsson,” said Kollberg. “Then it looks like he’s planning to skip the country.”
“He’s probably left already.”
“I don’t think so,” said Kollberg. “That suitcase I told you about before is still there in his room on Kungsgatan. I just called his secretary, and she said that Broberg had called her half an hour ago and said he wouldn’t make it back to the office before five.”
“He must be living at some hotel,” said Gunvald Larsson pensively.
“Probably. I’ll try to check it out. But it isn’t conceivable that he’s registered in his correct name.”
“Hardly,” said Gunvald Larsson. “By the way, did you get hold of that broad?”
“Not yet. I’m sitting here now waiting for the Vice Squad to call back.”
Silence.
After a while he complained, “I’m really pushed for time. If I can’t make it back to Kungsgatan before five, could you see to it that you or somebody else keeps an eye on his damn usury office?”
Gunvald Larsson’s natural impulse was to say no. He took the letter-opener out of the penholder and picked between his big front teeth in a preoccupied manner.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I’ll arrange it.”
“Thanks.”
Thank my dear sister, Gunvald Larsson thought. Then he said, “One more thing.”
“What?”
“Broberg was eating at the same table when Palmgren was shot.”
“So what?”
“How in hell can he have anything to do with the murder?”
“Don’t ask me,” Kollberg said. “Everything seems very hush-hush. Maybe Martin knows.”
“Beck,” said Gunvald Larsson with distaste.
That was the end of the conversation.
14
Lennart Kollberg had to wait slightly more than an hour for the information from the Vice Squad. Meanwhile he sat, heavy, inert and sweaty, at his desk out in Västberga. What had looked like a simple matter to dispose of that morning—talking to two witnesses—had somehow developed into hot pursuit.
Hampus Broberg and the mystifying Helena Hansson suddenly emerged as two people wanted by the police, while Kollberg sat clinging to the threads of the dragnet like some kind of spider. The remarkable thing was that he still didn’t know why he was out to get these two people. No charge had been filed against either of them; they had already been questioned by the police in Malmö, and common sense seemed to indicate that neither could reasonably have had anything to do with the murder of Viktor Palmgren.
However, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was important to get hold of them as quickly as possible.
Why?
It’s only the policeman’s occupational disease creeping up on you, he thought gloomily. A total wreck after twenty-three years of service. Can’t think like a normal human being any more.
Twenty-three years of daily contact with police officers had made him incapable of maintaining sensible relations with the rest of the world. In fact, he never felt truly free, not even with his own family. There was always something gnawing at his mind. He’d waited a long time to build this family, because police work wasn’t a normal job, but something you committed yourself to. And it was obvious you could never get away from it. A profession involving daily confrontations with people in abnormal situations could only lead in the end to becoming abnormal yourself.
Unlike the overwhelming majority of his colleagues, Kollberg was capable of penetrating and analyzing his own situation clearly. Which he did, surprisingly and unfortunately, with unclouded vision. His problem lay in being both a sensualist and a man of duty, in a profession where sentimentality and personal involvement were luxuries which in nine cases out of ten you couldn’t allow yourself.
Why do policemen associate almost exclusively with other policemen? he wondered.
Naturally because it was easier that way. Easier to keep the necessary distance. But also easier to overlook the morbid camaraderie in the force, which had flourished, unchecked, for many years. Essentially that meant that policemen isolated themselves from the society they were supposed to protect and, above all, be integrated with.
For example, policemen didn’t criticize other policemen, with rare exceptions.
A rather recent sociological study had shown that vacationing policemen, who were more or less forced to mix with other people, were very often ashamed to admit that they were officers of the law. This was a result of the definition of their role and of the many myths that surrounded their profession.
Constantly encountering fear, distrust or open contempt could make anyone paranoid.
Kollberg shuddered.
He didn’t want to be a fear-monger and he didn’t want to be distrusted or despised. He didn’t want to be paranoid.
However, he did want to get hold of two people whose names were Hampus Broberg and Helena Hansson. And he still didn’t know why.
He went out to the lavatory for a drink of water. Although the faucet had been running for several minutes, the water was still lukewarm and flat.
He groaned and sank down at his desk again. Distractedly he drew a small five-pointed star on the blotter. One more. And another after that.
When he had drawn seventy-five five-pointed stars, the telephone rang.
“Yes, Kollberg.”
“Hi, this is Åsa.”
“Have you found out anything?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“What?”
“We’ve located this Hansson person.”
Åsa Torell paused. Then she said, “At least I’m pretty sure it’s the right person.”
“So?”
“She’s on our books.”
“As a hooker?”
“Yes, but upper class. She comes closest to what we’d call a call girl.”
“Where does she live?”
“On Banérgatan. This other address is wrong. As far as we know, she’s never lived on Västeråsgatan. However, the telephone number didn’t just come out of the clear blue. It looks like sh
e had that contact number earlier.”
“What about the name? Is Helena Hansson her real name?”
“We’re fairly sure of that. She had to show identification down in Malmö last Wednesday, so I don’t think she could’ve cheated on that point.”
“Does she have a record?”
“Oh, yes. She’s been a prostitute since she was a teenager. Our division’s had a great deal to do with her, although not so often during recent years.”
Åsa Torell was quiet a moment. He could imagine vividly how she looked at that very instant. She was probably hunched over a desk, just like him, biting her thumbnail contemplatively.
“She appears to have begun like most of the others, usually without being paid. Then she began walking the street, and apparently she’s had enough class to work herself up into a more profitable bracket. Belonging to a call-girl ring is considered almost respectable by those kind of people.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.”
“As a matter of fact, call girls are the pick of the crop among prostitutes. They don’t take just any job—only the ones that are guaranteed to be lucrative. Just calling herself a traveling secretary, or even an executive secretary, as she seems to have done in Malmö, shows that she has style and can move in quite high society. There’s a big difference between selling the goods on Regeringsgatan and being able to sit at home in an apartment in Östermalm waiting for telephone calls. She probably has a group of regulars and at most takes one assignment or whatever you’d call it a week. Or something like that.”
“Does your division have any direct interest in her? At the moment?”
“Yes. That’s what I wanted to convey to you. If she’s involved in some other kind of crime and is afraid of getting caught, we may have a chance of uncovering a whole call-girl ring.”
“We could always try to scare her. Send someone over there to pick her up.”
Kollberg thought again. He continued, “Of course, I’d be quite willing to meet her myself, at her home. There’s something strange about this whole affair. What it is, I don’t know yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have the feeling that she’s more involved in this affair with Broberg and Palmgren than we suspect. Do you know her?”
“I only know what she looks like—from pictures we have here,” Åsa Torell said. “Judging from them, she looks very proper and businesslike. But of course that’s one of the keys to success in that particular line of business.”