by Maj Sjowall
'Have you any children, Mrs Assarsson?' he asked.
Mrs Assarsson put her glass in front of her brother-in-law to be refilled, but he immediately took it to the sideboard without looking at her. She gave him a resentful look, stood up with an effort and brushed some cigarette ash off her skirt
'No, Superintendent Peck, I haven't Unfortunately my husband couldn't give me any children.'
She stared vacantly at a point beyond Martin Beck's left ear. He could see now that she was pretty well stewed. She blinked slowly a couple of times and then looked at him.
'Are your parents American, Superintendent Peck?' she asked.
'No,' Martin Beck replied.
Gunvald Larsson was still scribbling. Martin Beck craned his neck and looked at the piece-of paper. It was covered with camels.
'If Superintendents Peck and Larsson will excuse me, I must retire,' Mrs Assarsson said, walking unsteadily towards the door.
'Good-bye, it's been so nice,' she said vaguely, and closed the door behind her.
Gunvald Larsson put away his pen and the paper with the camels and struggled out of the chair.
'Whom did he sleep with?' he asked, without looking at Assarsson.
Assarsson glanced at the closed door.
'Eivor Olsson,' he replied. 'A girl at the office.'
17
There was little to be said in favour of this repulsive Wednesday.
Not surprisingly, the evening papers had ferreted out the story of Schwerin, splashing it across the front pages and larding it with details and sarcastic gibes at the police.
The investigation was already at a deadlock. The police had smuggled away the only important witness. The police had lied to the press and the public.
If the press and the Great Detective the General Public were not given correct information, how could the police count on help?
The only thing the papers didn't say was that Schwerin had died, but that was probably only because they had been so early going to press.
They had also managed somehow to sniff out the dismal truth about the state in which the forensic laboratory technicians had found the scene of the crime.
Valuable time had been lost
Unhappily, too, the mass murder had coincided with a raid -decided on several weeks earlier - on kiosks and tobacco shops in an attempt to confiscate pornographic literature.
One of the newspapers was kind enough to point out in a prominent place that a maniac mass-murderer was running amok in town and that the public was panic-stricken.
And, it went on, while the scent grew cold a whole army of Swedish Keystone Cops were, plodding about looking at porno pictures, scratching their heads and trying to make out the ministry of justice's hazy instructions as to what could be considered offensive to public decency.
When Kollberg arrived at Kungsholmsgatan at about four o'clock in the afternoon, he had ice crystals in his hair and eyebrows, a grim expression on his face and the evening papers under his arm.
If we had as many snouts as local rags, we'd never have to lift a finger,' he said.
'It's a question of money,' Melander said.
'I know that. Does that make it any better?'
'No,' Melander said. 'But it's as simple as that'
He knocked out his pipe and returned to his papers.
'Have you finished talking to the psychologists?' Kollberg asked sourly.
'Yes,' Melander replied without looking up. 'The compendium is being typed out'
A new face was to be seen at investigation headquarters. One third of the promised reinforcements had arrived. Månsson from Malmö.
Månsson was almost as big as Gunvald Larsson but he showed a much more peaceable front to the world. He had driven up from Skåne during the night in his own car. Not in order to be able to collect the paltry mileage allowance for petrol, but because he correctly considered it might be an advantage to have at his disposal a car with an M licence plate from the Malmö area.
He was standing now by the window, gazing out and chewing at a toothpick.
'Is there anything I can do?' he asked.
'Yes. There are one or two we haven't had time to interrogate yet. Here, for instance. Mrs Ester Källström. She is the widow of one of the victims.'
'Johan Källström, the foreman?' 'Precisely. Karlbergsvägen 89.' 'Where's Karlbergsvägen?'
'There's a map on the wall over there,' Kollberg said wearily.
Månsson laid the chewed toothpick in Melander's ashtray, took a new one out of his breast pocket and looked at it apathetically. He studied the map for a while, then put on his overcoat In the doorway he turned and looked at Kollberg.
'By the way...'
