by Maj Sjowall
“Certainly, they have to be able to keep up a good front. It’s important for them not to make any false moves at social events.”
“Right. From what I’ve heard, some of these girls can even take shorthand. At least they can do enough to fool most people.”
“Do you have her phone number?”
“No.”
“Too bad.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Åsa Torell. “The girls in this business change numbers pretty often. They have unlisted phones as a matter of course, and even then their subscriptions are usually registered under different names. And …”
“And …”
“And that shows that they’re real pros. Big time.”
She was quiet awhile. Then she asked, “Why is it so darned urgent for you to get hold of her?”
“To be honest with you, I don’t really know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No. Martin wants her questioned, mostly as a routine measure, about what she saw or didn’t see that night in Malmö.”
“Well, that’s not a bad place to start,” said Åsa Torell. “Then maybe the first will lead to the second.”
“Just what I was hoping,” said Kollberg. “According to Larsson, she was at Hampus Broberg’s home on Lidingö last Saturday, and I’m as good as convinced that Broberg is working on something really shady.”
“I have a hard time imagining she’d be directly involved in Palmgren’s murder. But then most of what I know comes from the newspapers these last few days.”
“No. I can’t see a direct connection with this shooting, either. However, there are a number of ramifications to this case, and I have a feeling they have to be followed up, even if they don’t fall directly in my division.”
“What do you think Broberg is up to?”
“Some kind of large-scale financial swindle. He appears to be converting all his assets here into cash incredibly fast. I suspect he’s preparing to leave the country today.”
“Why don’t you call in the fraud boys?”
“Because there’s not much time. Before those guys have the time to get onto this, Broberg’ll probably be far out of reach. Maybe the Hansson girl, too. But Palmgren’s murder does give us a lever. Both of them were witnesses, which means I can move in on them.”
“I admit I’m only a novice,” said Åsa Torell. “And hardly a murder investigator, besides. But does Martin feel that one of the people who were at the dinner would have gone all out to get Palmgren out of the way, for his own benefit?”
“Yes, that seems to be one of the theories.”
“Then this person would’ve hired a murderer?”
“Yes. Something like that.”
“It seems farfetched, if you ask me.”
“I think so, too. But it’s happened before.”
“I know. What other possibilities are they considering?”
“For one thing, a purely political killing. Even Sepo’s got into the act. From what I’ve heard, a man of theirs has been sent down to Malmö.”
“That must be terribly pleasant for Martin and the rest of them.”
“Yeah, it really is. Of course, Sepo is doing its own investigation as usual. It’ll be ready in a year or two, and then they’ll go into action.”
“And Martin who just loves politics,” said Åsa Torell.
What she meant was that Martin Beck detested everything even remotely related to politics and that he promptly retreated into a shell every time there was any mention of demonstrations, assassinations or political involvement.
“Hmm,” said Kollberg. “Anyway, now it appears that Palmgren earned most of his millions from something that was the exact opposite of foreign aid. Like making indecent profits on international armaments sales. So neither Martin nor any of the others rules out the possibility that he was actually got out of the way for political reasons. As a kind of warning to others in the same line of business.”
“Poor Martin,” said Åsa Torell.
There was a certain warmth in her voice now.
Kollberg smiled to himself. He’d become well acquainted with Åsa Torell after Åke Stenström’s death, and he thought a lot of her, both for her quick intelligence and for her qualities as a woman.
“Oh, well,” he said. “I suggest that you and I go over to see this lovely lady as soon as possible and see if we can weasel something interesting out of her. I’ll take the car and pick you up on the way. We’ll have to chance it that she’s home.”
“Okay,” Åsa Torell said. “But …”
“But what?”
“Well, I’m warning you, she’s going to be a pretty hard nut to crack, and we’d be smart to take it easy—at least in the beginning. I know I’m only a beginner, and maybe it sounds crazy to be giving you advice, but I’ve had some experience with this clientele. Somebody like Helena Hansson knows all about how to act with the police. From long, hard practice, you understand. I don’t think the strong-arm treatment would be worth much.”
“You’re probably right.”
“By the way, who’s keeping an eye on Broberg?”
“If we’re lucky, we may find him in the lady’s arms,” Kollberg said. “Otherwise, Gunvald Larsson has offered his services, strangely enough.”
“Then there’ll be strong-arm tactics anyway,” Åsa Torell said caustically.
“I suppose so. Let’s say I’ll come by to pick you up in about twenty minutes.”
“Sure, that’s fine. See you soon.”
“Bye.”
Kollberg sat for a while with his hand on the receiver. Then he called Gunvald Larsson.
“Yeah,” the latter said antagonistically. “What in hell is it now?”
“We’ve located the girl.”
“Okay,” Gunvald Larsson said indifferently.
“I’m going to see her now with Åsa Torell.”
“Okay.”
“You sound even crosser than usual.”
