by Maj Sjowall
Kollberg sighed deeply and said, 'If I had been the one sitting in that bus, you and Stenström would have been rummaging through my drawers just now. It would have given you a hell of a lot more trouble than this. You'd probably have made finds that would have blackened my memory.'
Martin Beck could well imagine what Kollberg's drawers looked like but refrained from comment.
'This couldn't blacken anyone's memory,' Kollberg said.
Again Martin Beck made no reply. They went through the papers in silence, quickly and thoroughly. There was nothing that they could not immediately identify or place in its natural context. All notes and all documents were connected with investigations that Stenström had been working on and that they knew all about
At last there was only one thing left. A brown envelope in quarto size. It was sealed and rather fat
'What do you think this can be?' Kollberg said.
'Open it and see.'
Kollberg turned the envelope all ways. 'He seems to have sealed it up very carefully. Look at these strips of tape.'
He shrugged, took the paper knife from the pen tray and resolutely slit open the envelope.
'Hm-m,' Kollberg said. 'I didn't know that Stenström was a photographer.'
He glanced through the sheaf of photographs and then spread them out in front of him.
'And I would never have thought he had interests like this.'
'It's his fiancee,' said Martin Beck tonelessly.
'Yes, but all the same, I would never have dreamed he had such far-out tastes.'
Martin Beck looked at the photographs, dutifully and with the unpleasant feeling he always had when he was more or less forced to intrude on anything to do with other people's private lives. This reaction was spontaneous and innate, and not even after twenty-three years as a policeman had he learned to master it.
Kollberg was not troubled by any such scruples. Moreover, he was a sensualist.
'By God, she's quite a dish,' he said appreciatively and with great emphasis.
He went on studying the pictures.
'She can stand on her hands too,' he said. 'I wouldn't have imagined that she looked like that.'
'But you've seen her before.'
'Yes, dressed. This is an entirely different matter.'
Kollberg was right, but Martin Beck preferred to say no more.
His only comment was, 'And tomorrow you'll be seeing her again.'
'Yes,' Kollberg replied. 'And I'm not looking forward to it.'
Gathering up the photographs, he put them back into the envelope. Then he said, 'We'd better be getting home. I'll give you a lift.'
They put out the light and left. In the car Martin Beck said, 'By the way, how did you come to be at Norra Stationsgatan last night? Gun didn't know where you were when I called up and you were on the scene long before I was.'
'It was pure chance. After leaving you I walked towards town. On Skanstull Bridge two guys in a patrol car recognized me. They had just got the alarm on the radio and they drove me straight in. I was one of the first there.'
They sat in silence for a long time. Then Kollberg said in a puzzled tone, 'What do you think he wanted those pictures for?'
'To look at,' Martin Beck replied.
'Of course. But still...'
13
Before Martin Beck left the flat on Wednesday morning he called up Kollberg. Their conversation was brief and to the point. 'Kollberg.'
'Hi. It's Martin. I'm leaving now.' 'OK.'
When the train glided into the underground station at Skärmarbrink, Kollberg was waiting on the platform. They had made it a habit always to get into the last carriage and in this way they often had each other's company into town even when they hadn't arranged it.
They got off at Medborgarplatsen and came up on to Folkungagatan. The time was twenty minutes past nine and a watery sun filtered through the grey sky. They turned up their coat collars against the icy wind and started walking east along Folkungagatan.
As they turned the corner into Östgötagatan Kollberg said, 'Have you heard how the wounded man is? Schwerin?'
‘Yes, I called up the hospital this morning. The operations have succeeded insomuch as he's alive. But he's still unconscious and the doctors can't say anything about the outcome until he wakes up.'
'Is he going to wake up?' Martin Beck shrugged. 'They don't know. I certainly hope so.' 'I wonder how long it will be before the newspapers sniff him out.'
'At Karolinska they promised to keep their mouths shut/ Martin Beck said.
'Yes, but you know what journalists are. Like leeches.' They turned on to Tjarhovsgatan and walked along to number 18.
They found the name TORELL on the list of tenants in the entrance, but above the door plate two flights up was a white card with the name AKE STENSTRÖM drawn in India ink.
The girl who opened the door was small; automatically Martin Beck estimated her height at 5 feet 3 inches.
'Come in and take your coats off,' she said, closing the door behind them.
The voice was low and rather hoarse.
Åsa Torell was dressed in narrow black slacks and a cornflower-blue rib-knit polo sweater. On her feet she had thick grey skiing socks which were several sizes too large and had presumably been Stenström's. She had brown eyes and dark hair cut very short. Her face was angular and could be called neither sweet nor pretty; if anything, quaint and piquant. She was slight of build, with slim shoulders and hips and small breasts.
She stood quiet and expectant while Martin Beck and Kollberg put their hats beside Stenström's old cap on the rack and took off their overcoats. Then she led the way into the flat
The living room, which had two windows on to the street, had a pleasant, cosy atmosphere. Against one wall stood a huge bookcase with carved sides and top piece. Apart from it and a wing chair upholstered in leather, the furniture looked fairly new. A bright-red rya rug covered most of the floor, and the thin woollen curtains had exactly the same shade of red.
The room was irregular in shape, and from the far corner, a short passage led out into the kitchen. Through an open door in the corridor one could see into the other rooms. The kitchen and bedroom faced the courtyard at the back.
Åsa Torell sat in the leather armchair and tucked her feet under her. She pointed to two safari chairs, and Martin Beck and Kollberg sat down. The ashtray on the low table between them and the young woman was filled to overflowing with cigarette butts.
'I do hope you realize how sorry we are that we have to intrude like this,' Martin Beck said. 'But it was essential to talk to you as soon as possible.'
Åsa Torell did not answer at once. She picked up the cigarette that lay burning on the edge of the ashtray and drew on it deeply. Her hand was inclined to shake and she had dark rings under her eyes.
'Of course I do,' she said. 'It was just as well you came. I've been sitting in this chair ever since... well, since I heard that... I've been sitting here trying to realize that it's true.'
'Miss Torell,' Kollberg said. 'Haven't you anyone who can come here and be with you?'
She shook her head.
'No. And anyway, I don't want anyone here.'
'Your parents?'
Again she shook her head.
'Mum died last year. And Dad has been dead for twenty years.' Martin Beck leaned forward and gave her a searching look. 'Have you slept at all?' he asked.
'I don't know. The ones that were here yesterday gave me a couple of pills, so I expect I did sleep for a while. It doesn't matter.' I'll be all right'
Stubbing out the cigarette, she murmured, her eyes lowered, 'I'll just have to try and get used to the fact that he's dead. It may take time.'
Neither Martin Beck nor Kollberg could think of anything to say. Martin Beck suddenly noticed that the room was stuffy and the air thick with cigarette smoke. An oppressive silence weighed on them all. At last Kollberg cleared his throat and said gravely, 'Miss Torell, do you mind if we ask you one or two things
about Stenst— about Åke?'
Åsa Torell raised her eyes slowly. Suddenly they twinkled and she smiled.
'You surely don't mean for me to call you Superintendent Beck and Inspector Kollberg? You must call me Åsa, because I'm going to say Martin and Lennart to you. You see, I know you both quite well in a way'
She gave them a mischievous look and added, "Through Åke. He and I saw quite a lot of each other. We've lived here for several years.'
Messrs Kollberg and Beck, undertakers, thought Martin Beck. Pull your socks up. The girl's OK.
‘We've heard about you, too,' Kollberg said in a lighter tone.
Åsa went over and opened a window. Then she took the ashtray out into the kitchen. Her smile was gone and her face had a set look. She came back with a new ashtray and curled up again on the chair.
‘Would you mind telling me just what happened,' she said. 'I wasn't told much yesterday and I'm not going to read the papers.' Martin Beck lit a Florida. 'OK,' he said.
She sat quite still, never taking her eyes off him while he related the course of events as far as they had been able to reconstruct it Only certain details did he omit. When he had finished Åsa said, 'Where was Åke going? Why was he on that bus at all?'
Kollberg glanced at Martin Beck and said, 'That's what we were hoping you would be able to tell us.'
Åsa Torell shook her head.
'I've no idea.'
'Do you know what he was doing earlier in the day?' Martin Beck asked.
She looked at him in surprise.
'Don't you know? He was working all day. Surely you ought to know what he was doing?'
Martin Beck hesitated a moment. Then he said, "The last time I saw him alive was on Friday. He was up for a while in the morning.'
She got up and paced about. Then she turned around.
'But he was working both on Saturday and on Monday. We left here together on Monday morning. Didn't you see Åke on Monday?' She stared at Kollberg, who shook his head.
'Did he say he was going out to Västberga?' Kollberg asked. 'Or to Kungsholmsgatan?'
Åsa thought for a moment
'No, he didn't say where he was going. That probably explains it He must have been working on something in town.'
'Did you say he worked on Saturday, too?' Martin Beck asked. She nodded.
'Yes, but not all day. We left here together in the morning, and I finished at one and came straight home. Åke got home not long after. He had done the shopping. On Sunday he was free. We spent the whole day together.'
She went back to the armchair and sat down, clasped her hands round her drawn-up knees and bit her lower lip.
'Didn't he tell you what he was working on?' Kollberg asked.
Åsa shook her head.
'Didn't he usually tell you?' Martin Beck asked.
'Oh, yes. We told each other everything. But not lately. He said nothing about this last job. I thought it was funny he didn't talk to me about it He always used to discuss the different cases, especially when it was something tricky and difficult. But perhaps he wasn't allowed -'
She broke off and raised her voice.
'Anyway, why are you asking me? You were his superiors. If you're trying to find out whether he told me any police secrets, then I can assure you he didn't He didn't say one word about his job during the last three weeks.'
'Perhaps it was because he didn't have anything special to tell you about,' Kollberg said soothingly. 'The last three weeks have been unusually uneventful and we've had very litde to do.'
Åsa looked hard at him.
'How can you say that? Åke, at any rate, had a lot to do. He was working practically night and day.'
14
Rönn looked at his watch and yawned.
He glanced at the stretcher trolley and the person who lay there, bandaged beyond description. Then he regarded the complex apparatus that was apparently necessary to keep the injured man alive, and the snooty middle-aged nurse who checked that everything was functioning as it should. At the moment she was deftly changing one of the rigged-up drip bottles. Her actions were quick and precise; they showed many years' training and admirable economy of movement
Rönn sighed and yawned again behind the mask.
The nurse spotted it at once and gave him a swift, disapproving glance.
He had spent far too many hours in this antiseptic isolation ward with its cold light and bare white walls, or roaming about the corridor outside the operating theatre.
Moreover, for most of the time he had been in the company of a man called Ullholm, whom he had never seen before but who nevertheless turned out to be a plainclothes detective.
Rönn was not one of the shining lights of the age and he didn't pretend to be particularly well informed. He was quite content with himself and with life in general, and thought that things were pretty good as they were. It was these qualities, in feet, that made him a useful and capable policeman. He had a simple, straightforward attitude to things and had no talent for creating problems and difficulties which did not exist.
He liked most people and most people liked him.
But even to someone with Rönn's uncomplicated outlook, this Ullholm stood out as a monster of nagging tedium and reactionary stupidity.
Ullholm was dissatisfied with everything, from his salary grade, which not surprisingly was too low, to the police commissioner, who hadn't the sense to take strong measures.
He was indignant that children were not taught manners at school and that discipline was too slack within the police force.
He was particularly virulent about three categories of citizens who had never caused Rönn any headaches or worry: foreigners, teenagers and socialists.
Ullholm thought it was a scandal that beat officers were allowed to have beards.
'A moustache at the very most,' he said. 'But even that is extremely questionable. You see what I mean, don't you?'
He considered that there had been no law and order in society since the thirties.
He put the greatly increasing crime and brutality down to the feet that the police were not given proper military training and no longer wore sabres.
The introduction of right-hand traffic was a scandalous blunder that had made the situation much worse in a community that was already undisciplined and morally corrupt
'Furthermore, it increases promiscuity,' he said. ‘You see what I mean, don't you?'
'Huh,' said Rönn.
'Promiscuity. All these turn-around areas and parking facilities along the main highways. You see what I mean, don't you?'
He was a man who knew most things and understood everything. Only on one occasion did he consider himself forced to ask Rönn for information. He began by saying, 'When you see all this laxity you long to get back to nature. I'd make for the mountains if it weren't that the whole of Lapland is lousy with Lapps. You see what I mean, don't you?'
'I'm married to a Lapp girl,' Rönn said.
Ullholm looked at him with a peculiar mixture of distaste and curiosity. Lowering his voice, he said, 'How interesting and extraordinary. Is it true that Lapp women have it crosswise?'
'No,' Rönn replied wearily. 'It is not true. It's just a wrong idea that many people have.'
Rönn wondered why the man hadn't long since been transferred to the lost-and-found office.
Ullholm droned on incessantly and concluded every declaration of principle with the words, 'You see what I mean, don't you?'
Rönn saw only two things.
First: what had actually happened at investigation headquarters when he had asked the innocent question, 'Who's on duty at the hospital?'
Kollberg had rooted indifferently among his papers and said, 'Someone called Ullholm.'
The only one to recognize the name was Gunvald Larsson, who exclaimed,'What! Who?'
'Ullholm,' Kollberg repeated.
'It must be stopped! We'll have to send along someone to look after him. Someone more or less sane.'
Rönn had turned out to be this more-or-less sane person. Still just as innocently, he had asked, 'Am I to relieve him?'
'Relieve him? No, that's impossible. He'll think then that he's been slighted. He'll write hundreds of petitions. Report the national police board to the civil ombudsman. Call up the minister of justice.'
And as Rönn was on the way out, Gunvald Larsson had given him a final instruction: 'Einar.' 'Yes?'
'And don't let him say one word to the witness until you've seen the death certificate.'
Second: that he must in some way dam up the spate of words. At last he did find a theoretical solution. Put into practice, it worked as follows:
Ullholm wound up a long declaration by saying, 'It goes quite without saying that as a private person and a conservative, a citizen in a free democratic country, I don't make the slightest discrimination among people on account of colour, race or opinion. But you just imagine a police force swarming with Jews and communists. You see what I mean, don't you?'
Whereupon Rönn cleared his throat modestly behind his mask and said, 'Yes. But as a matter of feet, I myself am one of those socialists, so ...'
'A communist?'
‘Yes. A communist.'
Ullholm wrapped himself in sepulchral silence and went over to the window.
He had been standing there now for two hours, grimly staring out at the treacherous world surrounding him.
Schwerin had been operated on three times; both the bullets had been removed from his body but none of the doctors looked particularly cheerful and the only answers Rönn had received to his discreet questions had been shrugs.
But about a quarter of an hour ago one of the surgeons had come into the isolation ward and said, 'If he is going to regain consciousness at all, it should be within the next half-hour.'
'Will he pull through?'
The doctor gave Rönn a long look and said, 'It seems unlikely. He has a good physique, of course, and his general condition is fairly satisfactory.'
Rönn looked down at the patient dejectedly, wondering just how a person should look before his general condition could be regarded as not so good or just plain bad.