'Yes, what is it?'
'Do you know of any shop where"you can buy flavoured toothpicks?'
'No, I really don't'
'Oh,' Månsson said dejectedly.
Then he added informatively, 'I'm told they do exist I'm trying to give up smoking.'
When the door had closed behind him Kollberg looked at Melander and said, 'I've only met that guy once before. In Malmö in the summer of last year. And he said exactly the same thing then.'
'About the toothpicks?' 'Yes.'
'Extraordinary.' 'What?'
'Not being able to find out about them after more than a year.' 'Oh, you're hopeless,' Kollberg exclaimed. 'Are you in a bad mood?' 'What the hell do you expect?' Kollberg snapped. "There's no point in losing your temper. It only makes things worse.'
'I like that coming from you. You haven't any temper to lose.' Melander didn't reply to this, and the conversation came to an end.
* * *
Despite all statements to the contrary, the Great Detective the General Public was hard at work during the afternoon.
Several hundred people called up or looked in personally to say they thought they had ridden on that very bus.
All these statements had to be ground through the investigation mill and for once this tedious work turned out to be not entirely wasted.
A man who had boarded a doubledecker bus at Djurgärdsbron at about ten o'clock on Monday evening said he was willing to swear that he had seen Stenström. He said this on the telephone and he was passed along to Melander, who immediately asked him to come up.
The man was about fifty. He seemed quite sure. 'So you saw Detective Inspector Stenström?' 'Yes.' 'Where?'
'When I got on at Djurgärdsbron. He was sitting on the left near the stairs behind the driver.'
Melander nodded to himself. No details had as yet leaked out to the press about where the victims had been sitting in relation to each other.
'Are you sure it was Stenström?'
‘Yes.'
'How do you know?'
'I recognized him. I've been a night watchman.'
'Yes,' Melander said. 'A couple of years ago you sat in the vestibule of the old police headquarters on Agnegatan. I remember you.'
'Why, so I did,' the man said in astonishment. 'But I don't recognize you.'
'I only saw you twice,' Melander replied. 'And we didn't speak to each other.'
'But I remember Stenström very well, because ...' He hesitated.
"Yes?' Melander prompted in a friendly tone. 'Because ... ?'
'Well, he looked so young, and he was wearing jeans and a sportshirt, so I thought he didn't belong there. I asked him to prove his identity. And ...'
‘Yes?'
'About a week later I made the same mistake. Very annoying.' 'Oh, well, it easily happens. When you saw him the night before last, did he recognize you?' 'No, definitely not' 'Was anyone sitting beside him?'
'No, the seat was empty. I remember particularly, because I thought I'd say hello to him and sit there. But then I felt sort of awkward.'
'Pity,' Melander said 'And you got off at Sergels torg?' 'Yes, I changed to the underground.' 'Was Stenström still there?'
'I think so. I hadn't seen him get off at any rate. Though of course I was sitting upstairs.'
'Well, I don't mind if I do,' the man said.
'Would you be good enough to look at some pictures?' Melander asked. 'But I'm afraid they're not very pleasant.'
'No, I suppose not,' the man mumbled.
He looked through the pictures, turning pale and swallowing once or twice. But the only person he recognized was Stenström.
Not long afterwards Martin Beck, Gunvald Larsson and Rönn arrived practically at the same time.
'What?' said Kollberg. 'Has Schwerin ... ?'
'Yes,' Rönn said. 'He's dead.'
'And?'
'He said something.' 'What?'
'Don't know,' Rönn replied, placing the tape recorder on the desk. ‘ ‘ ‘
They stood around the desk listening.
'Who did the shooting?' 'Dnrk'
'What did he look like?'
'Koleson:
'Is that really all you can get out of this questioning? Now listen to me, my good man, this is Detective Inspector Ullholm speaking -'
‘He's dead:
'Jesus Christ,' Gunvald Larsson exclaimed. 'The very sound of that voice makes me want to throw up. He once reported me for breach of duty.'
'What had you done?' Rönn asked.
'Said "cunt" in the guardroom at Klara police station. A couple of the boys came in dragging a naked whore. She was loaded to the gills and was howling and had torn all her clothes off in the car. I tried to make them see that they should at least cover up her - well, wrap a blanket around her or something before carting her off to headquarters. Ullholm made out that I had caused mental injury to a girl who was not yet of age by using coarse and offensive language. He was the officer on duty. Then he applied for a transfer to Solna, to get closer to nature.'
'Nature?'
'Yes, his wife, I presume.' Martin Beck played back the tape.
'Who did the shooting?'
'Dnrk'
'What did he look like?'
'Koleson:
'Are the questions your own idea?' Gunvald Larsson asked.
'Yes,' Rönn replied modesdy.
'Fantastic.'
'He was only conscious for half a minute,' Rönn said in a hurt tone. 'Then he died.'
Martin Beck played back the tape once more.
They listened over and over again.
'What on earth is he saying?' Kollberg said.
He had not had time to shave and scratched at his stubble thoughtfully.
Martin Beck turned to Rönn.
'What do you think?' he said. ‘You were there.'
'Well,' Rönn said, 'I think he understands the questions and is trying to answer.'
'And?'
'That he answers the first question in the negative, for instance "I don't know".'
'How the hell do you make that out of "Dnrk"?' Gunvald Larsson asked in astonishment
Rönn reddened and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
‘Yes,' said Martin Beck, 'how do you reach that conclusion?'
‘Well, I just sort of got that impression’
'Hm,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'And then?'
'To the second question he answers quite plainly "Koleson".'
'So I hear,' Kollberg said. 'But what does he mean?'
Martin Beck massaged his scalp with his fingertips.
'Karlsson, perhaps,' he said, thinking hard.
'He says "Koleson",' Rönn maintained stubbornly.
'Yes,' said Kollberg. 'But there's no one with that name.'
'We'd better check,' Melander said. 'The name might exist. Meanwhile...'
'Yes?'
'Meanwhile I think we ought to send this tape to an expert for analysis. If our own boys can't get anything out of it we can contact the radio. Their sound technicians have all the facilities. They can separate the sounds on the tape and try out different speeds.'
‘Yes,' Martin Beck said. 'It's a good idea.'
'But for Christ's sake wipe out Ullholm first,' Gunvald Larsson growled, 'or we'll be the laughing stock of all Sweden.'
He looked around the room. 'Where's that joker Månsson?'
'Got lost, I expect,' Kollberg said. 'We'd better alert all the patrol cars.'
He sighed heavily.
Ek came in, a worried look on his face as he stroked his silver hair.
‘What is it?' Martin Beck asked.
'The newspapers are complaining they haven't been given a picture of that man who is still unidentified.'
‘You know yourself what that picture would look like,' Kollberg said.
'Sure, but -'
‘Wait a minute,' Melander said. ‘We can better the description. Between thirty-five and forty, height 5 feet 7 inches, weight eleven stone, shoe size 8½, brown eyes, dark-brown hair. Scar from an appendicitis operation. Brown hair on chest and stomach. Scar from some old injury on the ankle. Teeth ... No, it's no good.'
'I'll send it out,' Ek said and left the room.
They stood in silence for a while.
'Fredrik has got hold of something,' said Kollberg. 'That Stenström was already sitting in the bus when it got to Djurgardsbron. So he must have come from Djurgården.'
'What the hell was he doing there?' said Gunvald Larsson. 'In the evening? In that weather?'
'I've also got hold of something,' said Martin Beck. 'That apparency he didn't know that nurse at all.'
'Are you quite sure?' Kollberg asked.
'No.'
'He seems to have been alone at Djurgårdsbron,' Melander said. 'Rönn has also come up with something,' said Gunvald Larsson. 'What?'
'That Dnrk" means "I don't know". To say nothing of this guy Koleson.'
This was as far as they got on Wednesday, 15 November.
