by Maj Sjowall
“If you stick five hundred dollars under the nose of the right doctor in Monrovia, you can probably get a certificate saying you’ve got a wooden leg and a glass eye,” said Martin Beck. “The only thing that surprises me is that Mård never thought of it himself.”
“Himself,” said Content. “So it was you who …”
Martin Beck nodded.
“Then there were a number of points in the investigation of Sigbrit’s murder that surprised me,” Content went on. “For example, they said that the murderer, whatever his name was, had a coronary and died when the police came for him.”
“So?”
“So you don’t get coronaries to order like that. When I saw the man’s doctor by chance later on in Trelleborg, he mentioned that the guy had severe heart trouble. He wasn’t supposed to smoke or drink coffee or walk up stairs or get excited. He wasn’t even suppose to scr—”
Rhea came into the room and Content stopped.
“What wasn’t he supposed to do?” she asked.
“Screw,” said Content.
“Poor man,” said Rhea, going back into the kitchen.
“Another thing,” said Content. “When his car was stolen, it wasn’t even locked, and the garage doors were wide open. Why? Well, naturally because he hoped someone would steal the car, since he knew it was evidence in the Sigbrit Mård case. The car had been standing out like that ever since the murder, but not before. If it hadn’t been for his damned old lady, he’d probably never even have reported the theft of the car.”
“You should be in the Homicide Squad,” said Martin Beck.
“What? Me? Are you crazy? I’ll never think about such things again, that I promise you.”
“Who said ‘damned old lady?’ ” shouted Rhea from the kitchen.
“She’s not a woman’s libber, is she?” asked Content, lowering his voice.
“I don’t think so,” said Martin Beck.
“It was me!” shouted Content.
“Good,” said Rhea. “As long as you didn’t mean me. Food’s ready. Out in the kitchen, quick, before it gets cold.”
As much as Rhea liked cooking, she disliked guests who just shoveled everything inside them indiscriminately and without comment.
The police inspector from Anderslöv was a model guest. He was a pearl in the kitchen himself and tasted everything very carefully before saying anything; and when he had anything to say, it was always very positive.
When they put him into a cab on Skeppsbron some hours later, he was looking more contented than ever.
* * *
On Friday the twenty-second of November, Herrgott Content was once again at his post opposite the library on Sveavägen. As the motorcade passed, Martin Beck raised his hand in salute.
“Were you waving to that moose hunter?” asked Gunvald Larsson acidly.
Martin Beck nodded. He and Gunvald Larsson had tossed for who’d have to go to last night’s banquet, and for once luck was with Martin Beck. He and Content had feasted on Rhea’s cooking while Gunvald Larsson suffered.
The banquet at Stallmästaregården had been a melancholy business, but both the Senator and the hastily arranged provisional Prime Minister had kept the flag flying. In their official speeches, both referred to the “tragic episode,” but neither had gone further than that. Otherwise, the speeches contained the usual guff about friendship, peace, equal opportunities and mutual respect. Gunvald Larsson thought it sounded as if both statesmen were using the same speechwriter.
Möller’s security arrangements functioned without a hitch this time, and there was no sign of his “commando section.”
Gunvald Larsson had found the evening paralyzingly boring and had opened his mouth only once. Looking at the colossal bump under Stoneface’s jacket, he had said to Eric Möller, who at that moment just happened to be in the cloakroom, “How is it that guy is allowed to carry arms abroad?”
“Special permission.”
“Special permission? Given by whom?”
“The person in question is no longer alive,” said Möller unmoved.
The Säpo chief left, and Gunvald Larsson sank into his own thoughts. His legal knowledge was not overwhelming, and he was wondering to what extent permission from dead people to commit illegal acts could be regarded as valid, and for how long. Unable to find an answer to this question, he took to studying Stoneface and soon found himself feeling sorry for the man. What a goddamn awful job, he thought. Especially if you had to go around with an unlit cigar stuck in your face.
The Senator’s smile was subdued, as was the event as a whole, and the party did not continue into the wee hours.
The next morning there was a great deal of speculation over whether the King would cancel the luncheon or not. In view of the previous day’s events and the fact that he had just returned from a state visit to Finland, he would have been quite justified in doing so. But nothing was heard from the Court, so Martin Beck’s group went ahead with the complicated plan that had been laid down for this particular event.
As the Adjutant had said, the King was not afraid. He walked out onto Logården and personally greeted the Senator, bidding him welcome to the palace. The only indication that there had been some contact between the Court and the U.S. embassy was that Stoneface had to remain in the bulletproof car. After the Senator had ascended what the security forces referred to as the “sensitive steps” unscathed, the car finally parked in the palace yard itself. When Martin Beck glanced through the bluish glass as he walked past, he saw the bodyguard put aside his cigar and take out a can of Budweiser and something that was undeniably a lunchbox.
Apart from this little detail, nothing unforeseen occurred. The luncheon had been the King’s private arrangement, and what was said or done on this occasion concerned no one but the participants. The demonstrators outside the palace had been insignificant in comparison with what had been expected, and at the meeting in Logården there had been roughly as many shouting “We want our king” as “Yankee go home.”
