Хеннинг Манкелль – Roseanna (страница 7)

He walked to the end of the breakwater and stood there for a while. She had been lying here, or more accurately, her violated body had been lying here, on a crumpled tarpaulin practically on view to anyone for public inspection. After a few hours it had been carried away by two businesslike, uniformed men with a stretcher and, in time, an elderly gentleman whose profession it was to do so had opened it up, examined it in detail, and then sewn it together again before it was sent to the mortuary. He hadn't seen it himself. There was always something to be thankful for.

Martin Beck became conscious of the fact that he was standing with his hands clasped behind his back as he shifted his weight from the sole of one foot to another, a habit from his years as a patrolman which was totally unconscious and almost unbreakable. He was standing and staring at a grey and uninteresting piece of ground from where the chalk marks from the first, routine investigation had long since been washed away by the rain. He must have occupied himself with this for a long time because the surroundings had gone through a number of changes. When he looked up he observed a small, white passenger boat entering one of the locks at a good speed. When it passed the dredger, some twenty cameras pointed at it, and, as if to underscore the situation, the dredging foreman climbed out of his cabin and also photographed the passenger boat. Martin Beck followed the boat with his eyes as it passed the jetty and noted certain ugly details. The hull had clean lines but the mast was cut off and the original smokestack, which had surely been high and straight and beautiful, had been replaced by a strange, streamlined little tin hood. From inside the ship growled something that must have been a diesel engine. The deck was full of tourists. Nearly all of them seemed to be elderly or middle-aged and several of them wore straw hats with flowered bands.

The boat was named Juno. He remembered that Ahlberg had mentioned this name the first time they had met.

There were a lot of people on the breakwater and along the edge of the canal now. Some of them fished and others sunbathed, but most of them were chiefly occupied with watching the boat. For the first time in several hours Martin Beck found a reason to say something.

‘Does the boat always pass here at this time of day?’

‘Yes, if it comes from Stockholm. Twelve-thirty. Right. The one that goes in the other direction comes by later, just after four. They meet at Vadstena. They tie up there.’

‘There are a lot of people here, on shore, I mean.’

‘They come down to see the boat.’

‘Are there always so many?’

‘Usually.’

The man he was talking to took the pipe from his mouth and spat in the water.

‘Some pleasure,’ he said. ‘To stand and stare at a bunch of tourists.’

When Martin Beck walked back along the brink of the canal he passed the little passenger boat again. It was now about halfway up, peacefully rising in the third lock. A number of passengers had gone on land. Several of them were photographing the boat, others crowded around the kiosk on shore where they were buying postcards and plastic souvenirs which, without doubt, were made in Hong Kong.

Martin Beck couldn't really say that he was short of time so with his innate respect for government budgets he took the bus back to town instead of a taxi.

There were no newspapermen in the hotel lobby and no messages for him at the desk. He went up to his room, sat down at the table and looked out over the Square. Actually he should have gone over to the police station but he had already been there twice before lunch.

Half an hour later he telephoned Ahlberg.

‘Hi. I'm glad you called. The Public Prosecutor is here.’

‘And?’

‘He's going to hold a press conference at six o'clock. He seems worried.’

‘Oh.’

‘He would like you to be there.’

‘I'll be there.’

‘Will you bring Kollberg with you. I haven't had time to tell him yet.’

‘Where is Melander?’

‘Out with one of my boys following up a lead.’

‘Did it sound as if it could be anything important?’

‘Hell, no.’

‘And otherwise?’

‘Nothing. The Prosecutor is worried about the press. The other telephone is ringing now.’

‘So long. See you later.’

He remained seated at the table and listlessly smoked all his cigarettes. Then he looked at the clock, got up, and went out into the corridor. He stopped three doors down the hall, knocked and walked in, quietly and very quickly, in his usual manner.

Kollberg lay on the bed reading an evening paper. He had taken off his shoes and jacket and opened his shirt. His service pistol lay on the night table, wrapped up in his tie.

‘We've fallen back to page twelve today,’ he said. ‘The poor devils, they don't have an easy time of it.’

‘Who?’

‘Those reporters. “The mystery tightens around the bestial murder of the woman in Motala. Not only the local police but even the Homicide Division of the National Police are fumbling around hopelessly in the dark.” I wonder where they get all that?’

Kollberg was fat and had a nonchalant and jovial manner which caused many people to make fateful mistakes in judging him.

‘“The case seemed to be a routine one in the beginning but has become more and more complicated. The leaders of the search are uncommunicative but are working along several different lines. The naked beauty in Boren …” oh, crap!’

He looked through the rest of the article and threw the newspaper on the floor.

‘Yes, she was some beauty. A completely ordinary bowlegged woman with a big rear end and very small breasts.’

‘She had a big crotch, of course,’ said Kollberg. ‘And that was her misfortune,’ he added philosophically.

‘Have you seen her?’ Martin Beck asked.

‘Of course, haven't you?’

‘Only her pictures.’

‘Well, I've seen her,’ said Kollberg.

‘What have you been doing this afternoon?’

‘What do you think? Reports from knocking on doors. What garbage! It's insane to send out fifteen different guys all over the place. Everybody expresses themselves differently and sees things differently. Some of them write four pages about seeing a one-eyed cat and saying that the kids in a house are snot-nosed, and others write up finding three bodies and a time bomb in a few paragraphs. They even ask totally different questions.’

Martin Beck said nothing. Kollberg sighed.

‘They should have a formula,’ he said. ‘They would save four-fifths of the time.’

‘Yes.’

Martin Beck searched in his pockets.

‘As you know I don't smoke,’ said Kollberg jokingly.

‘The Public Prosecutor is holding a press conference in half an hour. He would like us to be there.’

‘Oh. That ought to be lively.’

He pointed to the newspaper and said:

‘If we questioned the reporters for once. For four days in a row that guy has written that an arrest can be expected before the end of the afternoon. And the girl looks a little bit like Anita Ekberg and a little bit like Sophia Loren.’

He sat up in bed, buttoned his shirt and began to lace his shoes.

Martin Beck walked over to the window.

‘It's going to rain any minute,’ he said.

‘Oh damn,’ Kollberg said and yawned.

‘Are you tired?’

‘I slept two hours last night. We were out in the woods in the moonlight searching for that type from St Sigfrid's.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Yes, of course! And after we had wandered around for seven hours in this damn tourist place someone got around to telling us that the boys back at Klara station in Stockholm got the guy in Berzelii Park the night before last.’

Kollberg finished dressing and put his pistol in place. He took a quick look at Martin Beck and said: ‘You look depressed. What is it?’

‘Nothing special.’