by Per Wahlöö
He got up from his desk chair, stretched his back and shoulders, and went out into the corridor and down the spiral staircase to the reception area and duty desk. Everything down there was old-fashioned and the walls were painted the same grass-green colour he remembered from his own time as a patrol officer twenty-five years before. A long wooden counter ran the length of the room, and beyond it were some wall-mounted benches and a row of interrogation booths with glass screens and smooth, round doorknobs. At this time of day there were few people in the guardroom. A few escaped alcoholics and starving prostitutes, all middle-aged or older, sat huddled on the benches waiting for their turn in the booths, and behind the desk sat a bare-headed police officer in a green linen uniform. He was the one on telephone duty. Every so often there was the sound of a vehicle rumbling in through the archway.
Jensen opened a steel door in the wall and went down to the basement. The Sixteenth District station was an old one, virtually the only old building still standing in this part of the city, and in a pretty poor state of repair, but the arrest cells were newly built. The ceilings, floors and walls were painted white and the barred doors gleamed, etched in the bright lights.
Outside the door to the yard stood a grey police van with the back doors open. Some uniformed constables were emptying it of its passengers, shoving a collection of drunks into the building for a full body search. They were dealing very roughly with their charges, but Jensen knew it was more out of exhaustion than brutality.
He passed through the search area and looked into the drunks’ naked, desperate faces.
Despite the strict clampdown, public drunkenness was rising from year to year, and since the government had forced through a new law making alcohol abuse an offence in the home as well, the burden of police work had assumed almost superhuman proportions. Every evening between two and three thousand individuals were arrested, all more or less blind drunk; around half of them were women. Jensen recalled that back in his time as a patrol officer, they had thought three hundred drunks on a Saturday night was a lot.
An ambulance had pulled up alongside the van, and behind it stood a young man in a cap and a white coat. It was the police doctor.
‘Five of them need to go to hospital and get their stomachs pumped,’ he said. ‘I daren’t keep them here. I can’t be held responsible if anything should happen to them.’
Jensen nodded.
‘What a bloody mess it all is,’ said the police doctor. ‘They slap five thousand per cent duty on booze. Then they create living conditions that force people to drink themselves to death, and to crown it all they earn three hundred thousand a day in fines for drunkenness, in this city alone.’
‘You need to watch your tongue,’ said Inspector Jensen.
CHAPTER 5
Inspector Jensen lived relatively centrally, in a housing area south of the city, and it took him less than an hour to drive home in his police car.
In the city centre the streets were quite busy; the snack bars and cinemas were still open and the pavements were full of people strolling past the rows of lighted shop windows. The people’s faces looked white and tense, as though pained by the cold, corrosive light of the street lamps and advertising signs. There were occasional groups of young people gathered idly around popcorn stalls or in front of shop windows. Most were just standing there and did not seem to be talking to each other. Some of them cast indifferent glances at the police car.
Youth crime, previously considered a serious problem, had decreased in the last ten years and had now been almost eradicated. There was less crime generally, in all categories; it was really only alcohol abuse that was on the rise. At several places in the shopping area, Jensen saw uniformed officers at work. Their white rubber truncheons glinted in the neon light as they pushed those they had arrested into the police vans.
He drove down into the road tunnel by the Ministry of the Interior and came back up eight kilometres later in an industrial area empty of people, crossed a bridge and continued south down the motorway.
He felt tired and had a dull, nagging pain in his diaphragm, on the right-hand side.
The suburb where he lived comprised thirty-six eight-storey tower blocks, set out in four parallel lines. Between the rows of apartment blocks there were car parks, areas of grass, and play pavilions of transparent plastic for the children.
Jensen pulled up in front of the seventh block in the third row, turned off the ignition and got out into the cold, clear, starry night. Although his watch showed it was only five past eleven, all the blocks were in darkness. He put a coin in the parking meter, turned the knob to set the red hour hand, and went up to his flat.
He switched on the light and took off his outdoor clothes, shoes, tie and jacket. He unbuttoned his shirt and walked through from the hall, letting his eyes rest briefly on the impersonal furnishings, the large television set and the police training college photos hanging on the walls.
Then he let down the blinds at the windows, took off his trousers and switched off the light. He went out into the kitchen and took the bottle from the refrigerator.
Inspector Jensen went to get a tumbler, turned down the bedcover and top sheet and sat on the bed.
He sat in the darkness and drank.
As the pain in his diaphragm loosened its grip, he put his glass on the bedside table and lay down.
He fell asleep almost instantly.
CHAPTER 6
Inspector Jensen woke up at half past six in the morning. He got out of bed and went to the bathroom, washed his hands and face and the back of his neck in cold water, shaved and cleaned his teeth. Once he had finished gargling, he coughed for a long time.