The time factor was an important consideration for the police, especially for Gunvald Larsson, who with the chief of the Regular Police was in command of the whole long-range-security force. Gunvald Larsson frequently looked at his chronograph, and each time saw with some surprise that they were exactly on schedule. People in high political and official positions generally stuck to agreed times, and neither the monarch nor the Senator broke the timetable. The Senator walked up the north steps to Logården at exactly the right moment, and the King was there to greet him. They shook hands and walked in through the east entrance of the palace precisely as calculated.
With their entrance into the palace, the most critical moment was past, and Martin Beck and various other people all heaved a sigh of relief.
The meal came to an end on the dot. The Senator stepped into the the bulletproof car fifteen seconds behind schedule. There was no sign of Möller, as usual, but he was undoubtedly around somewhere. The motorcade formed up, and the long trek to Arlanda began. Möller had barricaded the palace yard with his best men—he had a number of good men at his disposal—and this time the whole area was searched in good time and with great thoroughness.
The motorcade made a small diversion to avoid the explosion area, where gasworks personnel were far from having completed the repair work, then traveled at greater speed than on the previous day.
As before, Gunvald Larsson drove the fast Porsche fairly unconventionally, passing up and down the column. He was very quiet, thinking mostly about Heydt and his companions, who had almost certainly gone underground for some time.
“There are a few good clues,” he said to Martin Beck. “The car and the description of Heydt.”
Martin Beck nodded.
Much later, Gunvald Larsson said, almost to himself, “And this time you won’t get away. There are two things that have to be done. Find the firm that sold or rented out that green car. And then wait them out. We must put a couple of men on that at once. But who?”
Martin Beck pondered for a long time and finally said, “Rönn and Skacke. It won’t be easy, but Skacke’s as stubborn as a mule, and Rönn’s good on routine.”
“You didn’t think that before.”
“People change over the years. Myself included.”
There were many demonstrations along the route, but far fewer than on the previous day. Most people had had a hard night in tents in bad weather, and it seemed that the unexpected development had caused the majority to lose heart. There were no incidents, just a great many placards which were soon ruined by the foul weather.
Glasses of champagne were once again being served in the VIP room at the airport. Gunvald Larsson again calmly poured his into the nearest flowerpot as the Senator, his smile now more relieved than subdued, went from person to person shaking hands. When he came to Gunvald Larsson, he put his hand into his trouser pocket and contented himself with a nod and his best and most charming campaign smile. Over his shoulder, Stoneface gazed at Gunvald Larsson with a kind of sorrowful understanding, one of the few occasions on which he had seemed to convey something close to ordinary humanity.
The Senator made a neutral and routine speech of thanks—concise, short and simple, once again mentioning the “tragic episode”—then he went to the Säpo jeep which was to take him to the plane. It had been standing far out on the field and was very well protected. With him in the vehicle were Martin Beck, Möller, and the same governmental secretary involved in the reception ceremony the day before, now hastily promoted to minister without portfolio; and lastly the man with the stone face and cigar.
“Dirty motherfucking pig,” yelled a black deserter from the spectator’s gallery as the Senator went up the steps to the cabin.
The Senator glanced up at the man and smiled and waved delightedly.
Ten minutes later the plane was in the air.
It climbed steeply, swung around in a long shining aluminum curve to get on its proper course, and within a minute was out of sight.
In the car on the way back to Stockholm, Gunvald Larsson said, “Hope the plane with that bastard in it crashes, but I suppose that’s asking too much.”
Martin Beck glanced sideways at Gunvald Larsson. He had never before seen him look so serious. Gunvald Larsson stamped on the accelerator and the speedometer rose to about one hundred and thirty miles an hour. The traffic appeared to be standing still.
Neither of them said anything until the Porsche was parked in the police station yard.
“Now the real job starts,” said Gunvald Larsson.
“Finding Heydt and the green car?”
“And his companions. People like Heydt never work alone.”
“You’re probably right,” said Martin Beck.
“A green crate with GOZ on the license plate,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Do you think we can rely on her remembering those letters correctly after such a long time?”
“She doesn’t usually say things she’s not sure of,” said Martin Beck, “but anyone can get that sort of thing wrong.”
“And she isn’t colorblind or anything like that?”
“No.”
“If the car wasn’t stolen, then it was either purchased or rented. Under any circumstances, it must be traceable.”
“Exactly,” said Martin Beck. “It’ll be a pleasant job for Skacke and Rönn. If they do the footslogging, then Melander can see to the telephone.”
“What shall we do then?”
“Wait,” said Martin Beck. “Wait and see what happens. Just like those ULAG boys. They know now that something’s gone wrong and they’ll probably be ultracautious, lying low somewhere.”
“Yes, that seems likely.”
They were correct, but only seventy-five percent correct.
This was the situation on the afternoon of Friday the twenty-second of November:
Reinhard Heydt was in his apartment in Solna and the two Japanese were considering the situation from their apartment in Södermalm.
The Senator was sleeping soundly in a reclining chair as his private plane thundered on westward over the sea.
Stoneface could stand it no longer. He took out the bookmatches advertising Stallmästaregården and lit his cigar.
Martin Beck and Gunvald Larsson were issuing instructions to their colleagues. Rönn yawned; Melander knocked the ashes out of his pipe and looked ostentatiously at his watch; and Skacke, constantly in search of brownie points, listened attentively.
A few hundred yards away, Rebecka Lind was once again in court for formal arraignment proceedings. These had been delayed because the case had been allotted to Bulldozer Olsson, who considered it far too simple. As he was also terrified at the thought of having to listen to Crasher’s tirades, he suddenly declared himself ill, although he was in his office. His replacement was a woman, who immediately demanded confinement and what was called a “thorough investigation into the mental state of the accused,” a procedure that often took several months.
Rebecka said nothing. She looked utterly alone in the world, although she had a kindly looking policewoman on her left and Hedobald Braxén on her right.
When the prosecutor had finished, they all waited impatiently for what Braxén had to say, because the court officials wanted to go home and the reporters were anxious to rush off to the nearest phone.
But they had to wait a long time before Crasher spoke. First he regarded his client with sorrow, belched twice, and let his belt out another notch.
Finally he said, “The prosecutor’s version is completely inaccurate. The only thing that is undoubtedly true is that Rebecka Lind shot the Prime Minister dead. By this time, practically the entire population of the country must have witnessed the event on television, which as recently as an hour ago broadcast the entire episode for the sixteenth time. As Rebecka’s defense counsel and legal adviser, I have come to know her quite well and I am convinced that her mental state is far healthier and less perverted than that of anyone else present, not excluding myself. I hope to be able to prove this at the trial, which I hope will take place sometime in the future.
“The fact is, Rebecka Lind has on repeated occasions during her short life been confronted with a system whose arbitrariness we all have to submit to. On not one single occasion has society, or the philosophy that created it, given her any help or offered her its understanding. When the prosecutor urges an investigation into her mental state on the grounds that the crime lacked motive, this is at best an outburst of sheer unadulterated foolishness. In fact, Rebecka’s action had political foundations, although she herself does not belong to any political group and certainly lives in happy ignorance of the political system that dictates practically everything that happens to us in this country. Let us not forget that the preposterous doctrine that war is the logical conclusion of politics is still valid today, and that this maxim has been created by well-paid theorists in the service of this capitalist society. What this young woman did yesterday was a political act, even if unconscious. I maintain that Rebecka Lind sees the corrupt rottenness of society more clearly than thousands of other young people. As she lacks political contacts and has little idea of what is involved in a mixed-economy government, her clarity of vision is even greater.
“Recently—no; for as long as I can remember, large and powerful nations within the capitalist bloc have been ruled by people who according to accepted legal norms are simply criminals, who from a lust for power and financial gain have led their peoples into an abyss of egoism, self-indulgence and a view of life based entirely on materialism and ruthlessness toward their fellow human beings. Only in very few cases are such politicians punished, but the punishments are token and the guilty persons’ successors are guided by the same motives. I am perhaps the only person in this courtroom old enough to remember politicians like Harding, Coolidge and Hoover. Their actions have been condemned, but has there been any significant improvement since those days? We have lived through Hitler and Mussolini, Stroessner, Franco, Salazar,
Chiang Kai-shek, Ian Smith, Vorster and Verwoerd, and the generals in Chile, men who, when they have not led their people to the edge of disaster, have in their own self-interest treated their own citizens in the manner of a military power oppressing an occupied country.”
The magistrate looked irritably at the clock, but Crasher continued unmoved.
“Someone once said that our country is a small but hungry capitalist state. This judgment is correct. For a purehearted thinking person—this young woman, for instance, who will shortly be taken into custody and whose life has already been ruined—a system such as ours must seem incomprehensible and hostile. She realized however, that someone must bear the responsibility, and when this person cannot be reached or contacted by ordinary human methods, she is overwhelmed with despair and mindless hatred.
“That I have spoken at such length is due to the fact that my experience of the law tells me that Rebecka Lind will never be tried and that what I have now said is the only thing that will ever be said in her defense. Her situation was in fact hopeless, and her decision for once in her life to strike back at those who had destroyed her life is understandable.”
Crashed rested a moment, then said in conclusion: “Rebecka Lind has committed a murder and naturally I cannot oppose her arrest. I, too, plead for an investigation into her mental state, but on quite different grounds from the prosecutor’s. I have a faint hope that the doctors in whose hands she will find herself will come to the same conclusions and convictions as my own: that she is wiser and more right-thinking than most of us. In that case she can be brought to trial with at least an infinitesimal chance of having her case treated in a manner worthy of a just state. But unfortunately, my hopes are not great.”
He sat down again, belched and gazed sorrowfully at his unkempt fingernails.
It took the magistrate less than thirty seconds to declare Rebecka Lind under arrest and order her to be taken to the State Psychiatric Institute for long-term evaluation.
Hedobald Braxén had been right. The valuation took almost nine months and the result was that she was transferred to a mental hospital for psychiatric care.