Per Wahloo – The Fire Engine That Disappeared (страница 4)

He leaned forward and patted her hand.

‘I am all right now, Mother,’ he said. ‘Nowadays, I mostly sit at a desk. But of course, I’ve often asked myself the same question.’

It was true. He had often asked himself why he had become a policeman.

Naturally he could have replied that at the time, during the war years, it was a good way of avoiding military service. After a two-year deferment because of bad lungs, he had been declared fit and no longer exempt, which was quite an important reason. In 1944 conscientious objectors were not tolerated. Many of those who had evaded military service in the way he had, had since changed occupation, but he himself had been promoted over the years to chief inspector. That ought to mean that he was a good policeman, but he was not so sure. There were several instances of senior posts in the police being held by less able policemen. He was not even certain he wanted to be good policeman, if that involved being a dutiful person who never deviated one iota from the regulations. He remembered something Lennart Kollberg had once said a long time ago. ‘There are lots of good cops around. Stupid guys who are good cops. Inflexible, limited, tough, self-satisfied types who are all good cops. It would be better if there were a few more good guys who were cops.’

His mother came out with him, and they walked together in the park a bit. The slushy snow made it difficult to walk and the icy wind rattled round the branches of the tall bare trees. After they had slipped about for ten minutes, he accompanied her back to the porch and kissed her on the cheek. He turned around on his way down the slope and saw her standing there waving by the entrance. Small and shrunken and grey.

He took the metro back to the South police station in Västberga Allé.

On the way to his office, he glanced into Kollberg’s room. Kollberg was an inspector as well as Martin Beck’s assistant and best friend. The room was empty. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was half-past one. It was Thursday. It required no powers of deduction to work out where Kollberg was. For a brief moment Martin Beck even considered joining him down there with his pea soup, but then he thought of his stomach and desisted. It was already disturbed by the far too numerous cups of coffee his mother had pressed on him.

On his blotter there was a brief message about the man who had committed suicide that same morning.

His name was Ernst Sigurd Karlsson and he was forty-six years old. He was unmarried and his nearest relative was an elderly aunt in Boras. He had been absent from his work in an insurance company since Monday. Influenza. According to his colleagues at work, he was a loner and as far as they knew he had no close friends. His neighbours said he was quiet and inoffensive, came and went at definite times and seldom had visitors. Tests on his handwriting showed that it had indeed been he who had written Martin Beck’s name on the telephone pad. That he had committed suicide was perfectly evident.

There was nothing else to say about the case. Ernst Sigurd Karlsson had taken his own life, and as suicide is not a crime in Sweden, the police could not do very much more. All the questions had been answered. Except one. Whoever had written out the report had also asked this question: Had Chief Inspector Beck had any connection with the man in question and could he possibly add anything?

Martin Beck could not.

He had never heard of Ernst Sigurd Karlsson.

2

As Gunvald Larsson left his office at the police station in Kungsholmsgatan, it was half-past ten at night and he had no plans whatsoever for becoming a hero; insofar as it was no great deed to go home to Bollmora, shower, put on his pyjamas and go to bed. Gunvald Larsson thought about his pyjamas with pleasure. They were new, bought that same day, and most of his colleagues would not have believed their ears if they had heard what they had cost. On his way home, he was to carry out a minor duty which would hardly set him back more than five minutes, if that. As he thought about his pyjamas, he struggled into his Bulgarian sheepskin coat, put out the light, slammed the door and left. The decrepit lift which went up to their department went wrong as usual and he had to stamp twice on the floor before it could be persuaded to get going. Gunvald Larsson was a large man, six feet two inches in his socks, weighing over fourteen stone, and it was noticeable when he stamped his feet.

It was cold and windy outside, with gusts of dry, swirling snow, but it took only a few steps to get to the car and he did not need to worry about the weather.

Gunvald Larsson drove across Vaster Bridge, glancing indifferently to his left. He saw the City Hall with the yellow light thrown on to the three golden crowns on the spire at the top of the tower, and thousands upon thousands of other lights which he could not identify. From the bridge, he continued straight to Hornsplan, turned left on to Hornsgatan and then turned right by the Zinkensdamm metro station. He drove only about five hundred yards southward along Ringvägen, then braked.

There are as good as no buildings there, despite the fact that it is still in central Stockholm. On the west side of the street, Tantolunden, a hilly park, spreads out, and to the east there is a rocky knoll, a car park and a petrol station. It is called Sköldgatan and is not really a street at all, but rather a bit of road which for some incomprehensible reason has remained since, with doubtful zeal, the planners devastated this city district, as well as most of the others, depriving them of their original value and obliterating their special character.

Sköldgatan is a winding bit of road, less than three hundred yards long, which connects Ringvägen with Rosenlundsgatan and is largely used by a few taxi drivers or occasional lost police cars. In the summer, it is something of an oasis with its luxuriant roadside foliage, and despite the heavy traffic on Ringvägen and the trains thundering along the line only fifty yards away, the older generation of the district’s unhappy children, with bottles of wine, bits of sausage and greasy packs of cards, can operate relatively undisturbed in the undergrowth. No one is to be found voluntarily there in the winter.

On this particular evening, the seventh of March, 1968, however, a man was standing freezing among the bare bushes on the south side of the road. His attention was not entirely what it ought to have been and was only partly directed towards the one dwelling house in the street, an old wooden, two-storey building. A short while earlier, the lights had been on in two of the windows on the second floor and the sounds of music, shouting and occasional peals of laughter had been heard, but now all the lights in the house were out and the only thing to be heard was the wind and the hum of the traffic far away. The man in the bushes was not standing there of his own free will. He was a policeman and his name was Zachrisson and he was wishing heartily that he was elsewhere.

Gunvald Larsson got out of his car, put up his coat collar and pulled his fur cap down over his ears. Then he strode straight across the wide road, past the petrol station, and slogged on through the slushy snow. The highway authorities clearly did not think it worth their while wasting road salt on this useless bit of roadway. The house lay about seventy-five yards further on, slightly above road level and at a sharp angle to it. He stopped in front of it, looked around and said quietly:

‘Zachrisson?’

The man in the bushes shook himself and came up to him.

‘Bad news,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘You’ve got two more hours. Isaksson is off sick.’

‘Hell!’ said Zachrisson.

Gunvald Larsson surveyed the scene. Then he made a disgruntled grimace and said:

‘It’d be better if you stood up on the slope.’

‘Yes, if I want to freeze my arse off,’ said Zachrisson misanthropically.

‘If you want a decent view. Has anything happened?’

The other man shook his head.

‘Not a damn thing,’ he said. ‘They had some sort of party up there a while back. Now it looks as if they’re lying up there sleeping it off.’

‘And Malm?’

‘Him too. It’s three hours since he put his light out.’

‘Has he been alone all the time?’

‘Yes, seems so.’

‘Seems? Has anyone left the house?’

‘I haven’t seen anyone.’

‘What have you seen, then?’

‘Three people have gone in since I came. A man and two women. They came in a taxi. I think they were in on that party.’

‘Think?’ said Gunvald Larsson inquiringly.

‘Well, what the hell is one to think? I haven’t got …’

The man’s teeth were chattering so that he had difficulty in speaking. Gunvald Larsson inspected him critically and said:

‘What haven’t you got?’

‘X-ray eyes,’ said Zachrisson dismally.

Gunvald Larsson was inclined to severity and had little understanding for human weaknesses. As an officer, he was anything but popular and many people were afraid of him. If Zachrisson had known him better, he would never have dared behave as he had, that is, naturally; but not even Gunvald Larsson could wholly ignore the fact that the man was exhausted and cold, and his condition and ability to observe would hardly improve over the next few hours. He realized what ought to be done but did not plan to drop the matter for that reason. He grunted irritably and said: