by Maj Sjowall
“And what do you think the police did wrong?” asked Martin Beck.
“There was nothing much wrong with the actual security plan,” said Gunvald Larsson. “It was roughly the same one the United States Secret Service worked out after the assassination of President Kennedy. But since this guest was obviously unpopular, they shouldn’t have published the route of the motorcade beforehand.”
“But then people don’t get a chance to cheer and wave flags,” said the Stockholm City chief.
“And it’s hell to keep changing the route,” said Möller. “I remember what a brouhaha there was when Khrushchev was here.”
“I seem to remember when he left he said he’d never seen so many policemen’s backs before anywhere in the world,” said Martin Beck.
“That was his own fault,” said Möller. “He didn’t even have enough sense to be scared.”
“Another mistake they made was in starting their preventive measures too late,” Gunvald Larsson went on. “They set up controls at the ports and airports only two days before the state visit. But people like these boys in ULAG come weeks ahead.”
“That’s sheer guesswork,” said Möller.
“Not so. The police over there produced quite a lot of interesting information. And the information from that assassination in India wasn’t as meager as you made out. A policeman who was badly injured and later died said that the terrorists weren’t really masked, they were just wearing some kind of helmets, like the ones construction workers wear. He also said he was sure that, of the three he saw, two were Japanese and the third was European, a tall man about thirty. When this man jumped into the car, his helmet fell off and the wounded policeman saw that he had blond hair and sideburns. Naturally the Indian police were checking everyone who left the country, especially foreigners, and among them was a man who fit that description. He had a Rhodesian passport and they took his name. But the policeman in the hospital didn’t give his description until the next day, and by that time the man was long gone. The authorities in Rhodesia said the name wasn’t known to them.”
“But at least it’s something,” said Martin Beck.
“The security police down where I was had had no previous contact with the Indian police. But they did keep track of everyone leaving the country at the time, and it turned out later that one of them was a person with the same name and the same passport. The passport is almost a hundred percent certain to be false, as well as the name.”
“What name did he use?” asked Martin Beck.
“Reinhardt Heydrich,” said Gunvald Larsson.
The chief cleared his throat. “This ULAG seems very unpleasant.”
“How are we going to defend anyone against people who use radio-controlled bombs?” said Möller gloomily.
“We’ll manage, I expect,” said Gunvald Larsson. “As long as you take care of the close-range protection.”
“That’s not so easy if we all go flying into the air all of a sudden,” said the security chief. “How do we protect him then?”
“Don’t worry about bombs. We’ll take care of that.”
“I was just thinking about one thing,” said Martin Beck. “If long-range protection was really functioning down there, then whoever set off the bomb couldn’t have been close enough to see what was happening.”
“I’m sure he wasn’t,” said Gunvald Larsson.
“Could he have had an accomplice nearby?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then how did he know when to set the thing off?”
“What I think is that he just listened to the regular radio broadcast or watched it on television. Radio and TV were both sending the whole state visit live. They usually do in most countries when anything special is going on. We know that ULAG always strikes at very well-known political figures. And always when the intended victim is doing something unusual or spectacular, like making an official state visit for example. This’ll be just the kind of occasion when they might try something.”
“What do we do about prevention?” said Möller. “Shall I lock up all the crackpots?”
“No,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Anyone who wants to can go out and demonstrate, of course.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” said the Stockholm chief. “We’d have to bring in every policeman in the country. McNamara was supposed to go to Copenhagen a few years ago, and he simply had to cancel when he heard about the demonstrations they were expecting. And when Reagan was in Denmark to lunch on the royal yacht two years ago, it was hardly mentioned in the newspapers. He was there on a private visit and didn’t want any publicity. He said so himself. Imagine: Reagan …”
“If I were free this particular day, I might well go out and demonstrate against this bastard myself,” said Gunvald Larsson. “He’s a lot worse than Reagan.”
They all looked distrustfully and gravely at Gunvald Larsson, all except Martin Beck, who appeared to be sunk in his own thoughts. They were thinking: Is this really the right man for the job?
Then the Commissioner decided it had probably been a joke.
“This has been very productive,” he said. “I think we’re heading in the right direction. Thank you, all of you.”
Martin Beck had finished thinking. He turned to Eric Möller.
“I’ve been offered this assignment and I’ve accepted it. That means you’ll have to follow my directives. Directive number one is that there’s to be no preventive detention of people whose political opinions are different from your own, unless there are really compelling reasons and unless we others, myself in particular, approve. You’ve been given an important assignment, the close-range protection, and I want you to stick to that. You’re to try to remember that people have the right to demonstrate, and I forbid you to use provocation and unnecessary force. Any demonstrations are to be handled properly and you’re to work together with the chiefs for Stockholm and the Regular Police. All plans must be submitted to me.”
“But what about all the subversive elements in this country? Am I just supposed to ignore them?”