“For good reason,” Gunvald Larsson said. “Twenty minutes ago a Turk got his guts ripped open with a stiletto on Hötorget. The devil only knows if he’ll pull through. When I saw him it seemed like he had a hard time keeping his insides together.”
“Did you catch the person who did it?”
“No. But we know who it was.”
“Another Turk?”
“No, not at all. A first-rate, pure-bred Stockholm kid. Seventeen years old and stoned out of his mind. We’re hunting for him now.”
“Why did he do it?”
“Why? That’s a helluva question. He probably got the idea that he could solve the foreigner problem all by himself. It gets worse and worse for every passing day.”
“That’s true,” said Kollberg. “Gunvald, I don’t think I’ll have enough time to make it to Broberg’s office.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Gunvald Larsson said. “It’ll all work out. I’m beginning to get interested in this guy myself.”
They hung up simultaneously, without another word.
Kollberg was left wondering what had made Gunvald Larsson so unusually helpful.
He called the finance company on Kungsgatan.
“No, I haven’t heard from Mr. Broberg,” said Sara Moberg.
“The suitcase is still in his room?”
“Yes. I told you that the first time you called.”
“Excuse me, I just wanted to check.”
He also called the realty office that he’d visited in the morning.
They hadn’t seen Hampus Broberg there either, or even heard from him, for that matter.
He went out to wash his hands, put a note on his desk and proceeded down to the car.
Åsa Torell was waiting for him on the steps outside of the main police station on Kungsholmsgatan.
Kollberg pulled up by the sidewalk and watched approvingly as she walked down the wide steps and crossed the walk.
In his eyes she was an exceptionally attractive woman, with her short dark hair and big brown eyes.
She was small, but had a very promising figure, with fine broad hips. Both slender and firm.
Her manner was highly sensual, but as far as he knew, she’d given up sex after Stenström’s death.
He wondered how long that could last.
If I hadn’t already had the good sense to find a first-rate wife …
Thought Lennart Kollberg.
Then he stretched out his arm and opened the right front door.
“Climb in, Åsa,” he said.
She sat down beside him, put her shoulder bag on her lap and advised him, “Now we’ll take it easy, like we said.”
Kollberg nodded and started the car.
Five minutes later they stopped in front of an old apartment building on Banérgatan.
They got out on either side of the car.
“You should be careful when you walk right into the street like that,” said Åsa Torell.
Kollberg nodded again.
“You’re so right,” he said.
He yearned for a clean shirt.
15
The apartment was on the third floor, and the name Helena Hansson was actually on the door plate.
Kollberg raised his right fist to pound on the door, but Åsa Torell restrained him by putting her hand on his arm and rang the doorbell instead.
Nothing happened, and after half a minute she rang again.
This time the door was opened, and a young blond woman peered at them with questioning blue eyes.
She was wearing plush slippers and a white bathrobe. It looked as if she’d just taken a shower or washed her hair, for she had a bath towel wound around her head like a turban.
“Police,” Kollberg said, hauling out his identification card.
Åsa Torell did the same, but didn’t say anything.
“You are Helena Hansson, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“We’re here about what happened in Malmö last week. We’d like to talk to you a moment.”
“I already told the police down there what little I know. The same evening.”
“That conversation clearly wasn’t very exhaustive,” Kollberg said. “You were naturally rather upset at the time, and testimony given under such conditions tends to be rather sketchy. So we always question witnesses again, when they’ve had several days to think things over. May we please come in for a moment?”
The woman hesitated. It was obvious she was about to say no.
“It won’t take too much of your time,” Kollberg said. “This is a purely routine procedure for us.”
“Yes,” said Helena Hansson. “I don’t have much time, but …”
She stopped, and they let her think through the conclusion of her sentence in peace.
“Can you please wait out here for a second, while I put something on?”
Kollberg nodded.
“I’ve just washed my hair,” she added. “It’ll only take a minute or two.”
Cutting off further discussion, she closed the door in their faces.
Kollberg put a warning finger to his lips.
Åsa Torell promptly knelt down and opened the lid of the mail slot, soundlessly and cautiously.
There were sounds from inside the apartment.
First the clicks from a telephone dial.
Helena Hansson was trying to call someone. She obviously got an answer, asked for someone in a low voice and was connected. Then nothing, but Åsa Torell had unusually good hearing and thought she heard the phone ringing for a long time on the other end. At last the woman inside said, “Oh, he’s not. Thank you.”
The receiver was replaced.
“She tried to call someone she didn’t get hold of,” Åsa Torell whispered. “Through a switchboard, I think.”
Kollberg formed a name on his lips.
“Broberg.”
“She didn’t say Broberg. I would’ve caught that.”
Kollberg made a warning face again and pointed dumbly to the mail slot.
Åsa Torell put her right ear against the opening. It was her best one.
Various sounds came from inside, and she knit her thick black eyebrows.
