by Maj Sjowall
The line of vehicles swung to the right and stopped in front of Stenbock Palace, directly opposite the steps where Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson were standing. The driver hurried out of the front seat of the limousine and put up a large black umbrella before opening the rear door. The Prime Minister’s bodyguard came rushing up with another umbrella, and the two potentates got out of the car and began to walk out onto the square, flanked by their umbrella-bearers. Stoneface, who was following close behind, had to manage without protection from the rain, but he didn’t seem to notice. There was still absolutely no expression on his face.
Suddenly the Senator stopped and pointed at Birger Jarl, whose huge wet bronze back was turned to them. The entire company behind him also stopped and stared up at the statue.
While the rain poured down on the unprotected and increasingly solemn company, the Prime Minister explained who the statue represented and the Senator nodded with interest, clearly wishing to hear more about the medieval statesman and founder of the city.
The formally clad men who were to take part in the ceremony began to look like drowned cats, and the eyes of the newly coiffed ladies in the company began to shine with something like despair. But the prominent gentlemen remained oblivious under their umbrellas, and the Prime Minister embarked on a long lecture.
Stoneface was just behind the Senator, his eyes fixed on the back of his employer’s neck. He followed at a fixed distance, as if drawn by a string, when the two men with their umbrella-bearers slowly strolled around the statue, the lecture continuing, occasionally interrupted by a question from the Senator.
“Christ, either stop talking about Birger Jarl or else lay the goddamn wreath on him instead,” muttered Gunvald Larsson irritably. He looked down at his Italian suede shoes, which were now soaked through and probably ruined forever.
The Senator suddenly seemed to realize that he was not on a sight-seeing tour and that his task was not just to listen to a lecture.
The company began to form up and walk slowly in procession toward the doors of Riddarholm Church. The Prime Minister and the Senator walked in front between the driver and the bodyguard, who were concentrating fiercely on maneuvering the umbrellas so that these would protect the potentates without turning inside out or being torn from their hands by the gusty wind.
“Wouldn’t it be great if those two sailed off and floated out over Riddarfjärden,” said Gunvald Larsson.
“Like Mary Poppins,” said Martin Beck.
Ten feet behind came the wreath-bearers, and after them the rest of the party, pair by pair. The blue ribbon on the wreath flapped in the wind, and the golden emblem with the eagle on it wobbled alarmingly. The two flags, once so artistically folded and draped, now looked more like a couple of well-used dish-rags. The four sodden officers were obviously oppressed by their burden.
“Poor devils,” said Gunvald Larsson. “I’d never have taken on such a stupid job. I would have felt like an absolute idiot.”
“Perhaps they’d have been keelhauled or something,” said Martin Beck.
“Speaking of idiots,” said Gunvald Larsson, “perhaps we’d better move, so we can keep an eye on the clod squad.”
They waited until the end of the procession—four security men—had passed, and then took up positions by the corner of the Appeals Court, from where they had a good view of the entrance to the church. Kristiansson and Zachrisson still stood to the right of the entrance, looking like two stone statues, filled with the solemnity of the occasion. On the left were Kvastmo and Gustafsson, Kvastmo standing stiffly to attention. Victor Paulsson was standing close to the outside wall of the Inland Revenue offices opposite the church. He was probably the most identifiable man in the Security Service, on account of the curious disguises he used to enable himself to melt into the background of his surroundings. Today huge drops fell from the rim of his bowler onto the velvet collar of his coat, and the copy of Svenska Dagbladet folded under his arm was in a state of disintegration.
Eric Möller was nowhere to be seen, but Richard Ullholm was still busy keeping the press and television people in their proper places.
The dignified procession slowly approached the church doors. Directly in front of the entrance, the Prime Minister’s bodyguard and the Senator’s driver stopped, put down the umbrellas and joined Stoneface behind the eminent visitor and his host.
Just as they were about to walk up the steps, someone came out of the church—a young girl, with long fair hair and wide-open brown eyes, lips pressed together in a pale, serious face. She was wearing a suede jacket, a long green velvet skirt and leather boots.
Between her hands she was holding a small shiny revolver. She stopped on the threshold, raised her arms and fired.
The distance between the mouth of the revolver and the point between the Prime Minister’s eyebrows where the bullet made a hole in his forehead was no more than eight inches. The Prime Minister tumbled backward against his bodyguard, who was dragged down with him, the umbrella still in his hand.
The girl had jerked back at the recoil, but was now standing quite still as she slowly lowered her arms.
The sound of the shot echoed around the walls, and several seconds seemed to pass before everyone began to react in different ways.
The only person who did not react was the Prime Minister. He had died the moment the bullet penetrated his brain.
“Hell and damnation!” said Martin Beck.
Victor Paulsson dashed across the street, but halfway to the church his pistol fell out of the folded newspaper and disappeared with a splash into a puddle. He rushed up to the group at the church with a soaking wet copy of Svenska Dagbladet in his hand.
As the Senator calmly took the nickel-plated weapon from the girl’s hand, his bodyguard whipped out a gigantic revolver from inside his wide overcoat. The Senator was still looking at the girl as he handed the murder weapon to Zachrisson, who happened to be standing nearest him.
Stoneface pointed his Peacemaker at the unarmed girl. Even in his gigantic fist it seemed enormous, made for Wyatt Earp’s hand, or anyhow John Wayne’s. Bo Zachrisson raised the girl’s small revolver to shoot the weapon out of Stoneface’s hand, but the Senator’s bodyguard moved like lightning. Without the slightest change of expression, he hit Zachrisson on the hand with his Colt. Zachrisson yelped and dropped the revolver.
Kenneth Kvastmo, who had hitherto been standing at attention, now threw himself on the girl and twisted her arms behind her back in one swift motion. She offered no resistance, but bent forward with a grimace at Kvastmo’s rough treatment.
The Prime Minister’s bodyguard had scrambled to his feet and was staring with astonishment at the dead Prime Minister at his feet. He was still holding the umbrella in his hand.
Terrified and astonished cries could be heard from the members of the procession, and reporters and photographers came running up, Richard Ullholm in the lead.
Just as Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson reached the spot, Eric Möller came hurtling out from somewhere indoors. Barking orders at his bewildered men, he tried to push aside the shocked and distressed people who were beginning to crowd around the dead man.
Martin Beck looked at Rebecka Lind, who was still leaning forward in Kvastmo’s grip. “Let her go,” he said.
Kvastmo retained his hold on the girl and was just about to protest when Gunvald Larsson walked up and pushed him away. “I’ll take her in our car,” said Gunvald Larsson, starting to pilot Rebecka through the agitated crowd.
Martin Beck picked up the revolver Stoneface had knocked out of Zachrisson’s hand. He had seen a similar weapon quite recently. With Kollberg at the Army Museum.
He remembered what Kollberg had said about the little revolver—you could hit a cabbage with it at a few inches’ range, providing that it held absolutely still.
Martin Beck looked down at the dead Prime Minister and at his shattered forehead and thought that was roughly what Rebecka had succeeded in doing.
The c
onfusion was now total. The only people who appeared to be taking the situation quite coolly were the Senator, his bodyguard and the four naval officers, who had now placed their wreath at the feet of the Prime Minister.
Richard Ullholm’s face was scarlet as he said to Eric Möller, who was trying to bring some order into the confusion, “I’ll report this. It’s a gross dereliction of duty and will have to be reported. Scandalous dereliction of duty.”
“Shut up,” said Möller.
Ullholm’s face turned a deeper shade of scarlet, if that was possible, and he turned to Kristiansson who was still standing where he had been placed. “You’ll be reported,” said Ullholm. “I’ll report you all.”
“I didn’t do anything,” said Kristiansson.
“Exactly!” shouted Ullholm. “I’ll report just that, just you wait.”
Martin Beck turned to Ullholm and said, “Don’t stand there gabbing, get on with your job. Get people away. You, too, Kristiansson.”
Then he went over to Möller and said, “You’ll have to clear this up. I’ll take the girl back to the station.”
Möller had managed to clear the crowd of people away from the body of the Prime Minister, who was lying on his back on the wet steps of the church, at his feet the grotesque floral wreath, and near the wreath the tall Senator, a troubled expression on his sunburnt face. Behind him stood the bodyguard with the granite face, his cowboy gun still in his hand.
The sound of sirens came from across Riddarhus Square.
Martin Beck put the shiny little revolver into his pocket and began walking over to the car where Gunvald Larsson was waiting with Rebecka Lind.
23
It was not entirely a new situation for Martin Beck—he himself sitting at a desk, and in the chair in front of him a person who had killed someone. He had been in this situation many times; it was a part of his job.
On the other hand, it was not often that an interrogation could be held less than an hour after the crime had been committed, or that a large number of other police had witnessed the crime, or that the perpetrator was a girl of eighteen, or that the questions how, where and when were already eliminated, leaving only the question why.
During all his years as a policeman, he had been confronted with both murderers and victims from all walks of life and of varying status, but never before had the victim in a murder investigation been such an important person as the head of government.
Nor could he remember ever having to deal with a murder weapon of the kind now lying in front of him on his desk. Beside the little nickel-plated revolver lay an old ammunition box made of light-green cardboard with rounded edges and almost illegible printing on the label. The bullet that had bored its way through the Prime Minister’s brain had come from that box, and the girl had taken the box out of her shoulder bag and given it to Martin Beck in the car on their way to the police station.
Gunvald Larsson had stayed in the room for only a short while. He realized that this was a conversation that Martin Beck would deal with best on his own, and after exchanging a look of understanding with him, he had left him alone with Rebecka.
She was now sitting watchfully opposite Martin Beck, her back straight, her hands clasped in her lap and her still childishly round face pale and tense. She had shaken her head when he asked if she would like anything to eat, drink or smoke.
“I tried to get hold of you the other day,” said Martin Beck. She looked at him in surprise. Then, after a brief moment, she said, “What for?”
“I asked Mr. Braxén for your address, but he didn’t know where you were living. Since the trial last summer, I’ve occasionally wondered how things were going for you. I thought maybe you were having a rough time of it, that maybe you needed help.”
Rebecka shrugged. “Yes,” she said. “But it’s too late now, anyhow.”
Martin Beck immediately regretted his words. She was right—it was too late—and the fact that he had made a halfhearted effort to find her could hardly be much consolation to her in her present situation.
“Where are you living now, Rebecka?” he asked.
“Last week I was staying with a friend. Her husband has been away for a few weeks, so Camilla and I could stay there until he came back.”
“Is Camilla there now?”
She nodded, then asked anxiously, “Do you think she’ll be allowed to stay there? At least for the time being? My friend will be glad to take care of her for a while.”
“I’m sure that’ll be all right,” said Martin Beck. “Do you want to call her?”
“Not yet. A little later, if that’s okay.”
“Of course. You also have the right to an attorney. I presume you’d like Mr. Braxén?”
Rebecka nodded again. “He’s the only one I know, and he’s been tremendously kind to me. But I don’t even know his telephone number.”
“Would you like him to come here right away?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “You’ll have to tell me what I should do. I don’t know what usually happens.”
Martin Beck lifted the receiver and asked the switchboard to find Crasher.
“He helped me write a letter,” said Rebecka.
“I know,” said Martin Beck. “I saw the copy at his office, the day before yesterday. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind what?”
“Me reading your letter.”
“No, why should I? Then you know what they answered, too?” She gazed at Martin Beck with a dark look.
“Yes,” he said. “Not especially encouraging or helpful. What did you do after you got their reply?”
Rebecka hunched her shoulders and looked down at her hands. She sat in silence for a while before answering. “Nothing. I didn’t know what to do. There was no one else to ask. I thought the most important person in the country would be able to do something, but when he didn’t bother …” She made a small, hopeless gesture with her hands and went on almost in a whisper. “Now it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.”
She looked so small and lonely and abandoned as she sat there that Martin Beck felt like going over to her and stroking her smooth shiny hair or taking her in his arms and consoling her. Instead he said, “Where have you been living all fall? Before you went to stay with your friend?”
“Oh, here and there. For a while I lived in a summer cottage out in Waxholm. A friend let us live there while his parents were abroad. When they came back he didn’t dare let us stay, so he moved in with his girl and let us have his place. But a few days later his landlady started making a fuss, so we had to move again. Well, and then we stayed with different friends.”
“You never thought of turning to the social services?” asked Martin Beck. “They might have helped you find somewhere to live.”
Rebecka shook her head. “I don’t believe that,” she said. “They would have put the childcare people onto me, and then they would have taken Camilla away from me. I don’t think you can trust any of the authorities in this country. They don’t care about ordinary people who aren’t famous or rich, and what they mean by helping isn’t what I call help. They just cheat you.”
She sounded bitter, and Martin Beck knew that it was no use arguing with her. Nor was there any reason to, as she was largely right. “Mmm,” was all he said.
The telephone rang. The switchboard reported that Mr. Braxén was not available either at his office or in court and there was no listing for his home phone.
Martin Beck presumed that Crasher made his home at his office and used only the one phone. Or perhaps he had an unlisted number. He asked the operator to continue to search for Braxén.
“It doesn’t really matter if you can’t get hold of him,” said Rebecka when Martin Beck put down the receiver. “He can’t help me this time, anyhow.”
“Oh, yes, he can,” said Martin Beck. “You mustn’t give up, Rebecka. Whatever happens, you must have a defense counsel, and Braxén is a good lawyer. The best you could have. But in the meantime may
be you could talk to me. Do you think you could tell me what happened?”
“But you know what happened.”
“Yes, but I mean what happened before. You must have thought about this for some time.”
“About killing him, you mean?”
“Yes.”
Rebecka was silent for a while, looking down at the floor. Then she raised her eyes, which were so full of despair that Martin Beck expected her to begin crying any minute.
“Jim’s dead,” she said tonelessly.
“How …?”
Martin Beck stopped when Rebecka bent down for her bag and began rummaging in it. He took his handkerchief, which was clean if somewhat rumpled, out of his jacket pocket and handed it across the desk. She looked up at him with dry eyes and shook her head. He put back the handkerchief and waited until she found what she was looking for in her bag.
“He killed himself,” she said, putting an airmail envelope with red-white-and-blue edges in front of him on the desk. “You can read the letter from his mother.”
Martin Beck took the letter out of the envelope. It was typed and only one page long. The tone was dry and deliberate, and there was nothing in the writing to indicate that Jim’s mother felt either compassion for Rebecka or even grief for her son. In fact, the letter expressed no emotions whatsoever, and thus seemed cruel.
Jim had died in prison on the twenty-second of October, she wrote. He made a rope out of his blanket and hanged himself from the upper bunk in his cell. As far as she knew, he left no explanation, excuse or message for either his parents, Rebecka, or anyone else. She wanted to inform Rebecka, since she knew she was worried about Jim and had a child whose father “might be Jim.” Mrs. Cosgrave finished the letter by saying that Jim’s way of dying—not his death apparently, but his way of dying—had affected his father deeply and worsened his already weakened health.
Martin Beck folded the paper and put it back in the envelope. It was postmarked the eleventh of November.