by Maj Sjowall
'Stenström had a bundle of pictures like that in the drawer of his desk.'
'At the office?' 'Yes.'
'Of whom?' 'His girl.' 'Åsa?' 'Yes.'
"That can't have been any great feast for the eyes.'
'I wouldn't say that,' Kollberg replied.
She looked at him and frowned.
'The question is, why?' he said.
'Does it matter?'
'I don't know. I can't explain it'
'Perhaps he just wanted to look at them.'
'That's what Martin said.'
'It seems much more sensible, of course, to go home and have a look now and again.'
'Of course, Martin isn't always so bright either. He's worried about us, for instance. You can tell by the look of him.'
'About us? Why?'
'Because I went out alone on Friday evening, I think.' 'He has a wife, hasn't he?'
'Something doesn't add up,' Kollberg said. 'With Stenström and these pictures.'
'Why? You know how men are. Was she attractive in the pictures?' 'Yes.'
'Very?'
'Yes.'
‘You know what I should say now.'
'Yes.'
'But I'm not going to say it'
'No. I know that, too.'
'So far as Stenström is concerned, he probably wanted to show them to his mates. To boast.'
'It doesn't add up. He wasn't like that' 'Why are you worrying about this?'
'Don't know. I suppose because there are no other clues left'
'Do you call this a clue? Do you think someone shot Stenström because of these pictures? In that case why should he kill eight more people?'
Kollberg looked at her intently.
'Exactly. That's a good question.'
Bending over, she kissed him lightly on the forehead
'Let's go to bed,' Kollberg said.
'A brilliant idea. I'll just make a bottle for Bodil first. It only takes thirty seconds. According to the directions on the package. I’ll see you in bed. Or on the floor or in the bathtub or wherever you damn well like.'
'The bed, thanks.'
She went out into the kitchen. Kollberg got up and turned off the floor lamp. 'Lennart?' 'Yes?'
'How old is Åsa?' 'Twenty-four.'
'Woman's sexual activity culminates between twenty-nine and thirty-two. Kinsey says so.' 'Oh? And man's?' 'At eighteen.'
He heard her whisking the babyfood in the saucepan. Then she called out, 'But with men it's more individual. If that's any consolation.'
Kollberg watched his wife through the half-open kitchen door. She was standing naked at the counter by the sink, stirring the saucepan. His wife was a long-legged girl of normal build and sensual nature. She was exactly what he wanted, but it had taken him over twenty years to mid her and another year to think it over.
At the moment her posture was impatient and she kept fidgetting with her feet
'Thirty seconds,' she muttered to herself. 'Damn liars.'
Kollberg smiled in the dark. He knew that soon he would be spared the thought of Stenström and the red doubledecker bus. For the first time in three days.
Martin Beck had not spent twenty years in search of his wife. He had met her seventeen years ago, made her pregnant on the spot and married in haste.
He had indeed repented at leisure, and now she was standing at the bedroom door, a living reminder of his mistake, in a crumpled nightdress and with red marks from the pillow on her face.
'You'll wake the whole house with your coughing and snuffling.'
'I'm sorry.'
'And why do you lie there smoking in the middle of the night?' she went on. ‘Your throat's bad enough as it is.'
Stubbing out the cigarette, he said, 'I'm sorry if I woke you up.'
'Oh, it doesn't matter. The main thing is that you don't go and get pneumonia again. You'd better stay at home tomorrow.'
'I can't very well.'
'Nonsense. If you're ill you shouldn't go to work. You're not the only policeman. Besides, you should be asleep, not lying reading those old reports. You'll never dear up that taxi murder anyhow. It's half-past one. Leave that old pile of papers alone and put the light out. Good night'
'Good night,' Martin Beck said mechanically to the closed bedroom door.
Frowning, he slowly put the stapled report down. It was quite wrong to call it an old pile of papers, as it was a copy of the postmortem reports handed to him just as he was going home the evening before. It was true, however, that a few months earlier he had lain awake at night going through the investigation into the murder of a taxi driver twelve years before.