Outside, the snow was falling in large wet blobs. Darkness had already closed in.
Of course there was no one called Koleson. At least not in Sweden.
During Thursday they didn't get anywhere.
When Kollberg got home to his flat on Palandergatan on Thursday evening the time was already past eleven o'clock. His wife sat reading in the circle of light under the floor lamp. She was dressed in a short housecoat buttoned in front and sat curled up in the armchair with her bare legs drawn up under her.
'Hello,' said Kollberg. 'How is your Spanish course going?'
'To the dogs, of course. Absurd to imagine you can do anything at all when you're married to a policeman.'
Kollberg made no reply to this. Instead he got undressed and went into the bathroom. Shaved and took a long shower, hoping that some stupid neighbour wouldn't call up the police to send out a radio car, complaining of the water running so late. Then, putting on his bathrobe, he went into the living room and sat down opposite his wife. Regarded her thoughtfully.
'Haven't seen you for ages,' she said without raising her eyes. 'How are you all getting on?'
'Badly.'
'I am sorry. It seems odd that someone can shoot nine people dead in a bus in the middle of town just like that. And that the police can't think of anything cleverer than making a lot of ridiculous raids'
'Yes,' Kollberg said. 'It is odd.'
'Is there anyone else besides you who hasn't been home for thirty-six hours?' 'Probably.'
She went on reading. He sat in silence for some time, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, without taking his eyes off her.
'What are you goggling at?' she asked, still without looking up but with a note of mischief in her voice.
Kollberg didn't answer, and she appeared to be more deeply engrossed in her reading than ever. She had dark hair and brown eyes, her features were regular and her eyebrows thick. She was fourteen years younger than he was and had just turned twenty-nine, and he had always thought she was very pretty. At last he said,
'Gun?'
For the first time since he came home she looked at him, with a feint smile and a glint of shameless sensuality in her eyes. 'Yes?'
'Stand up.' 'Why, certainly.'
<
br /> She turned down the upper right-hand corner of the page she had just read, shut the book and laid it on the arm of the chair. Stood up and let her arms hang loosely, her bare feet wide apart.
She looked at him steadily.
'Not at all nice.'
'Me?'
'No. Making dog-ears.'
'It's my book,' she said. 'Bought with my own money.'
'Strip,' he said.
Raising her right hand to her neckband, she undid the buttons, slowly and one by one. Still without taking her eyes off him she opened the thin cotton housecoat and let it fell to the floor behind her.
'Turn around,' said Kollberg.
She turned her back to him.
'You are beautiful.'
'Thank you. Am I to stand like this?'
'No. The front is better.'
'O-oh.'
She turned right round and looked at him with the same expression on her face as before.
'Can you stand on your hands?'
'I could, at any rate, before I met you. Since then I've had no cause to. Shall I try?' 'You needn't bother.' 'I can if you like.'
She walked across the room and stood on her hands, arching her body upward and putting her feet against the wall. No effort at all. Kollberg looked at her thoughtfully. 'Do you want me to stay like this?' she asked. 'No, it's not necessary.'
'I'll do it gladly if it amuses you. They say you faint after a time. Of course in that case you can cover me over with a cloth or something.'
'No, come down now.'
She put her feet gracefully to the floor and stood upright, looking at him over her shoulder.
'Supposing I wanted to take your photograph like that?' he said. ‘What would you say?'
‘What do you mean by like that? Naked?'
'Yes.'
'Standing on my hands?' 'Yes, that for instance.' ‘You don't even have a camera/ 'No, but that's neither here nor there.' 'Of course you can if you want to. You can do whatever you damn well like with me. I already told you that two years ago.' He didn't answer. She remained standing by the wall. 'What are you going to do with the pictures anyway?' "That's just the question.'
Turning around, she went up to him. Then she said, 'And now do you mind if I ask: What the hell is this all about? If it so happens that you want to make love to me, there's a comfortable bed in there, and if you can't be bothered going so far, this rya rug is also first-rate. Nice and soft. I made it myself.'