The Laughing Policeman mb-4

by Maj Sjowall

  'Delighted,' Nordin muttered to himself. 'Deliriously happy. It's almost unbearable.'

  The woman opened the door again and said, 'What did you say?'

  'Er, that garage -' 'It's over there.'

  He followed her gaze and said, 'I don't see anything.' 'You can see it from upstairs,' the woman said. 'And this man?'

  'Well, he seemed funny. And now I haven't seen him for a couple of weeks. A short, dark man.'

  'Do you keep a constant watch on the garage?'

  'Well, I can see it from the bedroom window.'

  She flushed. What have I done wrong now, Nordin wondered.

  'Some foreigner has it. All sorts of queer characters hang about there. And what I'd like to know is —'

  It was impossible to know whether she broke off or went on talking in such a low voice that he couldn't catch the words.

  'What was strange about this short, dark man?'

  'Well... he laughed.'

  'Laughed?'

  ‘Yes. Awfully loud.'

  'Do you know if there's anyone in the garage now?' 'There was a light on not long ago. When I went up and had a look.'

  Nordin sighed and put on his hat

  'Well, I'll go and make inquiries,' he said. 'Thank you, madam.' ‘Won't you ... come in?' 'No thanks.'

  She opened the door another few inches, gave him a quick glance and said graspingly, 'Is there any reward?' 'For what?' 'Er ... I don't know.' 'Good-bye.'

  He trudged off in the direction she had indicated. It felt as if someone had put a poultice on his head. The woman had shut the door at once and had now presumably taken up her post at the bedroom window.

  The garage, a small building standing by itself, had fibrous cement walls and a corrugated-iron roof. There was room for two cars at the most. Above the doors was an electric light

  He opened one half of the double doors and went in.

  The car standing inside was a green Skoda Octavia, 1959 model. It might fetch 400 kronor if the engine wasn't too worn out, thought Nordin, who had spent a great deal of his time as a policeman on stolen vehicles and shady car deals. It was propped up on low trestles and the bonnet was open. A man lay on his back under the chassis, quite still. All that could be seen of him was a pair of legs in blue overalls.

  Dead, thought Nordin, going up to the car and poking the man with his right foot

  The figure under the car started as though at an electric shock, crawled out and got to his feet. Stood with the hand lamp in his right hand staring in amazement at the visitor.

  "The police,' Nordin said.

  'My papers are in order,' the man said quickly.

  'I don't doubt it,' Nordin retorted.

  The garage owner was about thirty, a slender man with brown eyes, wavy dark hair and well-combed sideburns.

  'Are you Italian?' Nordin asked. He was not much of an expert at foreign accents except Finnish.

  'Swiss. From German Switzerland. The canton of Graubtinden.'

  'You speak good Swedish.'

  'I've lived here for six years. What is it you want?'

  "We're trying to get in touch with a mate of yours.'

  ‘Who?'

  'We don't know his name.'

  Eyeing the man in the dungarees Nordin said, 'He's not quite as tall as you but a bit fatter. Dark hair, rather long, and brown eyes. About thirty-five.The other shook his head.

  'I've no mate that looks like that. I don't meet much people.' 'Many people,' Nordin corrected amiably. 'Yes, of course. "Many people".'

  'But I've heard there are usually a lot of people out here at the garage.'

  'Guys come with cars. They want me to fix when there is something wrong.'

  He thought hard, then said by way of information:

  'I am a mechanic. Work at a garage in Ringweg... Ringvägen. Now only in the mornings. All these Germans and Austrians know that I have this garage. So they come out and want repair free. Many I do not know at all. There are many in Stockholm.'

  'Well,' Nordin said, 'this man we want to get hold of might have been dressed in a black nylon coat and a beige suit'

  'That tells me nothing. I do not remember anyone like that That’s certain.'

  'Who are your chums?'

  'Friends? A few Germans and Austrians.'

  'Have any of them been here today?'

  'No. They know all I am busy. I work day and night on this.'

  He pointed to the car with an oily thumb and said, 'I get it fixed up by Christmas, so I can drive home and see my parents.'

  'To Switzerland?'

  'Yes’

  'Some drive.'

  'Yes. I pay only one hundred kronor for this car. But I get it ready. I good mechanic' ‘What's your name?' 'Horst Horst Dieke.' 'Mine's Ulf. Ulf Nordin.'

  The Swiss smiled, showing perfect white teeth. He seemed a pleasant, steady-going young man.

  'Well, Horst, so you don't know who I mean?' Dieke shook his head. 'No. I'm sorry.'

  Nordin was in no way disappointed. He had simply drawn the blank that everyone expected. If there hadn't been such a scarcity of dues, this tip would never have been followed up at all. But he was not prepared to give in yet, and besides he didn't fancy the underground with its horde of unfriendly people in damp clothes. The Swiss was evidently trying to be helpful. He said, "There is nothing else? About that guy, I mean?'

  Nordin considered. At last he said, 'He laughed. Loud.'

  The man's face brightened at once.

  'Ah, I think I know. He laughs like this.'

  Dieke opened his mouth and emitted a bleating sound, shrill and harsh as the cry of a snipe.

  It came as an utter surprise and about ten seconds passed before Nordin could say, 'Yes, perhaps.'

  'Yes, yes,' Dieke said. 'I know now who you mean. Little dark guy.'

  Nordin waited expectantly.

  'He has been here four or five times. Maybe more. But his name, I do not know it. He came with a Spaniard who wanted to sell me spare parts. He came several times. But I did not buy.'

  ‘Why not?'

  'Cheap. I think stolen.'

  'What was this Spaniard's name?'

  Dieke shrugged.

  'Don't know. Paco. Pablo. Paquito. Something like that.' 'What sort of car did he have?' 'Good car. Volvo Amazon. White.' 'And this man who laughed?'

  'Don't know at all. He was just in the car. He'd had a few drinks, I think. But of course he didn't drive.' 'Was he Spanish too?'

  'I think not. I think Swedish. But I don't know.' 'How long ago he came here?'

  That didn't sound right. Nordin pulled himself together. 'How long since he was here last?' 'Three weeks ago. Perhaps two. Exactly I do not know.' 'Have you seen this Spaniard since then? Paco or whatever his name is?'

  'No. I think he was going back to Spain. Needed money, that why he wanted to sell. So he said anyway.' Nordin paused to consider.

  'You said he seemed a bit drunk, this guy. Do you think he might have had a fix?' A shrug.

  'Don't know. I think he had been drinking. But - dope? Well, why not? Nearly everybody here gets high. Lie in their junkie dens when they're not out stealing. No?'

  'You've no idea what his name is or what they call him?'

  'No. But a couple of times a girl was in the car. With him, I think. A big girl. Long fair hair.'

  ‘What's her name?'

  'I don't know. But they call her -'

  "Yes? What?'

  'Blonde Malin, I think.'

  'How do you know?'

  'I have seen her before. In town.'

  ‘Whereabouts in town?'

  'At a café on Tegnérgatan. Near Sveavägen. Where all foreigners go. She is Swedish.' 'Blonde Malin?' 'Yes.'

  Nordin couldn't think of anything more to ask. He looked doubtfully at the green car and said, 'I hope you get home all right.

  Dieke gave his infectious smile. 'Oh yes.'

  'When are you coming back?'

  'Never.'

  'Never?'

/>   'No. Sweden bad country. Stockholm bad city. Only violence, narcotics, thieves, alcohol.'

  Nordin said nothing. With the last he was inclined to agree.

  'Misery,' the Swiss said, slimming up. 'But easy to earn money for foreigner. Everything else hopeless. I live in a room with three others. Pay four hundred kronor a month. How do you say - extortion? Dirty trick. Just because there is a housing shortage. Only rich men and criminals can afford to go to restaurants. I have saved money. I'm going home, I get my own little garage and marry.'

  'Haven't you met any girls here?'

  'Swedish girls are not worth having. Maybe students and the like can meet nice girls. Ordinary workmen meet only one sort. Like this Blonde Malin.'

  'What sort?'

  'Whores.' He pronounced the 'w'.

  'You mean you don't want to pay for girls?'

  Horst Dieke pouted.

  'Many cost nothing. Whores all the same. Free whores.'

  Nordin shook his head.

  'You've only seen Stockholm, Horst. Pity.'

  'Is the rest any better?'

  Nordin nodded emphatically. Then he said, 'And you don't remember anything more about this guy?' 'No. Only that he laughed. Like this.'

  Dieke opened his mouth and again emitted the shrill, bleating cry.

  Nordin nodded good-bye and left.

  Under the nearest lamp post he stopped and took out his notebook.

  'Blonde Malin,' he murmured. 'Junkie dens. Free whores. What a profession to have chosen.'

  It's not my fault, he thought The old man forced me into it.

  A man approached along the pavement Nordin raised his Tyrolean hat which was already covered with snow, and said, 'Excuse me, can you -'

  With a swift, suspicious glance at him the man hunched his shoulders and hurried on.

  '... tell me where the underground station is?' Nordin murmured to the whirling blobs of wet snow.

  Shaking his head, he scribbled a few words on the open page. Pablo or Paco. White Amazon. Café Tegnérgatan-Sveavägen. Laughter. Blonde Malin, free whore.

  Then, putting pen and paper in his pocket, he sighed and trudged away out of the circle of light.

  21

  Kollberg stood outside the door of Åsa Torell’s flat in Tjärhovsgatan. The time was already eight o'clock in the evening and in spite of everything he felt worried and absent-minded. In his right hand he held the envelope they had found in the drawer out at Västberga.

  The white card with Stenström's name was still on the door above the brass plate.

  The bell didn't seem to be working and, true to habit, he pounded with his fist on the door. Åsa Torell opened it at once. Stared at him and said, 'All right, all right, here I am. For God's sake don't kick the door down.'

  'Sorry,' Kollberg mumbled.

  It was dark in the flat He took his coat off and switched on the hall light. The old police cap was lying on the hat rack, just as before. The wire of the doorbell had been wrenched loose and was dangling from the jamb.

  Åsa Torell followed his gaze and muttered, 'A horde of idiots kept intruding. Journalists and photographers and God knows who. The bell never stopped ringing.'

  Kollberg said nothing. He went into the living room and sat down in one of the safari chairs.

  'Can't you put the light on so that at least we can see one another?'

  'I can see quite well enough. All right, if you like, if you like, sure, I’ll put it on.'

  She switched on the light, but did not sit down. She paced restlessly to and fro, as though she were caged in and wanted to get out

  The air in the flat was stale and stuffy. The ashtrays had not been emptied for several days. The whole room was untidy and didn't seem to have been cleaned at all, and through the open door he saw that the bedroom too was in a mess and that the bed had certainly not been made. From the hall he had also glanced into the kitchen, where dirty plates and saucepans lay piled up in the sink.

  Then he looked at the young woman. She walked up to the window, swung round and walked back towards the bedroom. Stood for a few seconds staring at the bed, turned again and went back to the window. Over and over again.

  He had to keep moving his head from side to side to follow her with his eyes. It was almost like watching a tennis match.

  Åsa Torell had changed during the nineteen days that had passed since he saw her last She had the same thick grey skiing socks on her feet, or at any rate similar ones, and the same black slacks. But this time they were spotted with cigarette ash and her hair was uncombed and matted. Her gaze was unsteady and she had dark rings under her eyes; the skin on her lips was dry and cracked. She could not keep her hands still and the insides of the forefinger and middle finger of her left hand were stained a virulent yellow with nicotine. On the table lay five opened cigarette packets. She smoked a Danish brand - Cecil. Åke Stenström had not smoked at all.

  'What do you want?' she asked gruffly.

  She walked up to the table, shook a cigarette out of one of the packets, lit it with trembling hands and dropped the burnt match on the floor. Then she said, 'Nothing, of course. Just like that idiot Rönn, who sat here mumbling and rolling his head for two hours.'

  Kollberg didn't answer.

  'I'll have the phone turned off,' she announced abruptly. 'Aren't you working?' ‘I’m on sick leave.' Kollberg nodded.

  'Stupidly,' she said. The firm has its own doctor. He said I was to rest for a month in the country or preferably go abroad. Then he drove me home.'

  She drew deeply at her cigarette and tapped off the ash; most of it fell beside the ashtray.

  'That was three weeks ago,' she said. 'It would have been much better if I could have gone on working as usual'

  She swung round and went over to the window, looked down into the street and plucked at the curtain.

  'As usual,' she said to herself.

  Kollberg squirmed in his chair, ill at ease. This was going to be worse than he'd expected.

  ‘What do you want,' she asked again, without turning her head. 'Answer me, for God's sake. Say something.'

  Somehow he must break the isolation. But how?

  He got up and went over to the big carved bookcase. Looked at the books and took one out It was rather an old one, Manual of Crime Investigation by Otto Wendel and Arne Svensson, printed in 1949. He turned over the title page and read:

  This is a numbered and limited edition. This copy, No. 2080, is for Detective Lennart Kollberg. The book is intended as a guide for policemen in their often difficult and responsible work on the scene of the crime. The contents are of a confidential nature, and the authors therefore request everyone to see that the book does not fall into the wrong hands.

  He himself had written in the words 'Detective Lennart Kollberg long ago. It was a good book and it had been very useful to him in the old days.

  'This is my old book,' he said.

  'Take it then,' she replied.

  'No. I gave it to Åke a couple of years ago.'

  'Oh. Then he hasn't stolen it at any rate.'

  He dipped into it as he considered what ought to be said or done. Here and there he had underlined certain passages. In two places he noticed a stroke in the margin made with a ball-point pen. Both were under the chapter heading

  Sex Murders.

  The sex murderer (the sadist) is often impotent and his violent crime is in that case an abnormal act for the attainment of sexual satisfaction.

  Someone - Stenström, without a doubt - had underlined this sentence. Beside it he had drawn an exclamation mark and written the words 'or the reverse'.

  In the paragraph a little farther down the same page that began with the words In cases of sex murder the victim can have been killed, he had underlined two points: 4) after the sex act in order to prevent accusation and 5) because of the effect of shock.

  In the margin he had made the following comment 6) to get rid of the victim, but is it then a sex murder?

  'Åsa,' Ko
llberg said.

  'Yes, what is it?'

  'Do you know when Åke wrote this?' She came up to him, glanced swiftly at the book and said, 'No idea.'

  'Åsa,' he said again.

  She plunged her half-smoked cigarette into the overflowing ashtray and remained standing beside the table with her hands loosely clasped over her stomach.

  'Yes, what the dickens is it?' she asked irritably.

  Kollberg looked at her searchingly. She looked small and wretched. Today she was wearing a shortsleeved blue blouse instead of the knitted sweater. She had goosepimples on her arms and although the blouse hung like a loosely draped cloth over her thin body, her large nipples showed as distinct protrusions under the material.

  'Sit down,' he commanded.

  She shrugged, took a new cigarette and walked over to the bedroom door while she fumbled with the lighter. 'Sit down!' Kollberg roared.

  She jumped, and looked at him. Her brown eyes almost glittered with hatred. Nevertheless, she went to the armchair and sat down opposite him. Stiff as a poker, with her hands on her thighs. In her right hand she held the lighter, in her left the still unlit cigarette.

  'We have to put our cards on the table,' Kollberg said, stealing an embarrassed glance at the brown envelope.

  'Splendid,' she said in an icy, clear voice. 'It's just that I haven't any cards to put'

  'But I have.'

  'Oh?'

  ‘When we were here last we weren't altogether frank with you.' She frowned. 'In what way?'

  'In several ways. First let me ask you: Do you know what Åke was doing on that bus?'

  'No, no, no and again no. I - do - not - know.' 'Nor do we,' said Kollberg.

  He paused. Then, drawing a deep breath, he went on. 'Åke lied to you.'

  Her reaction was violent. Her eyes flashed. She clenched her fists. The cigarette was crushed between her fingers and flakes of tobacco were strewn over her slacks.

  'How dare you say that to me!'

  'Because it's true. Åke was not on duty - either on the Monday when he was killed or on the previous Saturday. He had had an unusual amount of time off during the whole of October and the first two weeks of November.'

  She stared at him without saying anything.

  "That is a fact,' Kollberg went on. 'Another thing I would like to know: was he in the habit of carrying his pistol when he was not on duty?'