He lay still for a while, staring up at the ceiling. When he heard his wife's light snoring from the bedroom, he got up swiftly and tiptoed out into the hall. Hesitated a moment with his hand on the telephone. Then he shrugged, lifted the receiver and dialled Kollberg's number.
'Kollberg,' Gun said breathlessly.
'Hi. Is Lennart there?'
'Yes. Closer than you'd think.'
'What is it?' Kollberg muttered.
'Am I disturbing you?'
‘You might say that. What the hell is it now?'
'Do you remember last summer, just after the park murders?'
'Yes, what?'
'We had nothing special to do then and Hammar said we were to look through old unsolved cases. Remember?'
'Of course I damn well remember. What about it?'
'I went through the taxi murder in Boras and you worked on that old boy at Östermalm who simply disappeared seven years ago.'
'Yes. Are you calling me just to say that?'
'No. What was Stenström working on? He had just got back from his vacation then.'
'I haven't the vaguest idea. I thought he told you.'
'No, he never mentioned it to me.'
'Then he must have told Hammar.'
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Yes, you're right. So long then. Sorry I woke you up.' 'Go to hell'
Martin Beck heard him slam the receiver down. He stood with the phone to his ear for a few seconds before putting it down and slouching back to the sofa bed.
He lay down again and put the light out Lay there in the dark feeling he had made a fool of himself.
18
Contrary to all expectations, Friday morning brought a hopeful scrap of news.
Martin Beck received it by telephone and the others heard him say, 'What! Have you? Really?'
Everyone in the room dropped what he was doing and stared at him. Putting down the receiver he said, 'They're through with the ballistic investigation.'
'And?'
'They think they've identified the weapon.' 'Oh,' Kollberg said listlessly.
'A submachine gun,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'The army has thousands lying about in unguarded military depots. Might just as well deal them out free to the thieves and save themselves the trouble of putting on new padlocks once a week. As soon as I have half an hour to spare I'll drive into town and buy half a dozen.'
'It's not quite what you all think,' Martin Beck said, holding the slip of paper he had scribbled on. 'Model 37, Suomi type.'
'Really?' Melander asked.
'That old kind with the wooden butt,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'I haven't seen one like that since the forties.'
'Made in Finland or made here under licence?' Kollberg asked.
'Finnish,' Martin Beck said. 'The guy who called said they were almost sure. Old ammunition too. Made at Tikkakoski sewing-machine factory.'
'M-37,' Kollberg said. 'With 70-shot ammunition drum. Who's likely to have one today?'
'Nobody,' Gunvald Larsson replied. 'Today it's lying at the bottom of the harbour. A hundred feet down.'
'Presumably,' Martin Beck said. 'But who can have had one four days ago?'
'Some mad Finn,' Gunvald Larsson growled. 'Out with the Black Maria and round up all the crazy Finns in town. A hell of a nice job.'
'Shall we say anything of this to the papers?' Kollberg asked.
'No,' said Martin Beck. 'Not a whisper.'
They relapsed into silence. This was the first clue. How long would it take them to find the next?
The door was flung open and a young man came in and looked about him in curiosity. He had a brown envelope in his hand.
'Whom are you looking for?' Kollberg asked.
'Melander,' the youth said.
'Detective Inspector Melander,' Kollberg said reprimandingly. 'He's sitting over there.'
The young man went over and put the envelope on Melander's desk. As he was about to leave the room, Kollberg added, 'I didn't hear you knock.'
The youth checked himself, his hand on the door handle, but said nothing. There was silence in the room. Then Kollberg said, slowly and distinctly, as though explaining something to a child; 'Before entering a room, you knock at the door. Then you wait until you are told to come in. Then you open the door and enter. Is that dear?'
'Yes,' the young man mumbled, staring at Kollberg's feet
'Good,' Kollberg said, turning his back on him.
The young man slunk out of the door, dosing it silently behind him.
'Who was that?' Gunvald Larsson asked. Kollberg shrugged.
'Reminded me of Stenström actually,' Gunvald Larsson said.
Melander put down his pipe, opened the envelope and drew out some typewritten sheets bound in green covers. The booklet was about half an inch thick.
'What's that?' Martin Beck asked.
Melander glanced through it.
'The psychologists' compendium,' he replied. 'I've had it bound.'
'A-ha,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'And what brilliant theories have they come up with? That our poor mass murderer was once put off a bus during puberty because he couldn't pay his fare and that this experience left such deep scars in his sensitive ment—'
Martin Beck cut him short
'That is not amusing, Gunvald,' he snapped.
Kollberg gave him a surprised glance and turned to Melander. ‘Well, Fredrik, what have you got out of that little opus?'
Melander scratched at his pipe and emptied it on to a piece of paper, which he then folded up and threw into the wastepaper basket
'We have no Swedish precedents,' he said. 'Unless we go back as far as the Nordlund massacre on the steamer Prins Carl. So they've had to base their research on American surveys that have been made during the last few decades.'
He blew at his pipe to see if it was clear and then started to fill it as he went on. 'Unlike us, the American psychologists have no lack of material to work on. The compendium here mentions the Boston strangler; Speck, who murdered eight nurses in Chicago; Whitman, who killed sixteen people from a tower and wounded many more; Unruh, who rushed out on to a street in New Jersey and shot thirteen people dead in twelve minutes, and one or two more whom you've probably read about before.'
He riffled through the compendium.
'Mass murders seem to be an American speciality,' Gunvald Larsson said.
'Yes,' Melander agreed. 'And the compendium gives some plausible theories as to why it is so.'
'The glorification of violence,'said Kollberg. 'The career-centred society. The sale of firearms by mail order. The ruthless war in Vietnam.'
Melander sucked at his pipe to get it burning and nodded. 'Among other things,' he said.
'I read somewhere that out of every thousand Americans, one or two are potential mass murderers,' Kollberg said. 'Though don't ask me how they arrived at that conclusion.'
'Market research,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'It's another American speciality. They go around from house to house asking people if they could imagine themselves committing a mass murder. Two in a thousand say, "Oh yes, that would be nice."'
Martin Beck blew his nose and looked irritably at Gunvald Larsson with red eyes.
Melander leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs in front of him.
'What do your psychologists have to say about the mass murderer's character?' Kollberg asked.
Melander turned the pages to a certain passage and read out:
'”He is probably under thirty, often shy and reserved but regarded by those around him as well-behaved and diligent It is possible that he drinks alcohol, but it is more usual for him to be a teetotaller. He is likely to be small of stature or afflicted with disfigurement or some other physical deformity which sets him apart from ordinary people. He plays an insignificant part in the community and has grown up in straitened circumstances. In many cases his parents have been divorced or he is an orphan and has had an emotionally starved childhood. Often he has not previously committed any serious crime."'
Raising his eyes, he said, 'This is based on a compilation of facts that have emerged from interrogation and mental examinations of American mass murderers.'
'A mass murderer like this must be stark, raving mad, Gunvald Larsson said. 'Can't people see that before he rushes out and kills a bunch of people?'
"‘A person who is a psychopath can appear quite normal until the moment when something happens to trigger his abnormality. Psychopathy implies that one or more of this person's traits are abnormally developed, while in other respects he is quite normal - for instance as regards aptitude, working capacity, etc. And in fact, most of these people who have suddenly committed a mass murder, recklessly and apparently without any motive, are described by neighbours and friends as considerate, kind and polite, and the last people on earth one would expect to act in this manner. Several of these American cases have told that they have been aware of their disease for some time and have tried to suppress their destructive tendencies, until at last they gave way to them. A mass murderer can suffer from persecution mania or megalomania or have a morbid guilt complex. It is not unusual for him to explain his actions by saying simply that he wanted to become famous and see his name in big headlines. Almost always, a desire for revenge or self-assertion lies behind the crime. He feels belittled, misunderstood and badly treated. In almost every case he has great sexual problems.'"
When Melander finished reading there was silence in the room. Martin Beck stared out of the window. He was pale and hollow-eyed and stooped more than usual.
Kollberg sat on Gunvald Larsson's desk, linking his paper clips together into a long chain. Irritated, Gunvald Larsson pulled the box of clips towards him. Kollberg broke the silence.
'That man Whitman, who shot a lot of people from the university tower in Austin,' he said. 'I read a book about him yesterday, in which an Austrian psychology professor stated that Whitman's sexual problem really was that he wanted to have intercourse with his mother. Instead of boring into her with his penis, he wrote, he stuck a knife into her. I haven't Fredrik's memory, but the last sentence of the book went like this: "Then he climbed the erect tower - a distinct phallic symbol - and discharged his deathly seed like arrows of love overt Mother Earth.'"
Månsson entered the room, his everlasting toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
"What the blazes are you talking about?' he asked.
'Maybe the bus is some sort of sex symbol,' Gunvald Larsson said reflectingly. 'Horizontal, though.'
Månsson goggled at him.
Martin Beck got up, went over to Melander and picked up the green booklet
'I'll borrow this and read through it in peace and quiet,' he said. 'Without any witty comments.'
He walked towards the door but was stopped by Månsson, who took his toothpick out of his mouth and said, 'What am I to do now?'
'I don't know. Ask Kollberg,' Martin Beck said curtly and left the room.
'You can go and talk to that Arab's landlady,' Kollberg said.
He wrote the name and address on a piece of paper, which he gave to Månsson.
'What's bothering Martin?' Gunvald Larsson asked. 'Why's he so moody?'
Kollberg shrugged.
'I expect he has his reasons,' he said.
It took Månsson a good half hour to make his way through the Stockholm traffic to Norra Stationsgatan. As h
e parked the car opposite the terminus of route 47 the time was a few minutes past four and it was already dark.
There were two tenants called Karlsson in the building, but Månsson had no difficulty working out which was the right one.
On the door were eight cards, fastened with thumb tacks. Two of them were printed, the others were written in a variety of hands and all bore foreign names. The name Mohammed Boussie was not among them.
Månsson rang the bell and the door was opened by a swarthy man in wrinkled pants and white vest.
'May I speak to Mrs Karlsson?' Månsson said.
The man showed white teeth in a broad smile and flung out his arms.
'Mrs Karlsson not home,' he said in broken Swedish. 'Back soon.'
'Then I'll wait here,' Månsson said, stepping into the hall.
Unbuttoning his coat he looked at the smiling man.
'Did you know Mohammed Boussie who lived here?' he asked.
The smile was wiped off the man's face.
'Yes,' he said. 'It goddam terrible. Awful. He be my friend, Mohammed.'
'Are you an Arab too?' Månsson asked.
'No. Turk. You foreigner too?'
'No,' Månsson replied. 'Swedish.'
'Oh, I thought you had a little accent,' the Turk said.
As Månsson did have a broad Skane accent, it was not surprising that the Turk took him for a foreigner.
'I'm a policeman,' Månsson said, looking at the man sternly. 'I'd like to look around if you don't mind. Is there anyone else at home?'
'No, only me. I sick.'
Månsson looked about him. The hall was dark and narrow; it was furnished with a kitchen chair, a small table and an umbrella stand of metal. On the table lay a couple of newspapers and some letters with foreign stamps. In addition to the front door, there were five doors in the hall; two of these, smaller than the others, probably belonged to a toilet and a coat closet One of them was a double door; Månsson went over to it and opened one half.
'Mrs Karlsson's private room,' the man in the vest cried out in alarm. 'To go in, forbidden.'
Månsson glanced into the room, which was cluttered with furniture and evidently served as both bedroom and living room.
The next door led to the kitchen, which was large and had been modernized.