Murder at the Savoy

by Maj Sjowall

  “Here’s the name again,” he said. “Bertil Svensson. Laid off from a Palmgren company two years ago. He’s an office worker.”

  Månsson turned the toothpick around with his tongue.

  “No,” he said. “A laborer. I talked to the personnel office at Kockum’s.”

  “Did you get his address?” Martin Beck asked.

  “Yes. He lives on Vattenverksvägen.”

  Martin Beck raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

  “In Kirseberg.”

  Martin Beck shook his head.

  “In Öster.”

  Martin Beck shrugged.

  “Hmmph, Stockholmers,” Månsson said. “Well, that’s where he lives, anyway. But he’s on vacation now. Started working at Kockum’s in January of this year. Thirty-seven years old. He’s divorced, apparently. His wife …”

  Månsson dug around in his papers and pulled out a slip of paper with some notes scribbled on it.

  “… His wife lives in Stockholm. The accounts department deducts her alimony from his paycheck every month and sends it to Mrs. Eva Svensson, 23 Norrtullsgatan in Stockholm.”

  “Hmm,” Martin Beck said. “If he’s on vacation maybe he isn’t in town.”

  “We’ll have to see,” Månsson said. “Maybe we ought to have a talk with his wife somehow. You think Kollberg …?”

  Martin Beck looked at his watch. Nearly five-thirty. Kollberg was probably on his way home right now to Gun and Bodil.

  “Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

  26

  Lennart Kollberg’s voice was full of foreboding when Martin Beck called him on Friday morning.

  “Just don’t tell me it has anything to do with that Palmgren case again,” he said.

  Martin Beck cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry, Lennart, but I have to ask you for a little help,” he said. “I suppose you’ve got a lot of things …”

  “A lot of things,” Kollberg broke in irritatedly. “I’m short of people—like you, for example, and everybody else who ought to be here. I’m swamped with work. It’s the same in town. Not even Rönn and Melander are there.”

  “I understand, Lennart,” Martin Beck said softly. “But things have come up that put the case in a new light. You have to get some information on a man who may be the one who shot Palmgren. If worst comes to worst you could ask Gunvald …”

  “Larsson! If the Home Secretary got down on his knees and asked him, he wouldn’t be able to persuade him to work on the Palmgren case. He’s had a belly full.”

  Kollberg quietened down and after a short pause he sighed and said, “So who is this guy?”

  “Probably the same person we could’ve picked up at Haga terminal a week ago, if we hadn’t screwed up. His name is Bertil Svensson …”

  “Same as about ten thousand people in this country,” Kollberg said caustically.

  “Probably,” Martin Beck said gently. “But we do know this about Bertil Svensson: he worked for a Palmgren company out in Solna, a fairly small precision tool factory, which was closed down in the fall of ’67. He lived in one of Palmgren’s apartment houses, but was evicted about a year ago. He’s a member of a rifle club and, according to witnesses, used to use a gun that could well be the same model as the one Palmgren was murdered with. He got a divorce last fall, and his wife and two children still live in Stockholm. He lives in Malmö and works at Kockum’s.”

  “Hmm,” Kollberg said.

  “His name is Bertil Olof Emanuel Svensson, born in the parish of Sofia in Stockholm, on May 6, 1932.”

  “Why don’t you arrest him if he lives in Malmö?” Kollberg asked.

  “We will, but first we want to find out a little more about him. We thought you could take care of that.”

  Kollberg sighed resignedly.

  “Okay, what do you want me to do?” he said.

  “He isn’t in the criminal records, but find out if he’s ever been picked up. Also find out if the social welfare agencies have had anything to do with him. Ask at the real estate office why he was evicted. And, last but not least, talk to his wife.”

  “Do you know where she is or shall I hunt for her, too? It only takes several weeks to find the right Mrs. Svensson.”

  “She lives at 23 Norrtullsgatan. Don’t forget to ask her when she saw her husband last. I don’t know what kind of a relationship they have, but it’s possible he called or went to see her last Thursday. Can you do this as soon as possible?”

  “It’ll take all day,” Kollberg complained. “But I don’t really have any choice. I’ll call when I’m through.”

  Kollberg hung up and stared gloomily at his desk, where maps, folders and reports lay every which way. Then he sighed, dug out the telephone directory and started calling.

  A couple of hours later he got up, grabbed his jacket, shut his note pad and put it in his pocket. Then went down to the car.

  As he drove toward Norrtullsgatan, he went over what he’d learned from his industrious session on the telephone.

  Bertil Olof Emanuel Svensson hadn’t come to the notice of the police until October ’67. Then he’d been taken to Bollmora police station on a charge of intoxication. He’d been picked up in the entrance to the building where he lived and kept in jail for the night. From then until July ’68, he’d been taken to the same police station five more times—once on another intoxication charge and four times for causing domestic disturbance, as it’s called. That was all. There weren’t any entries after July.

  The Temperance Board had also been involved. On several occasions they’d been called to his home, by the landlord and by neighbors who claimed they were being disturbed by Svensson’s drunken behavior. He’d been under supervision, but besides the two times he’d been held by the police, there’d been no reason to take action against him.

