The Locked Room (18 page)

Now Martin Beck had reached the house on Tulegatan. A glance at the list of names in the hall revealed that the landlady lived in the building. A remarkable fact in itself and perhaps fortunate for him.

He went up to the third floor and rang the bell.

The van was grey, without any markings except its licence plates. The men who used it were wearing overalls of much the same colour as the van itself. There was nothing about their appear¬ance to indicate their occupation. They could have been repairmen of one kind or another, or perhaps city employees. Which in fact was precisely the case.

It was nearly six o'clock in the evening, and if nothing alarming had occurred within the next fifteen minutes they would soon be finishing their day's work and going off home to play with their kids for a while before settling down in front of the TV.

Martin Beck, having found no one at home in Tulegatan, had seized upon these two. They were sitting beside their Volkswagen van drinking beer out of bottles, while the vehicle spread a pungent odour of disinfectant. But above all there was another smell that no chemical on earth could overcome. The rear doors hung open. Understandably, the men were airing the inside of the vehicle at the first available opportunity.

In their beautiful city these men had a particular and rather important function. Their daily task was to remove suicides and other unattractive individuals who had departed this life to more suitable surroundings.

A few people, for instance firemen and policemen as well as certain journalists and other initiates, were familiar with this grey van. And when they saw it come driving down the street they knew what was amiss. But the great majority saw nothing peculiar about it; for them it was just another vehicle. Which was precisely the effect intended. After all, there was no reason to make people more dispirited and scared than they were already.

Like many others in slightly peculiar professions, these fellows took their job as it came and with great aplomb; they rarely or never overdramatized their task in the welfare machine. By and large, they only discussed it among themselves; they had long ago perceived that most listeners' reactions were highly nega¬tive - particularly when in jolly company, among friends, or at their wives' coffee tables.

Their contacts with the police, though everyday affairs, were always with cops of the lowest order. For a detective chief inspector to show interest in their doings, and even seek them out, was extremely flattering.

The more loquacious of the two wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said: 'Yes, I remember that one. Bergsgatan, wasn't it?'

'Right'

'Though the name don't mean nothing. Stål, you say?' 'No, Svärd.'

'Don't mean a thing to me. We don't often bother about names.'

'I understand.'

'That was a Sunday, too. Sundays is always busy, see?' 'Do you remember the policeman I mentioned? Kenneth Kvastmo?'

'Nix. Name means nothing to me. But I remember a cop standing there, gaping.'

'While you were taking out the body?'

The man nodded. 'Sure. We thought he was one of the tougher sort.'

'Oh, why?'

'There's two sorts of cops, see? Them as pukes and them what don't. That guy didn't even hold his nose.' 'So he was there all the time?'

'Sure, I said so, didn't I? He made damn sure we did our job to satisfaction, so to speak.'

The other tittered and took a swig of beer. 'Just one more question.' 'And what might that be?'

'When you picked up the body, did you notice whether there was anything lying underneath it? Any object?'

'And what might that have been, then?'

'An automatic, for instance. Or a revolver.'

The man burst out laughing. 'A pistol or a revolver,' he roared. 'Anyway what's the difference?'

'A revolver has a rotating chamber, which is turned by the mechanism.'

'Like cowboys have, eh?'

'Sure, that's it. Not that it makes much difference. The main question is whether there could have been any kind of a weapon lying underneath the dead man.'

'Now listen here, Chief Inspector. This customer was a middle-aged guy.'

'Middle-aged?'

'Sure, about two months gone.' Martin Beck nodded.

'We lifted him over on to the plastic sheet, see, and while I sealed the cover around the edges, Arne here swept up the maggots on the floor. We usually pour them into a bag with some stuff in it; snuffs 'em out on the spot, it does.'

'Oh?'

'And if Arne had swept up a rod, too, he couldn't have helped noticing it, could he?'

Arne nodded and tittered. The last drops of beer stuck in his windpipe. 'I certainly would,' he coughed.

'So - there was nothing there?'

'Nothing at all. Besides, that policeman was standing there all the time, looking on. In fact, he was still there after we'd put our client into the zinc box and pushed off. That's right, Arne, isn't it?'

'Dead right,' said Arne.

'You seem quite sure of yourselves.'

'Sure? We're more than that Underneath that client weren't nothing, see, except for a pretty collection of cynomyia mortuorum! ‘What's that?' 'Corpse maggots.' 'And you're quite sure?'

'Sure as hell.'

'Thanks,' said Martin Beck. And left. The men in grey overalls exchanged a few words. 'You put him where he belonged,' said Arne. 'How so?'

'With all that Greek of yours! Them big shots never thinks we're no good for nothing except packaging rotten corpses.'

The mobile telephone buzzed in the front seat Arne answered, grunted something, and put down the receiver. 'Dammit,' he said. 'Another bastard's gone and hanged himself.'

'Oh well,' his colleague said resignedly.

'I've never been able to stomach these guys as hangs themselves, to tell the truth. What do you mean by life, anyway?'

'Bah, come on, let's get going.'

By now Martin Beck had a feeling of knowing, technically speaking, most of what was to be known about the strange death on Bergsgatan. At the very least the police activities seemed satisfactorily cleared up. But one important point remained. To get hold of the report from the ballistic investigation, if there'd been one.

About Svärd, personally, he still knew very little, even though he'd put a fair amount of work into finding out about the dead man.

The Wednesday of the stakeout of Malmström and Mohrén's apartment had hardly been eventful as far as Martin Beck had been concerned. He knew nothing about the bank robberies or the special squad's trials and tribulations; and for this he was mostly glad. After his visit to Svärd's flat on Tuesday afternoon he had first gone to the central police station on Kungsholmsgatan - where everyone else was deeply involved in his own problems and no one had any time for him - and thence to the National Police Board. There he had heard a rumour that at first seemed only ridiculous, but which, on reflection, had upset him.

It was being said he was to be promoted. But to what? Superintendent? Commissioner? Head of Section? Perhaps to health, wealth, and prosperity?

However, this was not the main point Probably the whole assumption was nothing but a product of canteen gossip, for the most part baseless.

He'd been promoted to detective chief inspector as recently as 1967, and there were no real grounds for supposing he would ever reach the higher grades. Under no circumstances could there be any question of his being promoted to something better within four or five years, at the earliest. This was something that everyone should have known, for if there is one matter that bureaucrats are thoroughly acquainted with it's salary scales and promotions - matters where everyone keeps a jealous eye on his own and others' chances.

How could such a rumour have started? There must be some line of reasoning behind it. But what? As tar as he could see, he could choose between two explanations.

The first was that they wanted to get rid of him as head of the National Murder Squad, even to the point where they were prepared to kick him upstairs into the bureaucracy. That, after all, is the commonest way of getting rid of unpleasant or obviously incompetent officials. This, however, was improbable. True, he had enemies on the National Police Board, though to them he could hardly constitute a threat. Moreover, they would have to promote Kollberg to succeed him, something which from their point of view would be quite as undesirable.

Therefore, the second alternative seemed the more probable. But unfortunately it was a good deal more humiliating for all parties. Fifteen months earlier he had been within an inch of losing his life: the only senior official in modern Swedish history to do so. He had been shot by a so-called criminal. The occurrence had drawn much attention, and what he had done had furnished him with a halo he certainly didn't deserve. However, for obvious reasons, heroes are in very short supply on the police force, and that was why the happy outcome of that drama had been grossly exaggerated.

So - there was now a hero on the force. And what can one do with a hero? He'd already been given a medal; and the least they could do with him now was promote him.

Martin Beck himself had had plenty of time to analyse what had happened on that fateful day in April, 1971. He had long ago come to the conclusion that he'd acted wrongly; not only morally but also professionally. He was also well aware that this reflection had also occurred to more than one of his colleagues long before he'd appreciated it himself. He'd been shot because he'd acted like an idiot. And on these grounds they were now about to give him a more senior and responsible position.

He had been contemplating his own situation on Tuesday evening, but as soon as he again sat down at his desk at Västberga, he had immediately stopped thinking about it. Instead, indif¬ferent but ruthlessly systematic, he had devoted Wednesday to the Svärd case, sitting alone in his room and working his way through the investigation.

At one point he had thought to himself that this was just about what he could henceforth hope to get out of his job when it was at its best. To be left alone to deal with a case in the approved manner, and without outside interference.

Somewhere inside him he still felt a faint nostalgia - for what, he couldn't say. Perhaps a genuine interest in what he was doing. He had always found solitude easy, and now he seemed definitely on his way to becoming a recluse who had no desire for others' company or any real will to break out of his vacuum. Was he turning into a serviceable robot, enclosed, as it were, under a casse¬role cover - a dome of invisible glass?

Where the present problem was concerned he had no profes¬sional doubts. Either he would solve it, or else he would not The percentage of murders and manslaughters cleared up by his depart¬ment was a high one. This was due to the fact that most crimes are uncomplicated and those who are guilty are usually disposed to throw in the towel.

Further, the murder squad was relatively well-equipped. The only segment of the force that had greater resources in propor¬tion to the crimes it had to combat was the security police. Since they still mostly occupied themselves with keeping a register of communists, meanwhile obstinately averting their eyes from various more or less exotic fascist organizations, they really had no function anyway. Therefore they mostly spent their time dreaming up political crimes and potential security risks in order to have something to do. The results of their activities were just what one would expect: laughable. Nevertheless, the security police constituted a kind of tactical political reserve, always ready to be employed against disagree¬able ideologies. And situations could easily be envisaged in which their activities would no longer be in the least bit laughable.

Sometimes, of course, the National Murder Squad was also unsuccessful. Investigations became bogged down and were even¬tually filed away. Usually these concerned cases where the culprit was known but, because of his obstinate denials, could not be proven guilty. The more primitive a violent crime, the poorer, often, is the evidence.

Martin Beck's last great fiasco could serve as a typical example of this. An elderly man in Lapland had killed his wife, who was the same age as himself, with an axe. The motive was that he had long had a relationship with the couple's housekeeper, who was somewhat younger, and had finally tired of his old lady's nagging and jealousy. After murdering her, he had put the corpse out into the woodshed. Since it was winter and the cold had been severe, he had waited some two months before laying a door on a sled and taking her off to the nearest village, which lay more than twelve trackless miles from his farm. Whereupon he had simply declared that the old woman had fallen over and hit her head against the stove, and that he hadn't been able to take her to the village earlier because of the cold weather. Everyone in the place knew it was a lie; but the man had stuck to his tale and so did his housekeeper. The amateurish investi¬gation of the local police had destroyed all traces of the crime. They then called in outside help, and Martin Beck had spent two weeks in a strange hotel before giving up and going home. In the daytime he had questioned the murderer, and in the evenings had sat in the hotel dining room, listening to the locals laughing at him behind his back. Such reverses, however, were exceptional.

The Svärd story was odder and not really reminiscent of any case Martin Beck had ever handled. This should have been stimu¬lating, but he had no personal interest in enigmas and did not feel stimulated at all.

His desk work on Wednesday had also yielded very little. The files of punished crimes contained no trace of Karl Edvin Svärd. In itself, this meant no more than that he'd never been convicted of any crime. But how many transgressors of the law get away without ever appearing before a court - quite apart from the fact that the law has been designed to protect certain social classes and their dubious interests, and otherwise seems mostly to consist of loopholes?

The report from the State Wines and Spirits Board drew a blank. This, presumably, meant that Svärd had not been an alcoholic. For a person of his social status would certainly have had his drinking habits scrutinized by the authorities. When the upper class drinks, it is known as 'culture'; citizens of the other class having similar needs are immediately categorized as alcoholics, or as cases in need of care and protection. Whereafter they receive neither care nor protection.