After a couple of minutes she straightened up and whispered, “She was doing something in a hurry, obviously. Packing a suitcase, I think, because I thought I heard her lock it. Then she carried or dragged something across the floor and opened and closed a door. Now she’s getting dressed.”
Kollberg nodded thoughtfully.
A little later Helena Hansson opened the door again. She had a dress on, and her hairdo was suspiciously neat. Both Kollberg and Åsa Torell noticed immediately that she’d put on a wig over her damp hair.
They were innocently standing as far away in the stair well as possible. Åsa Torell had lit a cigarette and was smoking nonchalantly.
“Please come in,” Helena Hansson said.
Her voice was pleasant and surprisingly cultivated.
They went in and looked around.
The apartment included a hall, one room and kitchen. It was fairly spacious and attractive, but impersonally furnished. Most of the furnishings seemed new; many of them indicated that the person who lived there at least wasn’t short of money. Everything was neat and tidy.
The bed was big and wide. Kollberg looked at the thick bedspread and could clearly see a rectangular impression, as though something like a suitcase had lain there recently.
There were a sofa and comfortable armchairs in the room. Helena Hansson made a vague gesture toward them and said, “Sit down, please.”
They sat down. The woman was still standing.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Kollberg said.
Åsa Torell shook her head.
Helena Hansson sat down, took a cigarette from a pewter mug on the table and lit it. Then she said calmly, “Well, what can I do to help you?”
“You already know why we’re here,” said Kollberg.
“Yes. That horrible night in Malmö. But there isn’t much more I can tell you than that—that it was horrible.”
“Where were you seated at the table?”
“At the corner on one side. My dinner partner was a Danish businessman. His name was Jensen, I believe.”
“Yes. Mr. Hoff-Jensen,” said Kollberg.
“Oh, yes, that was his name.”
“What about Mr. Palmgren?”
“He was sitting on the other side. Diagonally across from me. Directly opposite me was the Dane’s wife.”
“That means you were sitting facing the man who shot Mr. Palmgren?”
“Yes, that’s right. But everything happened so fast. I barely had the time to grasp what was going on. Besides, I doubt if anyone understood anything until afterward.”
“But you saw the murderer?”
“Yes. But I didn’t think of him as a murderer.”
“What did he look like?”
“I’ve already said what I know. Do you want me to repeat it?”
“Yes, please.”
“I only have a very general impression of his appearance. As I said, everything happened so fast, and I wasn’t concentrating very much on the people around me. I was mostly lost in my own thoughts.”
She spoke calmly and seemed thoroughly sincere.
“Why weren’t you concentrating, as you worded it?”
“Mr. Palmgren was making a speech. What he was saying didn’t apply to me, and I was listening with half an ear anyway. I didn’t understand most of what he was talking about; I was smoking and thinking about other things.”
“Let’s get back to the gunman. Did you recognize him?”
“No, not at all. He was a complete stranger to me.”
“Would you be able to pick him out if you saw him again?”
“Maybe. But I couldn’t be sure.”
“What was your impression of him?”
“That he was a man of thirty-five, or maybe forty. He had a thin face and dark hair—not much of it.”
&n
bsp; “How tall was he?”
“About average height, I suppose.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Fairly neatly. I think his jacket was brown. At any rate, he had a pale-colored shirt and a tie on.”
“Can you say anything else about him?”
“Not much. He looked pretty ordinary.”
“How would you place him socially?”
“Socially?”
“Well, for example, did he look like someone with a good job, plenty of money?”
“No, I don’t think so. More like a clerk or a worker of some kind. I got the impression he was quite poor.”
She shrugged and added, “But you shouldn’t take what I say too seriously. The fact is I only caught a glimpse of him. Since then I’ve tried to sort out my impressions, but I’m not positive. Part of what I think I saw could be pure … maybe not fantasy, but …”
She searched for the right words.
“Construction after the fact,” Kollberg suggested.
“Exactly. Construction after the fact. You catch a glimpse of someone or something, and then afterward, when you try to recall the details, it comes out wrong.”
“Did you see the weapon he used?”
“In a flash, so to speak. It was some kind of pistol, rather long.”
“Do you know much about guns?”
She shook her head.
“No, nothing at all.”
Kollberg tried a new approach.
“Had you met Mr. Palmgren before?”
“No.”
“And the rest of the party? Were you acquainted with them?”
“Only Mr. Broberg. I’d never met the other people before.”
“But you’d known Broberg for some time?”
“He had hired me on several occasions.”
“In what capacity were you in Malmö?” She looked at him with surprise.
“As a secretary, of course. Mr. Broberg does have his own regular secretary, but she never accompanies him on trips.”
She spoke openly and confidently. It all appeared very well rehearsed.
“Did you take any shorthand notes or minutes during this trip?”
“Certainly. There was a meeting earlier in the day. I took notes on what was discussed then.”
“What was discussed?”