  He hadn’t been on any drunk and disorderly charges before October ’67, and didn’t figure in the Temperance Board’s records before that date either. He’d got off each time with warnings.

  The Svensson family had even come to the attention of the Bureau of Child Welfare. Complaints had been made by tenants in the same building concerning the treatment of the children.

  As far as Kollberg could gather, the same neighbor was behind all the complaints to the various officials.

  The children, who were then seven and five years old, were considered to have been left “to fend for themselves.” They were poorly dressed, and the person who complained claimed he’d heard children screaming in the Svensson family’s apartment. The Bureau of Child Welfare had made investigations, first in December ’67, then again in May ’68. They’d made several house calls, but hadn’t found any signs of abuse. The place was not well taken care of, the mother seemed slovenly, the father was unemployed, and the family’s finances were in bad shape. Nothing indicated, however, that the children were ill-treated. The older one got along well in school, was healthy and of normal intelligence, though somewhat shy and reserved. The younger child was at home with the mother during the day, but was sometimes left with a neighbor when the mother did some temporary job. The neighbor, who had three children of her own, described the child as lively, receptive and sociable and said she’d never shown any sign of poor health. In November of ’68 the parents’ legal separation had gone into effect. The children were still under supervision.

  The Unemployment Office had paid out insurance to the family during the period from October ’67 to April ’68. The man had enrolled for job training and during the fall of ’68 had gone through a basic course in mechanics at the Vocational Training Board school. In January of ’69—the present year—Svensson had found employment as a laborer at Kockum’s machine works in Malmö, where he’d then moved.

  The Department of Public Health had made noise measurements on the Svensson’s apartment in connection with the request for eviction submitted by the real estate agency. The noise—in the form of children screaming, people walking across the floor and water running—was conside
red above the acceptable norm.

  That verdict applied just as well to the entire housing project, but no one seemed to take that into consideration.

  In the month of June 1968 the Rent Control Commission reached a decision about the real estate agency’s right to terminate the Svenssons’ lease. The Svensson family had been forced to leave the apartment on September 1. No alternative housing had been found for them.

  Kollberg had talked to the monster at the real estate agency. She was very sorry that they’d had to go as far as evicting the family, but there’d been too many complaints against them. Finally she said, “I think it was best for them, too. They didn’t fit here.”

  “In what way?” Kollberg asked.

  “We have a different class of tenants, if you know what I mean. We really aren’t used to having, almost every single day, to call in the Temperance Board, the police, the Bureau of Child Welfare and God knows what all …”

  “Then you reported the Svensson family to the authorities, and not the neighbors?” Kollberg had asked.

  “Certainly. When you hear that things are not as they should be, it’s your duty to investigate. One of the neighbors was very cooperative, of course.”

  He’d ended the conversation there, feeling almost sick with helplessness and disgust.

  Did it really have to be this way? Yes, obviously it did.

  Kollberg parked the car on Norrtullsgatan, but didn’t get out immediately. He took out his notebook and pencil. With the help of his notes, he made the following list:

  1967 Sept Laid off

  Oct. Intoxication (Bollmora Police Station)

  Nov. Temperance Board

  Dec. Domestic disturbance. Bureau of Child Welfare

  1968 Jan. Domestic disturbance (Bollm. P.)

  Feb. Temperance Board

  March Intoxication (Bollm. P.)

  April Domestic disturbance (Bollm. P.). Temperance Board

  May Bureau of Child Welfare

  June Rent Control Commission’s ruling on termination of lease

  July Decision on eviction. Domestic disturbance (Bollm. P.)

  Aug. —

  Sept. Evicted

  Oct. —

  Nov. Separation

  Dec. —

  1969 Jan. Moves to Malmö. Kockum’s

  July Shoots V. Palmgren?

  He studied what he’d written for a moment and reflected that this dismal chart almost cried out for a fitting title:

  It never rains but it pours.

  27

  Norrtullsgatan 23 was a seedy old building. After the stifling heat outside, it was surprisingly cool in the stairwell. It felt as though the damp chill of winter lurked in the walls under the flaking plaster.

  Mrs. Svensson lived one flight up, and the door with her name, EVA SVENSSON, appeared to be a kitchen entrance.

  Kollberg pounded. After a minute he heard steps from within and the rattle of a safety chain being unhooked. The door was opened slightly. Kollberg displayed his identification in the crack of the door. He couldn’t see the person who answered, but heard a deep sigh before the door was opened.

  Kollberg had guessed right; he stepped straight into a large kitchen. The woman who shut the door behind him was small and thin and had sharp, sad features. Her straggly hair had probably been dyed white some time ago, for the ends were almost white, with darker streaks higher up, changing to brown an inch from her scalp. She was dressed in a striped housecoat of sleazy cotton material with large, dark perspiration stains under the arms. The smell told Kollberg that this wasn’t the first time she’d sweated in that coat since it had last been washed. She was bare-legged; her feet were stuck into a pair of terrycloth slippers of a nondescript color. Kollberg knew that she was twenty-nine, but would have guessed at least thirty-five.

  “The police,” she said hesitantly. “What’s happened now? If you’re looking for Bertil he isn’t here.”

  “No,” Kollberg said, “I know. I only want to talk to you for a while, if that’s all right. May I come in?”

  The woman nodded and walked over to the kitchen table, which was by the window. An open magazine and a half-eaten sandwich lay on a flowered plastic tablecloth, and a filter cigarette went on smoking on a blue-flowered saucer, which was already full of filter-tipped butts. Around the table were three chairs. She sat down and picked up the cigarette from the saucer, pointing to the chair across from herself.

  “Sit down,” she said.

  Kollberg sat down and glanced out the window at a dreary back yard, relieved only by a carpet-beating rack and garbage cans.

  “What do you want to talk about?” Eva Svensson asked, pertly. “You can’t stay too long, because I have to pick up Tomas at the playground soon.”

  “Tomas,” Kollberg said, “is the youngest.”

  “Yes. He’s six. I leave him in the playground behind the School of Economics while I go shopping and do the cleaning.”

  Kollberg looked around the kitchen.

  “You have another one, don’t you?” he said.

  “Yes, Ursula. She’s at camp. On Children’s Island.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Since last April,” she said and sucked on the cigarette until only the filter remained. “But I’ll only be allowed to stay over the summer. The old lady doesn’t like the kids. Damned if I know where to go then.”

  “Are you working now?” Kollberg asked.

  The woman threw the smoldering filter into the saucer.

  “Yes. I work for the old lady we live with. That is, I get to live here in return for cleaning and cooking and shopping and washing and waiting on her. She’s old and can’t go down the steps alone, so I have to help her when she goes out. And other things.”

  Kollberg nodded toward a door across the room from the outer door.

  “Is that where you live?”

  “Yeah,” the woman said curtly. “We live there.”

  Kollberg got up and opened the door. The room was approximately twelve feet by sixteen. The window faced the dismal yard. Beds lined two of the walls. Underneath one of them was a low bed that could be pulled out. A chest of drawers, two chairs, a rickety little table and a rag rug completed the furnishings.

  “It’s not too big,” Eva Svensson said from behind him. “But we’re allowed to be in the kitchen as much as we want, and the kids can play in the yard.”

  Kollberg returned to the kitchen table. He looked at the woman, who was now doodling with her index finger on the plastic tablecloth and said, “I’d like you to tell me how it’s been for you and your husband during the last few years. I know that you’re divorced or separated, but how was it before that? He was unemployed a rather long time, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he got fired almost two years ago. Not because he’d done anything. Everybody got fired because they shut down the company. It must have been losing money. Then he couldn’t find a job; there just weren’t any. No real job, I mean. He had a pretty good one before that. He was an office worker, but didn’t have the proper education, and all the jobs he applied for went to someone who was better qualified.”

  Kollberg nodded.

  “How long was he with this company before it went out of business?”

  “Twelve years. And before that he was with another company with the same boss. Palmgren. Well, maybe he wasn’t the boss, but he owned the company. Bertil worked in the warehouse there, and later on he was a delivery boy, but then he was moved to the office of this company that was shut down. The other one must have been shut down, too.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “We got married at Whitsuntide in 1959.”

  She took a bite from the half-eaten sandwich, looked at it, stood up and walked over to the counter and threw it into the sink.

  “So we were married for eight and a half years,” she said.

  “When did you move out to Bollmora?” Kollberg asked.

  The woman remained standing by the sink, pickin
g her teeth with the nail of her little finger.

  “In the fall of ’67. We lived in a building on Västmannagatan before that. It was company housing, because Mr. Palmgren owned that building, too. Then he was going to repair the building and make offices out of the apartments, I think, and then we got to move into that new building he’d built. It looked a lot nicer, of course, but it was so far outside of town, and then the rent was really high. When Bertil got fired I thought we’d have to move, but we didn’t have to. At any rate, not until later, and that was because of other things.”

  “What kind of other things?” asked Kollberg.

  “Well, like Bertil drank,” she said vaguely. “And the neighbor under us complained because he thought we made too much noise. But we didn’t make any more noise than the other people in the building. Sound traveled really well, and you could hear children screaming and dogs barking and record players blaring, even if it was several floors below. We thought they had a piano above us until we learned that the piano was three stories up. And the kids couldn’t play inside. Anyway, we were evicted last fall.”

  The sun had begun to shine into the kitchen, and Kollberg took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  “Did he drink a lot?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sometimes.”

  “What was he like when he was drinking? Aggressive?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. She walked back and sat down.

  “He got angry sometimes. Because he’d lost his job and at the system and things like that. I got pretty tired of hearing that every time he’d had a couple drinks.”

  “It’s claimed there were fights in the apartment sometimes,” Kollberg said. “What happened then?”

  “Oh, they weren’t fights, exactly. We quarreled sometimes, and once the kids woke up and started playing in the middle of the night when we were asleep, and then the patrolmen came. Of course, we might have talked pretty loud once in a while, but we didn’t fight or anything like that.”

  Kollberg nodded.

  “Didn’t you turn to the Tenants’ Association when you were threatened with eviction?” he asked.