by Maj Sjowall
Kollberg hesitated a moment, then sat down at the desk and tried the drawers. They were not locked.
The room was neat and tidy but quite impersonal. Stenström had not even had a photograph of his fiancée on the desk.
On the other hand, two photos of himself lay on the pen tray. Martin Beck knew why. For the first time in several years Stenström had been lucky enough to be off duty over Christmas and New Year. He had already booked seats on a charter plane to the Canary Islands. He had had the pictures taken because he had to get a new passport.
Lucky.
Thought Martin Beck, looking at the photos, which were very recent and better than those published on the front pages of the evening papers.
Stenström looked, if anything, younger than his twenty-nine years. He had a bright, frank expression and dark-brown hair, combed back. Here, as it usually did, it looked rather unruly.
At first he had been considered naïve and mediocre by a number of colleagues, including Kollberg, whose sarcastic remarks and often condescending manner had been a continuous trial. But that was in the past. Martin Beck remembered that once, while they were still housed in the old police premises out at Kristineberg, he had discussed this with Kollberg. He had said, “Why are you always nagging at the kid?”
And Kollberg had answered, “In order to break down his put-on self-confidence. To give him a chance to build it up new. To help turn him into a good policeman one day. To teach him to knock at doors.”
It was conceivable that Kollberg had been right. At any rate, Stenström had improved with the years. And although he had never learned to knock at doors, he had developed into a good policeman—capable, hard-working and reasonably discerning. Outwardly, he had been an adornment to the force: a pleasant appearance, a winning manner, physically fit and a good athlete. He could almost have been used in recruiting advertisements, which was more than could be said of certain others. For instance, of Kollberg, with his arrogance and flabbiness and tendency to run to fat. Of the stoical Melander, whose appearance in no way challenged the hypothesis that the worst bores often made the best policemen. Or of the red-nosed and in all respects equally mediocre Rönn. Or of Gunvald Larsson, who could frighten anyone at all out of his wits with his colossal body and staring eyes and who was proud of it, what is more.
Or of himself either, for that matter, the snuffling Martin Beck. He had looked in the mirror as recently as the evening before and seen a tall, sinister figure with a lean face, wide forehead, heavy jaws and mournful gray-blue eyes.
In addition, Stenström had had certain specialties which had been of great use to them all.
Martin Beck thought of all this while he regarded the objects that Kollberg systematically took out of the drawers and placed on the desk.
But now he was coldly appraising what he knew of the man whose name had been Åke Stenström. The feelings that had threatened to overwhelm him not long ago, while Hammar stood scattering truisms about him in the office at Kungsholmsgatan, were gone. The moment was past and would never recur.
Ever since Stenström had put his cap on the hatrack and sold his uniform to an old classmate from the police school, he had worked under Martin Beck. First at Kristineberg, at the then national homicide squad which had belonged to the municipal police and functioned chiefly as a kind of emergency corps, intended to assist hard-pressed local police in the provinces.
Later, at the turn of the year 1964–65, the police in its entirety had been nationalized, and by degrees they had moved out here to Västberga.
In the course of the years Kollberg had been given various assignments, and Melander had been transferred at his own request, but Stenström had been there all the time. Martin Beck had known him for more than five years, and they had worked together with innumerable investigations. During this time Stenström had learned what he knew about practical police work, and that was not a little. He had also matured, overcome most of his uncertainty and shyness, left home and in time moved in with a young woman, together with whom he said he wanted to spend the rest of his life. Shortly before this, his father had died and his mother had moved back to Västmanland.
Martin Beck should, therefore, know most of what there was to know about him.
Oddly enough, he didn’t know very much. True, he had all the important data and a general idea, presumably well-founded, of Stenström’s character, his merits and failings as a policeman, but over and above this there was little to add.
A nice guy. Ambitious, persevering, smart, ready to learn. On the other hand rather shy, still a trifle childish, anything but witty, not much sense of humor on the whole. But who had?
Perhaps he’d had a complex.
Because of Kollberg, who used to excel in literary quotations and complicated sophisms. Because of Gunvald Larsson, who once, in fifteen seconds, had kicked in a locked door and knocked a maniac ax-murderer senseless while Stenström stood two yards away wondering what ought to be done. Because of Melander, whose face never gave anything away and who never forgot anything he had once seen, read or heard.
Well, who wouldn’t get a complex from that sort of thing?
Why did he know so little? Because he had not been sufficiently observant? Or because there was nothing to know?
Martin Beck massaged his scalp with his fingertips and studied what Kollberg had laid on the desk.
There had been a pedantic trait in Stenström, for instance this fad that his watch must show the correct time to the very second, and it was also reflected in the meticulous tidiness on and in his desk.
Papers, papers and more papers. Copies of reports, notes, minutes of court proceedings, stenciled instructions and reprints of legal texts. All in neatly arranged bundles.
The most personal things were a box of matches and an unopened pack of chewing gum. Since Stenström neither smoked nor was addicted to excessive chewing, he had presumably had these objects so that he could offer some form of service to people who came there to be questioned or perhaps just to sit and chat.
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 helluva sight 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 bunch 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 fiancée,” 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 scru
ples. 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 toward 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 apartment on Wednesday morning he called up Kollberg. Their conversation was brief and to the point.
“Kollberg.”
“Hi. It’s Martin. I’m leaving now.”
“O.K.”
When the train glided into the subway station at Skärmarbrink, Kollberg was waiting on the platform. They had made it a habit always to get into the last car 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 onto Folkungagatan. The time was twenty minutes past nine and a watery sun filtered through the gray sky. They turned up their coat collars against the icy wind and started walking east along Folkungagatan.
As they turned the corner onto 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 nose 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 onto Tjärhovsgatan 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 ÅKE 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-knitted polo sweater. On her feet she had thick gray 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 apartment.
The living room, which had two windows onto the street, had a pleasant, cozy 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 woolen 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 at 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.
“Mom 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 Stenstr—about Åke?”
Åsa Torell raised her eyes slowly. Suddenly they twinkled and she smiled.
“You surely don’t mean 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 O.K.
“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 in 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 lighted a Florida.
“O.K.,” 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 underlip.
“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 little to do.”