by Maj Sjowall
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 patrolmen 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 patrolmen lost his temper when a lump of ice landed in his eye and he resorted to his baton. Hit out at random and struck an inquisitive old-age pensioner. It didn’t look pretty and the policehaters 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 situations 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 the 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 persons who possess them.”
“You’re horrible,” Kollberg said.
Martin Beck had heard the argument 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 look-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 pants 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 stoolies 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. Meager. 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 could be passed on to various institutions.
The inside investigation had so far produced nothing, and the detectives who handled the contacts with the dregs of society said they were convinced the stoolies 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 one wrote was December 4 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 subway,” Nordin said. “Just between Alvik and Fridhemsplan I saw at least fifteen p
ersons 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 plain scared. Feel insecure.”
“Who doesn’t,” Kollberg 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 in 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 skeptically.
“Yes,” Melander agreed, “there are. And with ninety-nine percent 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 humor. I’m his chief interpreter, however.”
He copied out the name and address and said, “Here it is in plain writing.”
“O.K.,” 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 subway. Take 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?”
“Because it’s not our business,” said Martin Beck. “They’re here to take part in the most intensive manhunt ever known in this country.”
“It would be nice to—” Kollberg began, and broke off, feeling it was superfluous to go on. It certainly would be nice to know whom one was hunting and where the hunt ought to be carried on.
“I’m merely quoting the Minister of Justice,” Martin Beck said innocently. “ ‘Our keenest brains’—he’s referring of course to Månsson and Nordin—’are working at high pressure to corner and capture an insane mass murderer; it is of prime importance to both the community and the individual that he be put out of action.’ ”
“When did he say that?”
“For the first time seventeen days ago. For the umpteenth time yesterday. But yesterday he was given only four lines on page 22. I bet that rankles. There’s an election next year.”
Melander had finished his telephone conversation. He poked at the bowl of his pipe with a straightened paper clip and said quietly, “Isn’t it about time we took care of the insane mass murderer, so to speak?”
Fifteen seconds passed before Kollberg replied. “Yes, it certainly is. It’s also time to lock the door and shut off the telephones.”
“Is Gunvald here?” Martin Beck asked.
“Yes, Mr. Larsson is sitting in there picking his teeth with the paper knife.”
“Tell them to put all calls through to him,” Martin Beck said.
Melander reached for the phone.
“Tell them to send up some coffee, too,” Kollberg said. “Three sweet rolls and a Mazarine for me, please.”
The coffee arrived after ten minutes. Kollberg locked the door.
They sat down. Kollberg slurped the coffee and started in on the sweet rolls.
“The situation is as follows,” he said with his mouth full. “The crazy murderer with a lust for sensation is standing lugubriously in the police commissioner’s closet. When he’s needed we take him out again and dust him off. The working hypothesis is therefore this: A person armed with a Suomi submachine gun model 37 shoots nine people dead on a bus. These people have no connection with each other, they merely happen to be in the same place at the same time.”
“The gunman has a motive,” Martin Beck said.
“Yes,” Kollberg said, reaching for the Mazarine cupcake. “That’s what I’ve thought all along. But he can’t have a motive for killing people who are together haphazardly. Therefore his real intention is to eliminate one of them.”
“The murder was carefully planned,” Martin Beck said.
“One of the nine,” Kollberg said. “But which? Have you the list there, Fredrik?”
“Don’t need it,” Melander said.
“No, of course not. Didn’t think what I was saying. Let’s go through it.”
Martin Beck nodded. The following conversation took the form of a dialogue between Kollberg and Melander.
“Gustav Bengtsson,” Melander said. “The bus driver. His presence on the bus was justified, we can say.”
“Undeniably.”
“He seems to have led an ordinary, normal life. No marital troubles. No convictions. Conscientious at work. Liked by his colleagues. We’ve also questioned some friends of the family. They say he was respectable and steady-going. He was a teetotaler. Forty-eight years old. Born here in the city.”
“Enemies? None. Influence? None. Money? None. Motive for killing him? None. Next.”
“I’m not following Rönn’s numbering now,” Melander said. “Hildur Johansson, widow, sixty-eight. She was on her way home to Norra Stationsgatan from her daughter in Västmannagatan. Born at Edsbro. Daughter questioned by Larsson, Månsson and … ha, it doesn’t matter. She led a quiet life and lived on her old-age pension. There’s not much more to say about her.”
“Well, just that she presumably got on at Odengatan and only went six stops. And that no one except her daughter and son-in-law knew she would ride that particular stretch at that particular time. Go on.”
“Johan Källström, who was fifty-two and born in Västerås. Foreman at a garage, Gren’s on Sibyllegatan. He had been working overtime and was on his way home, that’s clear. He, too, happily married. His chief interests, his car and summer cottage. No convictions. Earned good money, but no more. Those who know him say he probably took the subway from Östermalmstorg to Central Station, where he changed to the bus. Should therefore have come up at the Drottninggatan exit and boarded the bus outside Åhléns department store. His boss says he was a skilled workman and a good foreman. The mechanics at the garage say that he was—”
“… a slavedriver to those he could bully and a bootlicker to his bosses. I went and talked to them. Next.”
“Alfons Schwerin was forty-three and born in Minneapolis, in the U.S.A., of Swedish-American parents. Came to Sweden just after the war and stayed here. He had a small business that imported Carpathian spruce for sounding boards, but he went bankrupt ten years ago. Schwerin drank. He had two spells at Beckomberga in the alcoholic clinic and was sentenced to three months at Bogesund for drunken driving. That was three years ago. When his business went to pot he became a laborer. He was working now for the local council. On the evening in
question he had been at Restaurant Pilen on Bryggargatan and was on his way home. He hadn’t had much to drink, presumably because he was broke. His lodgings were mean and shabby. He probably walked from the restaurant to the bus stop on Vasagatan. He was a bachelor and had no relations in Sweden, his fellow workers liked him. Say he was pleasant and good-tempered, could hold his liquor and hadn’t an enemy in the world.”
“And he saw the killer and said something unintelligible to Rönn before he died. Have we had the expert’s report on the tape?”
“No. Mohammed Boussie, Algerian, worked at a restaurant, thirty-six, born at some unpronounceable place the name of which I’ve forgotten.”
“Tsk, how careless.”
“He had lived in Sweden for six years and before that in Paris. Took no active part in politics. He had a savings account at the bank. Those who knew him say he was shy and reserved. He had finished work at ten thirty and was on his way home. Decent, but stingy and dull.”
“You’re sitting there describing yourself.”
“Britt Danielsson, nurse, born 1940 at Eslöv. She was sitting beside Stenström, but there’s nothing to show she knew him. The doctor she was going steady with was on duty that night at Southern Hospital. She presumably got on at Odengatan together with the widow Johansson and was on her way home. There are no time margins there. She finished work and went to the bus. Of course we don’t know for sure that she was not together with Stenström.”
Kollberg shook his head.
“Not a chance,” he said. “Why should he bother about that pale little thing? He had all he wanted at home.”
Melander looked at him blankly but let the question drop.
“Then we have Assarsson. A respectable exterior but not so pretty underneath.”
Melander paused and fiddled with his pipe. Then he went on:
“Rather shady figure, this Assarsson. Sentenced twice for tax evasion and also for a sexual offense at the beginning of the 1950s. Sexually exploited a fourteen-year-old errand girl. Prison all three times. Assarsson had plenty of money. He was ruthless in business and in everything else. A lot of people had reason to dislike him. Even his wife and his brother thought he was pretty nasty. But one thing is clear. His presence on the bus had a reason. He had come from some sort of club meeting on Narvavägen and was on his way to a mistress by the name of Olsson. She lives on Karlbergsvägen and works at Assarsson’s office. He had called her up and told her he was coming. We have interrogated her several times.”