The Laughing Policeman

by Maj Sjowall

“Plenty of time,” she mumbled.

  And then: “What’s to become of me?”

  Turning around, he said, “This won’t do, Åsa. Come.”

  Whirling around, she snarled at him, “Come? Where? To bed? Oh, sure.”

  Kollberg looked at her.

  Nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand would have seen a pale, thin, undeveloped girl who held herself badly, who had a delicate body, thin nicotine-stained fingers and a ravaged face. Unkempt and dressed in baggy, stained clothes and with one foot covered by a skiing sock many sizes too large.

  Lennart Kollberg saw a physically and mentally complex young woman with blazing eyes and a promising width between her thighs, provocative and interesting and worth getting to know.

  Had Stenström also seen this, or had he been one of the nine hundred and ninety-nine and merely had a stroke of luck?

  Luck.

  “I didn’t mean that,” Kollberg said. “Come home with me. We have plenty of room. You’ve been alone long enough.”

  She was hardly in the car before she started to cry.

  22

  A cutting wind greeted Nordin as he emerged from the subway at the corner of Sveavägen and Rådmansgatan. It was blowing from behind him and he walked briskly south along Sveavägen. When he turned into Tegnérgatan he was sheltered and slowed his steps. About 20 yards from the street corner lay a café. He stopped outside the window and peered in.

  Behind the counter sat a red-haired woman in a pistachio-green uniform, talking on the phone. The café otherwise was empty.

  Nordin walked on, crossed Luntmakargatan and regarded an oil painting that was hanging inside the glass door of a secondhand bookshop. While he stood puzzling as to whether the artist had meant the picture to represent two elks, two reindeer or perhaps an elk and a reindeer, he heard a voice behind him.

  “Aber Mensch, bist Du doch ganz verrückt?”

  Nordin turned around and saw two men crossing the street. Not until they reached the sidewalk on the other side did he see the café. When Nordin entered, the two men were on their way down a curving staircase beyond the counter. He followed them.

  The place was full of young people and the music and the buzz of voices were deafening. He looked around for a vacant table, but there didn’t seem to be one. For a moment he wondered whether he ought to take off his hat and coat, but decided not to risk it. You couldn’t trust anyone in Stockholm, he was convinced of that.

  Nordin studied the female guests. There were several blondes in the room but none who fitted the description of Blonde Malin.

  German seemed to be the predominating language. Beside a thin brunette, who was obviously Swedish, there was a vacant chair. Nordin unbuttoned his coat and sat down. Put his hat in his lap, thinking that his coat of lodencloth and his Tyrolean hat probably made him look a good deal like one of the many Germans there.

  He had to wait a quarter of an hour before the waitress came up to him. Meanwhile he looked about him. The brunette’s girlfriend on the other side of the table eyed him guardedly from time to time.

  He stirred his cup of coffee and stole a glance at the girl in the chair next to him. In the faint hope of being taken for a regular customer he took pains to utter the words in the Stockholm dialect when he turned to her and said, “Do you know where Blonde Malin is this evening?”

  The brunette stared at him. Then she smiled, bent over the table and said to her girlfriend, “Eva, this guy from the north is asking after Blonde Malin. Do you know where she is?”

  The friend looked at Nordin, then she called to someone at a table farther off, “There’s a cop here who’s asking where Blonde Malin is. Do any of you know?”

  “No-o-o,” came a chorus from the other table.

  As Nordin sipped his coffee he wondered gloomily how they could see he was a policeman. He couldn’t make these Stockholmers out.

  When he had mounted the stairs to the shop floor where the pastries were sold, the waitress who had brought his coffee came up to him.

  “I heard you’re looking for Blonde Malin,” she said. “Are you really a policeman?”

  Nordin hesitated. Then he nodded lugubriously.

  “If you can run that tramp in for something, I couldn’t be more pleased. I think I know where she is. When she isn’t here, she’s usually at a café on Engelbrektsplan.”

  Nordin thanked her and went out into the cold.

  Blonde Malin was not at the other café either; all its regular customers seemed to have deserted it. Nordin, reluctant to give in, went up to a woman who was sitting by herself and reading a thumbed and grubby magazine. She didn’t know who Blonde Malin was, but suggested that he should look in at a wine restaurant on Kungsgatan.

  Nordin trudged on along the odious Stockholm streets, wishing he were at home in Sundsvall again.

  This time he was rewarded for his pains.

  He shook his head at the cloakroom attendant who came forward to take his coat, stood in the doorway of the restaurant and looked around. He caught sight of her almost at once.

  She was big-framed, but didn’t seem fat. Her fair hair, bleached by the look of it, was piled up on top of her head.

  Nordin didn’t doubt for a moment that this was Blonde Malin.

  She was sitting on a wall-seat with a wineglass in front of her. Beside her sat a much older woman, whose long black hair, hanging in unruly curls to her shoulders, didn’t make her look any younger. Sure to be a free whore, Nordin thought.

  He observed the two women for a while. They were not talking to each other. Blonde Malin was staring at the wineglass, which she twiddled between her fingers. The black-haired woman kept looking around the room, now and then flinging her long hair aside with a coquettish toss of the head.

  Nordin turned to the cloakroom attendant.

  “Excuse me, but do you know the name of that blonde lady sitting over by the wall?”

  The man looked across the room.

  “Lady!” he snorted. “Her! No, I don’t know her name, but I think they call her Malin. Fat Malin or something like that.” Nordin gave him his hat and coat.

  The black-haired woman looked at him expectantly as he came up to their table.

  “Pardon my intrusion,” Nordin said. “I’d like a word with Miss Malin if she doesn’t mind.”

  Blonde Malin looked at him and sipped her wine.

  “What about?” she said.

  “About a friend of yours,” Nordin said. “Perhaps we could move to another table and have a quiet talk?”

  Blonde Malin looked at her companion and he hastened to add, “If your friend doesn’t mind, of course.”

  The black-haired woman filled her glass from the carafe on the table and got up.

  “Don’t let me disturb you,” she said huffily.

  Blonde Malin said nothing.

  “I’ll go and sit with Tora,” the woman said. “So long, Malin.”

  She picked up her glass and went over to a table farther down the room.

  Nordin drew out a chair and sat down. Blonde Malin looked at him expectantly.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Ulf Nordin,” he said. “It’s possible that you can help us with something.”

  “Oh yeah?” Blonde Malin said. “And what would that be? You said it was about a friend of mine.”

  “Yes,” Nordin replied. “We’d like some information about a man you know.”

  Blonde Malin looked at Ulf Nordin contemptuously.

  “I’m not squealing on anybody,” she said.

  Nordin took out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to her. She took one and he lighted it for her.

  “It’s not a question of being a fink,” he said. “A few weeks ago you rode with two men in a white Volvo Amazon to a garage in Hägersten. The garage is on Klubbacken and is owned by a Swiss named Horst. The man who drove the car was a Spaniard. Do you remember that occasion?”

  “Supposing I do,” Blonde Malin said. “What of it? Nisse and I only went with th
is Paco so Nisse could show him the way to the garage. Anyway, he’s gone back to Spain now.”

  “Paco?”

  “Yes.”

  She drained her glass and poured out the rest of the wine in the carafe.

  “May I offer you something?” Nordin asked. “A little more wine?”

  She nodded and Nordin beckoned to the waitress. He ordered half a carafe of wine and a stein of beer.

  “Who’s Nisse?” he asked.

  “The guy with me in the car, of course. You said so yourself just now.”

  “Yes, but what’s his other name besides Nisse? What does he do?”

  “His name’s Göransson. Nils Erik Göransson. I don’t know what he does. I ain’t seen him for a couple of weeks.”

  “Why?” Nordin asked.

  “Eh?”

  “Why haven’t you seen him for a couple of weeks? Didn’t you meet quite often before that?”

  “We ain’t married, are we? We’re not even going steady. We just went together sometimes. Maybe he’s met some gal. How do I know. I haven’t seen him for a while at any rate.”

  The waitress brought the wine and Nordin’s beer. Blonde Malin immediately filled her glass.

  “Do you know where he lives?” Nordin asked.

  “Nisse? No, he sort of didn’t have anywhere to live. He lived with me for a time and then with a pal on the South Side, but I don’t think he’s there now. I don’t know, really. And even if I did, I’m not so all-fired sure I’d tell a cop. I’m not going to inform on anybody.”

  Nordin took a draught of beer and looked amiably at the large, fair girl opposite him.

  “You don’t have to, Miss—Pardon me, but what’s your name besides Malin?”

  “My name ain’t Malin at all,” she said. “My name’s Magdalena Rosén. People call me Blonde Malin because I’m so blonde.”

  She stroked her hair.

  “What do you want Nisse for, anyway? Has he done something? I ain’t going to sit here answering a lot of questions if I don’t know what it’s all about.”

  “No, of course not. I’ll tell you what it is you can help us with,” Ulf Nordin said.

  He finished his beer and wiped his mouth.

  “May I ask just one more question?” he said.

  She nodded.

  “How was Nisse usually dressed?”

  She frowned and thought for a moment.

  “Most of the time he wore a suit,” she said. “One of them light beige-colored ones with covered buttons. And shirt and shoes and shorts, like all other guys.”

  “Didn’t he have an overcoat?”

  “Well, I’d hardly call it an overcoat. One of them thin black things—nylon, you know. Why?”

  She looked inquiringly at Nordin.

  “Well, Miss Rosén, it’s possible that he is dead.”

  “Dead? Nisse? But … why … why do you say it’s possible? How do you know he’s dead?”

  Ulf Nordin took out his handkerchief and wiped his neck. It was very warm in the restaurant and his whole body felt sticky.

  “The thing is,” he said, “we’ve a man out at the morgue we haven’t been able to identify. There’s reason to suspect that the dead man is Nils Erik Göransson.”

  “How’s he supposed to have died?” Blonde Malin asked suspiciously.

  “He was one of the passengers on that bus, that you’ve no doubt read about. He was shot in the head and must have been killed outright. Since you’re the only person we’ve traced who knew Göransson well, we’d be grateful if you’d come out to the morgue tomorrow and see if it’s him.”

  She stared at Nordin in horror.

  “Me? Come out to the morgue? Not on your life!”

  The time was nine o’clock on Wednesday morning when Nordin and Blonde Malin got out of a taxi outside the institute for forensic medicine on Tomtebodavägen. Martin Beck had been waiting for them for a quarter of an hour and together they entered the morgue.

  Blonde Malin was pale under her carelessly applied makeup. Her face was bloated and her fair hair was not arranged as neatly as it was the evening before.

  Nordin had had to wait in her hall while she got ready. When at last they came out into the street, he noted that she showed up considerably more to her advantage in the dimness of the restaurant than in the bleary morning light.

  The staff of the morgue were prepared and the superintendent showed them into the cold-storage room.

  A cloth had been laid over the corpse’s bullet-shattered face, but the hair had been left free.

  Blonde Malin gripped Nordin’s arm and whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

  Nordin laid his arm around her broad back and led her closer.

  “Take a good look,” he said quietly. “See if you recognize him.”

  She put her hand to her mouth and looked at the naked body.

  “What’s wrong with his face?” she asked. “Can’t I see his face?”

  “You can be glad you’re spared it,” Martin Beck said. “You should be able to recognize him just the same.”

  Blonde Malin nodded. Then she took her hand away from her mouth and nodded again.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, that’s Nisse. Them scars and … yes, it’s him all right.”

  “Thank you, Miss Rosén,” Martin Beck said. “Now what about a cup of coffee with us at police headquarters?”

  Blonde Malin, pale and quiet, sat beside Nordin in the back of the taxi. Now and then she mumbled, “Jesus Christ, how awful.”

  Martin Beck and Ulf Nordin treated her to coffee and sweet rolls and after a while Kollberg and Melander and Rönn joined them.

  She soon recovered and it was obvious that not only the coffee, but also the attention shown her, cheered her up. She answered their questions obligingly and before leaving she pressed their hands and said, “Imagine, I never would have thought that co—police could be such sweethearts.”

  When the door had closed behind her they considered this for a moment. Then Kollberg said, “Well, sweethearts? Shall we sum up?”

  They summed up:

  Nils Erik Göransson.

  Age: 38 or 39.

  Since 1965 or earlier, no permanent employment.

  March 1967–August 1967, lived with Magdalena Rosén (Blonde Malin), Arbetargatan 3, Stockholm K.

  Thereafter and until some time in October lived with Sune Björk on the South Side.

  The weeks prior to his death whereabouts unknown.

  Drug addict, smoking, swallowing and mainlining whatever he could get hold of.

  Possibly also a pusher.

  Had gonorrhea.

  Last seen by Magdalena Rosén November 3 or 4 outside Restaurant Damberg. Then in same suit and coat as November 13.

  Usually had plenty of money.

  23

  Of all the men who were working on the bus murders, Nordin was thus the first to show something which, with a little good will, could be called a constructive result. But even on this point, opinions were divided.

  “Well,” Gunvald Larsson said. “Now we know the name of that bum. So what?”

  “Mmm … er … mnyaa …,” Melander murmured thoughtfully.

  “What are you mumbling about?”

  “He was never picked up for anything, that Göransson. But I seem to remember the name.”

  “Oh?”

  “I think he cropped up in connection with an investigation at some time.”

  “You mean you once interrogated him?”

  “No. I would remember that. I have never spoken to him and doubt if I’ve seen him either. But the name. Nils Erik Göransson. I’ve come across it at some time or other.”

  Melander stared abstractedly out into the room, puffing at his pipe.

  Gunvald Larsson waved his big hands in front of his face. He was opposed to people using tobacco and was irritated by the smoke.

  “I’m more interested in that swine Assarsson,” he said.

  “I expect I’ll think of it,” Melander said.
>
  “Not a doubt. If you don’t die of lung cancer first.”

  Gunvald Larsson got up and went in to Martin Beck’s office.

  “Where did this Assarsson get his money from?” he asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  “What does the firm do?”

  “Imports a lot of junk. Presumably anything that pays. From cranes to plastic Christmas trees.”

  “Plastic Christmas trees?”

  “Yes, they sell a lot of them nowadays. Unfortunately.”

  “I took the trouble to find out what these gentlemen and their firm have paid in taxes during the last few years.”

  “And?”

  “About one third of what you or I fork out. And when I think of what it looked like at the widow’s apartment …”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve a damn good mind to ask for permission to raid their office.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Martin Beck shrugged. Gunvald Larsson walked toward the door. Stopped in the doorway and said, “An ugly customer, that Assarsson. And his brother is probably no better.”

  Shortly afterward Kollberg appeared in the doorway. He looked tired and dejected, and his eyes were bloodshot.

  “What are you busy at?” Martin Beck asked.

  “I’ve been playing back the tapes from Stenström’s interrogation with Birgersson. The guy who killed his wife. It took all night.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. Unless I’ve overlooked something.”

  “It’s always possible.”

  “Kind of you to say so,” Kollberg snapped, slamming the door behind him.

  Martin Beck propped his elbows on the edge of the desk and put his head in his hands.

  It was already Friday and the eighth of December. Twenty-five days had passed and the investigation was getting nowhere. In fact, it showed signs of falling to pieces. Everyone was clinging to his own particular straw.

  Melander was puzzling over where and when he had seen or heard the name of Nils Erik Göransson.

  Gunvald Larsson was wondering how the Assarsson brothers had made their money.

  Kollberg was trying to make out how a mentally unbalanced wife-killer by the name of Birgersson could conceivably have cheered up Stenström.