Then he boiled some water, stirred honey into it and tried to drink while it was as scalding hot as possible. As he did so, he read the papers. None of them said a word about the events that had kept him busy the day before.
There was heavy traffic on the motorway, and even though he used his siren it was twenty-five to nine before he walked into his office.
Ten minutes later, the chief of police rang.
‘Have you started the investigation?’
‘Yes.’
‘Along what lines?’
‘The technical evidence is being analysed. The psychologists are seeing what they can make of the wording. I’ve got a man working on the post office angle.’
‘Any results?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Have you got a theory yourself?’
‘No.’
Silence.
‘My existing knowledge of the company in question is insufficient,’ said Inspector Jensen.
‘It would be a good idea to refresh it, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘And an even better idea to get that information from some source other than the company itself.’
‘Understood.’
‘I suggest the Ministry of Communications, maybe the Secretary of State for Press Affairs.’
‘Understood.’
‘Do you read their magazines?’
‘No. But I shall now.’
‘Good. And for God’s sake be careful not to annoy the publisher and his cousin.’
‘Is there anything to stop me putting some of the plainclothes men on bodyguard duty?’
‘For the company bosses?’
‘Yes.’
‘Without telling them?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you consider such action justified?’
‘Yes.’
‘You think your people are up to a sensitive assignment like that?’
‘Yes.’
The silence that followed lasted so long that Jensen’s eyes drifted to the clock. He could hear the police chief breathing and tapping the table with something, presumably a pen.
‘Jensen?’
‘Yes?’
‘From this moment on, I’m putting the investigation entirely in your hands. I don’t want to be informed of your methods or any of the steps you ar
e taking.’
‘Understood.’
‘The responsibility is yours. I’m relying on you.’
‘Understood.’
‘You’re entirely clear on the general terms of reference for the investigation?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good luck.’
Inspector Jensen went along the corridor to the toilets, filled a paper cup with water and came back to his desk. Pulled out a drawer and took out a sachet of bicarbonate of soda, poured about three teaspoons of the white powder into the cup and stirred it with his plastic biro.
In the course of his twenty-five years of police service he had only ever seen the chief once, and had never spoken to him until the previous day. Since then they had had five conversations.
He drained the cup in a single draught, scrunched it up and threw it in the bin. Then he rang the institute of forensics. The lab technician’s voice was dry and formal.
‘No, no fingerprints.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. But for us, nothing’s definitive. We’ll be trying other methods of analysis.’
‘The envelope?’
‘One of the commonest brands. Hasn’t told us much so far.’
‘And the sheet of paper?’
‘That, on the other hand seems to have a special structure. And it also looks as though it’s been torn out of something, along one edge.’
‘Will you be able to trace where from?’
‘Conceivably.’
‘And apart from that?’
‘Nothing. We’re still working on it.’
He ended the call, went over to the window and looked down into the concrete yard of the police station. At the entrance to the body search area, he could see two policemen in rubber boots and waterproof overalls. They were getting hoses ready for sluicing out the arrest cells. He loosened his belt and gulped air until the gases in his stomach were forced up through his gullet.
The telephone rang. It was his man at the post office.
‘This is going to take time.’
‘You can have the time you need but no more.’
‘How often shall I report back?’
‘At eight every morning, in writing.’
Inspector Jensen replaced the receiver, put on his hat and left the room.
The Ministry of Communications was in the city centre, between the Royal Palace and the central offices of the Coalition parties. The Secretary of State for Press Affairs had his office on the second floor, with a view over the palace.
‘The company is run in an exemplary fashion,’ he said. ‘An absolute model of free enterprise.’
‘I understand.’
‘What I can provide you with, however, is some purely statistical information.’
He picked up a file from his desk and flicked through it distractedly.
‘They publish one hundred and forty-four different titles. Last year, the net circulation of all these magazines combined amounted to twenty-one million, three hundred and twenty-six thousand, four hundred and fifty-three copies. A week.’
Jensen noted down the total on a small white card. 21,326,453.
‘That is a very high figure. It means our country has the highest frequency of reading in the world.’
‘Are there any other weekly magazines apart from theirs?’
‘A few. They have print runs of a few thousand and are distributed only within limited areas.’
Jensen nodded.
‘But the publishing company is naturally only one branch of the group’s activities.’
‘What are the others?’
‘Within the remit of my department, there’s a chain of printing companies mainly producing daily newspapers.’
‘How many?’
‘Companies? Thirty-six.’
‘And how many papers?’
‘A hundred or so. One moment.’
He consulted his paperwork.
‘A hundred and two at present. The make-up of the newspaper chain is constantly changing. Some titles cease publication, others replace them.’
‘Why?’
‘In order to respond to new needs and follow current trends.’ Jensen nodded.