“As far as I can see, the subversive elements are a product of your imagination and your wishful thinking. Your primary job is the close-range protection of the senator. Demonstrations are inevitable, but they are not to be broken up by force. If the Regular Police get sensible directives, there won’t be any complications. I want to be informed of all your plans. Of course you’re free to deploy your eight hundred spies however you like provided it’s legal. Is that clear?”
“It is,” said Möller. “But I presume you know I can go over your head if I feel I have to.”
Martin Beck did not answer.
The Stockholm chief went over to the wall mirror and began adjusting his white silk tie.
“Gentlemen,” said the Commissioner, “the conference is over. The fieldwork can begin. I’ve complete confidence in you all.”
A little later that day, Martin Beck was visited by Eric Möller, an event that had never occurred before.
Martin Beck himself was still at Kungsholmsgatan, although he ought to have been either at his office in Västberga, or in Rotebro, or Djursholm. He was anxious to crack the Petrus case before this new assignment began to take up too much of his time, and he still had nowhere near the same faith in Benny Skacke as he’d had in Lennart Kollberg. Lennart Kollberg had been an excellent criminal investigator, systematic and inventive. In fact, Martin Beck had sometimes had the feeling that in many respects Kollberg was a better policeman than he himself.
There was nothing wrong with Skacke’s ambition and energy, but he had never shown any blinding acumen, and he would certainly never be brilliant. He might well develop, considering his relative youth—he was just thirty-five and was already showing signs of admirable persistence and a total fearlessness—but Martin Beck would probably have to wait a long time before he could hand over difficult cases to Skacke with complete confidence. On the other hand, Benny Skacke and Åsa Torell were not a bad team
at all, and would certainly make some headway as long as they weren’t hampered too much by Märsta-Pärsta’s directives.
Nevertheless, he would soon have to transfer Skacke temporarily to this new assignment and thus further weaken the Homicide Squad. He himself was capable of dealing with two complicated jobs at once, but he very much doubted Benny Skacke’s capacity to do the same.
As far as he was concerned, his double assignment had already started. They had already discussed where their headquarters was to be—Command Headquarters, as Stig Malm had martially expressed it—and just now he was discussing the composition of the escort with Gunvald Larsson, simultaneously thinking about the villa in Djursholm.
In the midst of this discussion there was a knock on the door and in came Möller, paunchier and more foxlike than ever. He glanced blankly at Gunvald Larsson, then turned to Martin Beck.
“I presume you’ve already contemplated what the escort will look like?”
“Have you got secret microphones in here, too?” said Gunvald Larsson.
Möller totally ignored him. Eric Möller was unflappable. If he hadn’t been, he would probably never have become the head of Säpo.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said.
“Really?” said Gunvald Larsson.
“The senator will, I presume, be traveling in the bulletproof limousine?” said Möller, still addressing himself only to Martin Beck.
“Yes.”
“In that case, my idea is that we let someone else go in the limousine, while the senator goes in a less ostentatious car, a police car, for instance, farther back.”
“Who would that other person be?” asked Gunvald Larsson.
Möller shrugged. “Oh, anyone.”
“Typical,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Are you really so goddamned cynical—”
Martin Beck saw that Gunvald Larsson was beginning to get seriously angry and hurriedly interrupted.
“It’s not a new idea. It’s been used many times, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. In this case it’s clearly out of the question. The senator himself wants to ride in the bulletproof car, and anyway the television broadcast will show him getting in.”
“There’s lots of tricks,” said Möller.
“We know that,” said Martin Beck. “But we’re not interested in your tricks.”
“Oh, I see,” said the chief of Säpo. “Goodbye, then.”
And he left.
Gunvald Larsson’s complexion slowly returned to normal. “Tricks,” he said.
“There’s no point in getting annoyed with Möller,” said Martin Beck. “It doesn’t affect him. It’s like pouring water on lard. Now I really have to get out to Västberga.”
9
The days went by and grew into weeks, and as usual the much-longed-for summer seemed to be passing much too swiftly.
But now it was still July, the peak of summer, with its cold and rain and very occasional sunny days.
Martin Beck had little time to notice the weather. He was fully occupied and some days hardly ever left his office. He often stayed long into the evenings when the police station was silent and virtually uninhabited. Not that this was always necessary; he often stayed simply because he didn’t want to go home, or because he wanted to think about problems he hadn’t had time for during a hectic day of constant telephone calls and visitors.
Rhea had taken her children for a three-week holiday in Denmark, where their father lived.
Martin Beck missed her, but she would be back in a week, and meanwhile he filled his life with work and calm solitary evenings at home in the Old City.
The death of Walter Petrus occupied a large part of his time and thoughts. Over and over again, he studied the voluminous collection of material that had been gathered from various quarters, with an irritating sense of constantly reaching a dead end. Now, after a month and a half, the case was being handled mainly by Benny Skacke and Åsa Torell. He could rely on their judgment and thoroughness and he left them to work largely on their own.
The Narcotics Division had made a report after long and careful inquiries. They found, first, that Walter Petrus had not handled drugs on a large scale and there was nothing to indicate that he was a dealer. Presumably the quantity he had possessed had never been very great.
Second, they found that Petrus personally had not been a drug user on any great scale, though he occasionally smoked hash or took stimulants. In a locked drawer at his home they found packages bearing the names of various foreign drug manufacturers which he had probably brought back with him from his trips abroad, but there was no sign of any extensive smuggling.
He was a known customer on the Stockholm narcotics market and seemed to have gone to three different suppliers for his somewhat modest purchases. He had paid the going price and returned at fairly long intervals without any of the signs of desperation common to addicts.
They had also interrogated several girls with experiences similar to those of the two girls Åsa had questioned. They had all been offered drugs, but only during visits to his office. He had definitely refused to give them any to take away with them.
Two of the girls questioned by the Narcotics Division had been in one of his films; not the great international production with Charles Bronson in the main part as Petrus had promised, but in a pornographic film with a lesbian theme. They admitted that during the filming they had been so under the influence of drugs that they had hardly known what they were doing.
“What a bastard!” Åsa had cried when she read the report.
Åsa and Skacke had been out to Djursholm and spoken to Chris Petrus again, and to the two children who were home. The younger son was still abroad and had not been heard from, although the family had cabled his last known address and had also put an advertisement into the personal column of the International Herald Tribune.
“Don’t worry, Mother, he’ll show up when his money runs out,” the elder son had said acidly.
Åsa had also had a talk with Mrs. Pettersson, who by and large gave one-syllable replies to all her questions. She was a faithful servant of the old school, and in the few words she actually uttered she spoke highly of the family.
“I felt like giving her a lecture on women’s liberation,” said Åsa later on to Martin Beck.
Benny Skacke had spoken to Walter Petrus’s gardener and chauffeur, Sture Hellström. He was as taciturn as the maid when it came to opinions on the Petrus family, but he was happy to talk about gardening.
Skacke also spent quite a lot of time out at Rotebro, which was really Åsa’s territory. No one really knew what he was doing out there, and one day when they were having coffee in Martin Beck’s office, Åsa said teasingly, “You haven’t gone and fallen in love with Maud Lundin, have you, Benny? Watch out for her. I think she’s a dangerous woman.”
“I think she’s pretty mercenary,” said Skacke. “But I’ve talked quite a bit to a guy out there—the sculptor who lives across the street. He makes things out of scrap iron, really nice things.”
Åsa also disappeared for long periods of the day without saying where she was going. Finally Martin Beck asked her what she was up to.
“I go to the movies. Watch dirty films. I take them in small doses, one or two a day, but I’m determined to see all of Petrus’s movies. It’ll probably make me frigid, on top of everything else.”
“What do you want to see them for?” asked Martin Beck. “What do you think you can find? One was enough for me—that Love in the Glow of the Midnight Sun, or whatever it was called.”
Åsa laughed. “That was nothing compared to some of the others. Some of them are considerably better from a technical point of view—color and wide screen and all that. I think he sold them to Japan. But it’s no fun to sit and watch them. Especially for a woman. You get simply furious.”
“I can understand that,” said Martin Beck sincerely. “But you didn’t answer my question about why you think you have to see them.”
Åsa ruffled her untid
y hair. “Well, you see, I look at the people in the films, and then I try to find out what sort of people they are, where they live and what they do. I’ve interviewed a couple of boys who were in several of the films. One’s a professional, works at a sex club and regards it as a job. He was fairly well paid. The other one works in a men’s clothes shop and did it for fun. He got practically nothing. I’ve got a long list of people I’m going to check up on.”
Martin Beck nodded thoughtfully, giving her a doubtful look.
“Not that I know anything’ll come of it,” said Åsa, “but if you have no objections, I’m going on.”
“Do, if you can take it,” said Martin Beck.
“There’s only one more I haven’t seen,” said Åsa. “Confessions of a Night Nurse, I think it’s called. Horrors.”
The week went by and on the last day of July, Rhea returned.
That evening they celebrated with smoked eel, Danish cheeses and Elephant beer and aquavit she had brought back with her from Copenhagen. Rhea talked almost without stopping until she fell asleep in his arms.
Martin Beck lay for a while feeling happy that she was back, but the Elephant beer took its toll and soon he was asleep too.
Things began to happen the next day. It was the first of August, the name day was Per, and it was pouring rain.
Martin Beck awoke bright and alert, but ended up late for work anyway. Three weeks was a long time, and Rhea’s eagerness to tell him about her visit to the Danish island, combined with the food, beer and aquavit, had caused them to fall asleep before they could give expression to how much they’d missed each other. They made up for it in the morning, and as the children were still in Denmark they were undisturbed and took their time, until Rhea finally pushed him out of bed and commanded him to think about his responsibilities and his duty as chief to set a good example.
Benny Skacke had been waiting for him impatiently for two hours. Before Martin Beck had time to sit down, he was in the office, shuffling his feet.