The Laughing Policeman mb-4

by Maj Sjowall

'Forbidden to go in kitchen,' said the lurk behind him. 'How many rooms are there?' Månsson asked. 'Mrs Karlsson's and the kitchen and the room for us,' said the man. 'And the toilet and closet.' Månsson frowned.

  'Two rooms and kitchen, that is,' he said to himself.

  'You look our room,' the Turk said, holding open the door.

  The room measured about 23 feet by 16. It had two windows on to the street with flimsy, faded curtains. Along the walls stood beds of various types and between the windows was a narrow couch with the head to the wall.

  Månsson counted six beds. Three of them were unmade. The room was littered with shoes, clothes, books and newspapers. The centre of the floor was occupied by a round, white-lacquered table, surrounded by five odd chairs. The remaining piece of furniture was a tall, dark-stained chest of drawers, which stood against the wall by one of the windows.

  The room had two more doors. A bed was placed in front of one of them, which without doubt led to Mrs Karlsson's room and was locked. Inside the other was a small built-in wardrobe, stuffed with clothes and suitcases.

  'Do six of you sleep here?' Månsson asked

  'No, eight,' the Turk replied

  Walking over to the bed in front of the door, he half drew out a trundle bed and pointed to one of the other beds.

  'Two like this,' he said 'Mohammed had that one.'

  ‘Who are the other seven?' Månsson asked 'Turks like you?'

  'No, we three Turks, two - one Arab, two Spanish men, one Finnish man, and the new one, he Greek.'

  'Do you eat here too?'

  The Turk glided swiftly across the room and moved the pillow on one of the beds. Månsson caught a glimpse of a pornographic magazine before it was hidden by the pillow.

  'Excuse, please,' the Turk said. 'Here it is ... it is not so tidy. Do we eat here? No, cooking, forbidden. Forbidden to use kitchen, forbidden to have electric hot plate in room. We not allowed to cook, not allowed to make coffee.'

  'How much rent do you pay?'

  'We pay 350 kronor each,' said the Turk.

  'A month?'

  'Yes. All months 350 kronor.'

  He nodded and scratched himself in the thick black growth resembling horsehair on his chest, visible above the low-necked vest.

  'I earn lot of money,' he said. 'One hundred seventy kronor a week. I am lorry driver. Before, I work restaurant and not earn so good.'

  'Do you know whether Mohammed Boussie had any relations?' Månsson asked. 'Parents or brothers and sisters?' The Turk shook his head.

  'No, I not know. We were much pals, but Mohammed not say much. He very afraid.'

  Månsson stood by the window looking at a knot of shivering people who stood waiting for the bus at the terminus.

  He turned around.

  'Afraid?'

  'Not afraid. What do you say? Ah yes, shuy.' 'Shy, uh-huh,' Månsson said. 'Do you know how long he lived here?'

  The Turk sat down on the couch between the windows and shook his head.

  'No, I not know. I come here last month and Mohammed - he already live here.'

  Månsson had broken into a sweat under his thick overcoat. The air seemed thick with the smell that had oozed from the room's eight inmates.

  Månsson wished fervently that he were back in Malmö, in his nice tidy flat.

  Fishing his last toothpick out of his pocket, he asked, 'When will Mrs Karlsson be back?' The Turk shrugged. 'I not know. Soon.'

  Månsson stuck the toothpick in his mouth, sat down at the round table and waited.

  After half an hour he tossed the chewed remains of the toothpick into the ashtray. Two more of Mrs Karlsson's lodgers had arrived, but there was still no sign of the landlady herself.

  The newcomers were the two Spaniards, and since their knowledge of Swedish was scant and Månsson didn't know one word of Spanish, he soon gave up trying to question them. The only information he got was that their names were Ramón and Juan and that they worked as busboys at a grill bar.

  The Turk had thrown himself on the couch and was leafing idly through a German magazine. The Spaniards talked animatedly while they changed their clothes for an evening out; their plans seemed to include a girl called Kerstin, whom they were evidently discussing.

  Månsson kept looking at his watch. He had made up his mind not to wait a minute longer than half-past five.

  At twenty-eight minutes past five Mrs Karlsson returned.

  She placed Månsson in her best sofa, offered him a glass of port and burst into a jeremiad concerning her trials as a landlady.

  'It's not at all nice, I can tell you, for a poor lone woman to have the house full of men,' she whined. 'And foreigners, what's more. But what is a poor hard-up widow to do?'

  Månsson made a rough estimate. The hard-up widow raked in nearly 3,000 kronor a month in rent.

  'That Mohammed,' she said, pursing her lips. 'He owed me a month's rent Perhaps you could arrange for me to get it? He had money in the bank all right'

  To Månsson's question about her impression of Mohammed, she replied, 'Well, for an Arab he was quite nice, really. They're usually so dirty and unreliable, you know. But he was nice and quiet and seemed to behave himself all right - he didn't drink and I don't think he brought girls in. But as I said, he owes me a month's rent'

  She appeared to be well informed about the private lives of her lodgers; sure enough, Ramón was going with a slut called Kerstin, but she could tell him little about Mohammed.

  He had a married sister in Paris, who used to send him letters, but she couldn't read them because they were written in Arabic.

  Mrs Karlsson fetched a bundle of letters and gave them to Månsson. The sister's name and address were written on the backs of the envelopes.

  All Mohammed Boussie's worldly possessions had been packed into a canvas suitcase. Månsson took this with him as well.

  Mrs Karlsson reminded him once more of the unpaid rent before shutting the door after him.

  'My God, what an old bitch,' Månsson mumbled to himself as he went down the stairs to the street and his car.

  19

  Monday. Snow. Wind. Bitter cold. 'Fine track snow’ Rönn said.

  He was standing by the window, looking dreamily out over the street and the rooftops, which were only just visible in the floating white haze.

  Gunvald Larsson glared at him suspiciously and said, 'Is that meant to be a joke?'

  'No. I was just thinking how it felt when I was a boy.'

  'Extremely constructive. You wouldn't care to do something a little more worthwhile? To help the investigation along?'

  'Sure,' Rönn said. 'But...'

  'But what?'

  'That's just what I was going to say. But what?'

  'Nine people have been murdered,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'And here you stand not knowing what to do with yourself. You're a detective, aren't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well then, detect, for Christ's sake.' 'Where?'

  'I don't know. Do something.' 'What are you doing yourself?'

  'Can't you see? I'm sitting here reading this psychological bilge that Melander and the doctors have concocted.' 'Why?'

  'I don't know. How can I know everything?'

  A week had passed since the bloodbath in the bus. The state of the investigation was unchanged and the lack of constructive ideas was making itself felt Even the spate of useless tips from the general public had begun to dry up.

  The consumer society and its harassed citizens had other things to think about Although it was over a month to Christmas, the advertising orgy had begun and the buying hysteria spread as swiftly and ruthlessly as the Black Death along the festooned shopping streets. The epidemic swept all before it and there was no escape. It ate its way into houses and flats, poisoning and breaking down everything and everyone in its path. Children were already howling from exhaustion and fathers of families were plunged into debt until their next holiday. The gigantic legalized confidence trick claimed victims everywhere. The hospitals ha
d a boom in cardiac infarctions, nervous breakdowns and burst stomach ulcers.

  The police stations downtown had frequent visits from the outriders of the great family festival, in the shape of Santa Clauses who were dragged blind drunk out of doorways and public urinals. At Mariatorget two exhausted beat officers dropped a drunken Father Christmas in the gutter when they tried to get him into a taxi.

  During the ensuing uproar the two policemen were hard pressed by bewildered, screaming children and furious, foul-mouthed boozers. One of the officers lost his temper when a lump of ice landed in his eye and he resorted to his truncheon. Hit out at random and struck an inquisitive old-age pensioner. It didn't look pretty and the police-haters were given grist for their mill.

  'There's a latent hatred of police in all classes of society,' Melander said. 'And it needs only an impulse to trigger it off.'

  'Oh,' Kollberg said, with complete lack of interest. 'And what is the reason for that?'

  'The reason is that the police are a necessary evil’ Melander said. 'Everybody knows, even professional criminals, that they may suddenly find themselves in a situation in which only the police can help them. When the burglar wakes up at night and hears a rattling in his cellar, what does he do? Calls the police, of course. But so long as such situations don't crop up, most people react with either fear or contempt when the police, in one way or other, interfere in their existence or disturb their peace of mind.'

  'Well, that's the last straw, if we have to regard ourselves as a necessary evil,' Kollberg muttered despondently.

  'The crux of the problem is, of course,' Melander went on, quite unconcerned, 'the paradox that the police profession in itself calls for the highest intelligence and exceptional mental, physical and moral qualities in its practicians but has nothing to attract individuals who possess them.'

  ‘You're horrible,' Kollberg said.

  Martin Beck had heard the arguments many times before and was not amused.

  'Can't you carry on your sociological discussions somewhere else?' he said grumpily. 'I'm trying to think.'

  'Of what?' Kollberg said.

  And the telephone rang.

  'Hello. Beck.'

  'Hjelm here. How's it going?'

  'Between ourselves, badly.'

  'Have you identified that guy with no face yet?'

  Martin Beck had known Hjelm for many years and had great confidence in him. He was not the only one; Hjelm was considered by many to be one of the cleverest forensic technicians in the world. If he were handled in the right way.

  'No,' Martin Beck said. 'Nobody seems to miss him. And the door-knockers have drawn a blank.'

  He drew a deep breath and went on.

  ‘You don't mean to say you've produced something new?'

  Hjelm must be flattered - that was a well-known fact

  'Yes,' he said smugly. 'We've given him an extra going-over. Tried to build up a more detailed picture. That gives some idea of the living person. I think we've managed to give him a certain character.'

  Can I say: ‘You don't mean it?' thought Martin Beck.

  'You don't mean it,' he said.

  Yes, I do,' Hjelm said delightedly. 'The result's better than we expected.'

  What should he pile on now? 'Fantastic'? 'Splendid'? Just plain: 'Fine'? or 'Terrific'? Must go into training at Inga's coffee klatsch, he thought

  'Great’ he said.

  'Thanks,' Hjelm replied enthusiastically.

  'Don't mention it I suppose you can't tell me -

  'Oh, sure. That's why I called up. We took a look at his teeth first. Not easy. They're in bad shape. But the fillings we have found are carelessly done. I don't think they can be the work of a Swedish dentist. I won't say any more on that point'

  'That in itself is a good deal.'

  'Then there's his clothes. We've traced his suit to one of the Hollywood shops here in Stockholm. There are three, as you may know. One on Vasagatan, one on Götgatan and one at St Eriksplan.'

  'Good,' Martin Beck said laconically.

  He couldn't play the hypocrite any more.

  ‘Yes,' Hjelm said sourly, 'that’s what I think. Further, the suit was dirty. It has certainly never been dry-cleaned, and I should think he's worn it day in day out for a long time.'

  'How long?'

  'A year, at a guess.'

  'Have you anything more?'

  There was a pause. Hjelm had kept the best till last. This was only a rhetorical pause.

  'Yes,' he said at length. 'In the breast pocket of the jacket we found crumbs of hashish, and some grains in the right trouser pocket derived from crushed Preludin tablets. The analyses of certain tests from the autopsy confirm that the man was a junkie.'

  New pause. Martin Beck said nothing.

  'In addition, he had gonorrhea. In an advanced stage.'

  Martin Beck finished making his notes, said thank you and put down the phone.

  'Reeks of the underworld,' Kollberg declared.

  He had been standing behind the chair eavesdropping.

  'Yes,' Martin Beck said. 'But his fingerprints are not in our files.'

  'Perhaps he was a foreigner.'

  'Quite possibly,' Martin Beck agreed. 'But what shall we do with this information? We can hardly let it out to the press.'

  'No,' Melander said. 'But we can let it circulate by word of mouth among snouts and known addicts. Via the drug squad and the community relations workers in the various police districts.'

  'Mmm,' Martin Beck murmured. 'Do that then.'

  Not much use, he thought. But what else was to be done? During the last few days the police had made two spectacular raids on the so-called underworld. The result was exactly what they expected. Meagre. The raids had been foreseen by all except those who were most broken-down and destitute. The majority of those who had been picked up by the police - about one hundred and fifty - had been in need of immediate care and had been passed on to various institutions.

  The investigation had so tar produced nothing, and the detectives who handled the contacts with the dregs of society said they were convinced the snouts really didn't know anything.

  Everything seemed to bear this out No one could reasonably gain anything by shielding this criminal.

  'Except himself,' said Gunvald Larsson, who had a fondness for unnecessary remarks.

  The only thing they could do was to work on the material they already had. Try to trace the weapon and go on interrogating all who had had any connection with the victims. These interviews were now carried out by the reinforcements - Månsson from Malmö and a detective inspector from Sundsvall by the name of Nordin. Gunnar Ahlberg could not be spared from his ordinary work. It didn't really matter; everyone was pretty sure that these interrogations would lead nowhere.

  The hours dragged past and nothing happened. Day was added to day. The days formed a week, and then another week. Once again it was Monday. The date was 4 December and the nameday was Barbro. The weather was cold and windy and the Christmas rush grew more and more hectic. The reinforcements got the blues and began to feel homesick, Månsson for the mild climate of southern Sweden and Nordin for the clear, bright cold of the northern winter. Neither of them was used to a big city and they both felt miserable in Stockholm. A lot of things got on their nerves, mainly the rush and tear, the jostling crowds and the unfriendly people. And as policemen they were irritated by the rowdyism and the petty crimes that were rife everywhere.

  'It beats me how you guys stand it in this town,' Nordin said.

  He was a stocky, bald man with bushy eyebrows and screwed-up brown eyes.

  'We were born here,' Kollberg said. ‘We've never known anything else.'

  'I just came in on the underground,' Nordin said. 'Just between Alvik and Fridhemsplan I saw at least fifteen individuals the police would have nabbed on the spot if it had been at home in Sundsvall.'

  'We're short of people,' Martin Beck said.

  ‘Yes, I know, but...'

  'But what
?'

  'Have you ever thought of something? People are scared here. Ordinary decent people. If you ask for directions or ask them for a light, they practically turn and run. They're simply afraid. Feel insecure.'

  'Who doesn't?' Kbllberg said.

  'I don't,' Nordin replied. 'At least not as a rule. But I expect I’ll be the same before long. Have you anything for me just now?'

  ‘We have a weird sort of tip here,' Melander said. ‘What about?'

  'The unidentified man on the bus. A woman in Hägersten. She called up and said she lives next door to a garage where a lot of foreigners collect.'

  Uh-hunh.And?'

  'It's usually pretty rowdy there, though she didn't put it like that "Noisy" is what she said. One of the noisiest was a small, dark man of about thirty-five. His clothes were not unlike the description in the papers, she said, and now there hasn't been any sign of him.'

  "There are tens of thousands of people with clothes like that’ Nordin said sceptically.

  'Yes,' Melander agreed, 'there are. And with ninety-nine per cent certainty this tip is useless. The information is so vague that there's really nothing to check. Moreover, she didn't seem at all sure. But if you've nothing else to do ...'

  He left the sentence in midair, scribbled down the woman's name and address on his notepad and tore off the sheet The telephone rang and he lifted the receiver as he handed the paper to Nordin.

  'Here you are,' he said.

  'I can't read it,' Nordin muttered.

  Melander's handwriting was cramped and almost illegible, at least to outsiders. Kollberg took the slip of paper and looked at it

  'Hieroglyphics,' he said. 'Or maybe ancient Hebrew. It was probably Fredrik who wrote the Dead Sea Scrolls. Though he doesn't have that much of a sense of humour. I'm his chief interpreter, however.'

  He copied out the name and address and said, 'Here it is in plain writing.'

  'OK,' Nordin said. 'I can take a run out there. Is there a car?' 'Yes. But with the traffic as it is, and the state of the roads, you'd better stick to the underground. Take a number 13 or 23 southbound and get off at Axelsberg.' 'So long,' Nordin said and went out.

  'He didn't seem particularly inspired today,' Kollberg remarked. 'Can you blame him?' Martin Beck replied, blowing his nose. 'Hardly,' Kollberg said with a sigh. 'Why don't we let these guys go home?'