‘The net circulation of the daily papers last year …’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve only got the figure for the country’s total newspaper production. A net circulation of nine million, two hundred and sixty-five thousand, three hundred and twelve a day. It’ll be about the same, anyway. There are a few newspapers printed entirely independently of the publishing group. They have big problems with their distribution, and their circulations are insignificant. If you reduce the figure I gave you by about five thousand, you should have more or less the correct number.’
Jensen made another note on his slip of paper: 9,260,000. He said:
‘Who controls the distribution network?’
‘A democratic association of newspaper publishers.’
‘All newspaper publishers?’
‘Yes, with the proviso that their papers have to have print runs of more than fifty thousand.’
‘Why?’
‘Smaller circulation papers aren’t considered profitable. In fact, the group immediately shuts down publications if their circulation falls below the figure I mentioned.’
Inspector Jensen put the slip of paper in his pocket.
‘In practice then, that means the group has control of all newspaper production in the country, doesn’t it?’
‘If one cares to put it that way, yes. But I would just like to point out that their titles are extremely comprehensive in their coverage, commendable in every respect. The weekly magazines in particular have proved their ability to cater for all legitimate tastes in a moderate manner. In times past, the press often exerted an inflammatory and unsettling influence on its readership. Now, its design and content are designed solely for its readers’ benefit.’
He glanced into his file again and turned a page.
‘… and enjoyment. The publications are aimed at the family, at being something they can all read, at not creating aggression, dissatisfaction or anxiety. They satisfy ordinary people’s natural need for escapism. In short, they are in the service of the Accord.’
‘I understand.’
‘Before the Accord came up with this definitive solution, newspaper and magazine publishing was much more fractured than it is now. The political parties and trade unions all had their own publishing arms. But as their publications gradually got into financial difficulties, they were closed down or taken over by the group. Many of them were rescued thanks to …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, thanks to the principles I have just been talking about. Thanks to their capacity for giving their readers peace of mind and security. Their capacity for being uncomplicated, easy to understand, and in tune with the tastes and concentration spans of people today.’
Jensen nodded.
‘I don’t think it’s any exaggeration to claim that this united front on the part of the press has contributed more than anything else to consolidating the Accord. To bridging the gaps between political parties, between monarchy and republic, between the so-called upper classes and …’
He tailed off and looked out of the window before going on:
‘It’s no exaggeration, either, when they say that the credit must go to the group’s management, those at the very top. Exceptional men, with great moral fibre. Completely without vanity, seeking neither titles nor power, nor …’
‘Wealth?’
The Secretary of State turned a quick, questioning eye on the man in the visitor’s armchair.
‘Exactly so,’ he said.
‘Which other companies does the group control?’
‘I couldn’t really say,’ said the Secretary of State vaguely. ‘Distribution companies, packaging manufacturers, shipping companies, furniture producers … the paper industry, of course, and it’s not my department.’
He fixed Jensen w
ith a look.
‘I don’t really think there’s any more information of any value that I can give you,’ he said. ‘Incidentally, why the interest?’
‘Orders,’ said Jensen.
‘To change the subject, what effect have the new police powers had on the figures?’
‘You mean the suicide rate statistics?’
‘Yes I do.’
‘Positive.’
‘Very pleased to hear it.’
Inspector Jensen asked four further questions.
‘Doesn’t the group’s business activities run counter to the antitrust law?’
‘I’m not a lawyer.’
‘What’s the group’s turnover?’
‘That’s a technical tax matter.’
‘And the owners’ personal fortunes?’
‘Almost impossible to estimate.’
‘Have you yourself ever been employed by the group?’
‘Yes.’
On the way back he stopped at a snack bar, drank a cup of tea and ate two rye rusks. As he ate, he thought about the suicide rate, which had improved considerably since the imposition of the new alcohol abuse laws. The drying-out clinics didn’t issue any statistics, and suicide on police property was always recorded as sudden death. Despite the very thorough body searches, these were unfortunately quite common nowadays.
By the time he got back to the Sixteenth District it was already two and the processing of the drunks was in full swing. The only reason it didn’t start even earlier was that they tried to avoid making arrests before noon. It was a decision that seemed to have been arrived at for reasons of hygiene, so there would be time to disinfect the cell areas.
The police doctor stood at the duty desk smoking, with one elbow propped on the wooden counter. His coat was crumpled and bloodstained, and Inspector Jensen gave it a critical look. The other man saw it and said:
‘Nothing to worry about. Just some poor bloke who … He’s dead now. I was too late.’
Inspector Jensen nodded.
The doctor’s eyelids were swollen and red-rimmed, his eyelashes caked with lumps of yellowish matter.
He gave Jensen a thoughtful look and said: