MAJ SJÖWALL AND

PER WAHLÖÖ

Murder at the Savoy

Translated from the Swedish by Joan Tate

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors' imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

4th Estate

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This ebook first published by Harper Perennial in 2009

This 4th Estate edition published in 2016

This translation first published by Random House Inc, New York, in 1971

Originally published in Sweden by P. A. Norstedt & Söners Forlag

Copyright text © Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö 1970

Copyright introduction © Arne Dahl 2009

Cover photograph © Shutterstock

PS Section © Richard Shephard 2007

PS™ is a trademark of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007242962

Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780007323432

Version: 2018-05-18

From the reviews of the Martin Beck series:

‘First class’

Daily Telegraph

‘One of the most authentic, gripping and profound collections of police procedural ever accomplished’

MICHAEL CONNELLY

‘Hauntingly effective storytelling’

New York Times

‘There's just no question about it: the reigning King and Queen of mystery fiction are Maj Sjöwall and her husband Per Wahlöö’

The National Observer

‘Sjöwall/Wahlöö are the best writers of police procedural in the world’

Birmingham Post

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Authors

Other Books By

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION

It’s unusual to be able to point to the actual parents of a literary tradition. It’s even more unusual when we speak of an entire genre. But that is actually the case for the Swedish crime fiction genre that is still the strongest today: the police procedural that has a perspective of social criticism. Before Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö appeared on the scene, the Swedish detective novel looked completely different. With them all the naïveté of the classic murder mystery was irrevocably lost.

Almost all Swedish authors who write police procedurals have at one time or another been hailed as successors to Sjöwall and Wahlöö. In my case, it has happened rather more often than for other writers. And I have never objected. When people ask me about my role models, I usually say: Sjöwall and Wahlöö. This is the honest truth, even though in life I’m generally not particularly dependent on role models – whether I sink or swim, I believe in going my own way. It’s always better for an author to speak in his own voice.

Writers of detective novels are almost always expected to say that they don’t read detective novels. And I have tended to live up to these expectations. When I took my first stumbling steps towards writing crime fiction nearly a decade ago, I could in all honesty say: I don’t read detective novels.

But it wasn’t always like that. In fact, I readily admit that the very opposite was true. The books that I read as an adolescent were to an absurdly high degree based on suspense fiction: nail-biting cliffhangers, action stories, classic murder mysteries, spy thrillers – you name it. I read absolutely everything that contained even the slightest hint of suspense.

You might well ask when the adolescent mind is at its most receptive, at which age in particular and under which mental conditions the most indelible impressions are made. Fifteen is a strong candidate. It could be deemed the most manic-depressive age in anyone’s life. On the one hand, life seems an almost incessant torment; on the other hand, you are starting to realize who you are and, in spite of everything, what possibilities life has to offer.

Sjöwall and Wahlöö came into my life after I had actually given up all those childish suspense books. And so I was ready for completely different literary impressions (precociously ready, that is). But when those two authors appeared, not only did they make use of all the various suspense traditions in which I had immersed myself, they also added two elements that I had been missing up until then: humour and a critical view of contemporary society.

And one more thing: an incredibly nuanced and meticulously chiselled use of language.

It’s always risky to return to a reading experience that had once proved so decisive in your life. Disappointment is the rule; relief is the exception. Yet I feel no disappointment when I re-read the ten books that make up the series called The Story of a Crime. I may feel a bit surprised by the brief format and the relatively simple plots – and perhaps also by the unrelenting plight of Martin Beck’s weary attitude towards life. And yet – what I really feel is relief. Relief that the books are still so good. That they actually are good role models. And for that I will always be grateful.

The books in the series known collectively as The Story of a Crime were published in Sweden between 1965 and 1975, with one book appearing each year except in 1973. But it was in that year that Per Wahlöö said in an interview: ‘In the beginning we tried to keep a low profile in order to reach an audience, but the socialist elements have undoubtedly become more prominent.’ As early as 1966 Wahlöö stated their goal with great clarity: ‘The basic idea is, via one long novel of approximately 3,000 pages – divided into ten freestanding parts, or chapters, if you will – to present a cross-section of a society that possesses a specific structure and to analyze criminality as a social function as well as its relationship to both society and the various types of moral lifestyles that encompass the society in question.’

In other words: literature emblematic of the 1968 generation. It ranges from the period of dawning political consciousness in 1965 up to what might be considered the most dogmatic of years, 1975. It was supposed to be like much of the fiction coming out of 1968: so politically doctrinaire that all forms of literary tension were lost and the whole thing fell flat.

The remarkable thing was that this didn’t happen. Not even in the last novel, The Terrorists, which was more or less completed by cutting and pasting it together after Wahlöö’s death. This novel is truly ideological down to the smallest detail. The final scene is significant. Martin Beck and his new lover, Rhea, are visiting the home of his former colleague Lennart Kollberg and his wife Gun. Here the entire series is supposed to be summed up, the threads from all ten books drawn together. There is also, in a rudimentary fashion, a political summation of the preceding ten years. But it happens in a relaxed and clear context. The four characters are sitting together playing a game as they chat. The game is called Crossword. One person says a letter of the alphabet and the others have to try to place it in a grid on their piece of paper. Kollberg keeps winning, and they keep starting over. He brings the scene to a close with the words: ‘It’s my turn to start. So I say “x,” “x” as in “Marx”.’

But the point is that the literary creation is never allowed to be subsumed by political proselytizing. The authors never forget the conventions of time and space; they never forget that the novel has to place the characters in a particular setting and that it has to be done with a certain vitality – a vitality that always comes before ideology. Which is what you will discover if you read the books closely.

With the sixth novel, Murder at the Savoy, from 1970, the ideological perspective moves to the forefront. From a purely literary point of view, the book is among the very best in the series – the technical skill of the authors is at its peak, and the humour is most fully developed – and yet the novel is also problematic. Both amazing and problematic.

It’s amazing because the literary creation has never been better. It’s problematic because the book personifies the least appealing side of the leftist politics of 1968. I think that in some ways we can talk about the dehumanizing side of the Left. The extremely predictable depiction of the capitalist circles criticized by the book is unrelenting. The corporate executive who is assassinated at the Savoy in Malmö in the opening chapter is given virtually no redeeming or even human qualities. Although there is a satirical power in the portrayal, it leaves the reader with a bitter aftertaste. So this was what the dehumanizing side of the Left looked like when ideology took precedence over humanism, and when the end was allowed to justify the means.

But if you’re prepared to accept this point of view, Murder at the Savoy makes for thoroughly fascinating reading. The book presents an incomparable picture of a social climate during a critical period in both Swedish and world history – a social climate that was in many ways idiotic and inhumane, and we are still living on the fringes of it today. If you read all ten books in order, you will actually discover that together they do form the story of a crime. An enormous crime.

What was it that Sjöwall and Wahlöö accomplished with their series of books? What was it that struck such a chord in a fifteen-year-old boy that twenty years later it triggered his own production of crime fiction? I think it was the sense of suppressed rage. A fire – but at the same time a strictly disciplined fire. The slowly emerging awareness that rage which is uncontrolled and without direction will fall flat. Yet at the same time, the fire must be present, and it must be preserved.

Maybe it was the desire to find a form for their anger.

Jan Arnald / Arne Dahl

(translated from the Swedish by Tiina Nunnally)

1

The day was hot and stifling, without a breath of air. There had been a haze quivering in the atmosphere, but now the sky was high and clear, its colours shifting from rose to dusky blue. The sun's red disc would soon disappear beyond the island of Ven. The evening breeze, which was already rippling the smooth mirror of the Sound, brought weak puffs of agreeable freshness to the streets of Malmö. With the gentle wind came fumes of the rotting refuse and seaweed that had been washed up on Ribersborg Beach and in through the mouth of the harbour into the canals.

The city doesn't resemble the rest of Sweden to a very great degree, largely because of its location. Malmö is closer to Rome than to the midnight sun, and the lights of the Danish coast twinkle along the horizon. And even if many winters are slushy and windblown, summers are just as often long and warm, filled with the song of the nightingale and scents from the lush vegetation of the expansive parks.

Which is exactly the way it was that fair summer evening early in July 1969. It was also quiet, calm and quite deserted. The tourists weren't noticeable to any extent – they hardly ever are. As for the roaming, unwashed hash-smokers, only the first bands had arrived, and not so many more would show up either, since most of them never get past Copenhagen.

It was rather quiet even in the big hotel across from the railway station near the harbour. A few foreign businessmen were deliberating over their reservations at the reception desk. The cloakroom attendant was reading one of the classics undisturbed in amongst the rails of coats. The dimly lit bar contained only a couple of regular customers speaking in low voices and a barman in a snow-white jacket.

In the large eighteenth-century dining room to the right of the lobby there wasn't much going on either, even if it was somewhat livelier. A few tables were occupied, mostly by people who were sitting alone. The pianist was taking a break. In front of the swinging doors leading to the kitchen stood a waiter, hands behind his back, looking contemplatively out of the big open windows, probably lost in thoughts of the sandy beaches not too far away.

A dinner party of seven, a well-dressed and solemn gathering of varying sexes and ages, was sitting in the back of the dining room. Their table was cluttered with glasses and fancy dishes, surrounded by champagne buckets. The restaurant personnel had discreetly withdrawn, for the host had just risen to speak.

He was a tall man in late middle age, with a dark-blue shantung suit, iron-grey hair and a deep suntan. He spoke calmly and skilfully, modulating his voice in subtly humorous phrases. The other six at the table sat watching him quietly; only one of them was smoking.

Through the open windows came the sounds of passing cars, trains switching tracks at the station across the canal, the largest junction in northern Europe, the abrupt hoarse tooting of a boat from Copenhagen, and somewhere on the bank of the canal a girl giggling.

This was the scene that soft warm Wednesday in July, at approximately eight-thirty in the evening. It's essential to use the expression ‘approximately’, for no one ever managed to pin down the exact time when it happened. On the other hand, what did happen is quite easy to describe.

A man came in through the main entrance, cast a glance at the reception desk with the foreign businessmen and the uniformed attendant, passed the cloakroom and the long narrow lobby outside the bar, and walked into the dining room calmly and resolutely, with steps that weren't notably rapid. There was nothing remarkable about this man so far. No one looked at him; he did not bother to look around either.

He passed the Hammond organ, the grand piano and the buffet with its array of glistening delicacies and continued past the two large pillars supporting the ceiling. With the same resolve he walked directly towards the party in the corner, where the host stood talking with his back turned to him. When the man was about five steps away, he thrust his right hand inside his suit coat. One of the women at the table looked at him, and the speaker half turned his head to see what was distracting her. He gave the approaching man a quick, indifferent glance, and started to turn back towards his guests, without a second's interruption in the comments he was making. At the same instant the newcomer pulled out a steel-blue object with a fluted butt and a long barrel, aimed carefully and shot the speaker in the head. The report was not shattering. It sounded more like the peaceful pop of a rifle in a shooting gallery at a fair.

The bullet struck the speaker just behind the left ear, and he fell forward on to the table, his left cheek in the crenellated mashed potatoes around an exquisite fish casserole à la Frans Suell.

Sticking the weapon into his pocket, the gunman turned sharply to the right, walked the few steps to the nearest open window, placed his left foot on the sill, swung himself over the low window, stepped into the window box outside, hopped down on to the pavement and disappeared.

At the table three windows away a diner in his fifties grew rigid and stared with amazement, a glass of whisky halfway to his mouth. In front of him was a book that he had been pretending to read.

The man with the suntan and the dark-blue shantung suit was not dead.

Stirring, he said, ‘Ow! It hurts.’

Dead people don't usually complain. Besides, it didn't even look as if he were bleeding.

2

Per Månsson was sitting in his bachelor den on Regementsgatan, talking to his wife on the telephone. He was a Detective Inspector with the Malmö police force, and although he was married, he lived as a bachelor five days of the week. For more than ten years he'd spent every free weekend with his wife – an arrangement which had so far satisfied them both.

He cradled the receiver with his left shoulder while he mixed a Gripenberger with his right hand. It was his favourite drink, consisting simply of a jigger of gin, crushed ice and grape juice in a big tumbler.

His wife, who'd been to the movies, was telling him the plot of Gone With the Wind.

It took some time, but Månsson listened patiently, because as soon as she had finished the story he planned to ward off their usual weekend get-together with the excuse that he had to work. Which was a lie.

It was twenty minutes after nine in the evening.

Månsson was sweating in spite of his light clothing – a string vest and chequered shorts. He had closed the balcony door at the beginning of the conversation so that he wouldn't be disturbed by the rumble of traffic from the street. Although the sun had long ago sunk behind the roofs of the buildings across the street, it was very warm in the room.

He stirred his drink with a fork, which he was embarrassed to admit had been either stolen or taken by accident from a restaurant called Översten. Månsson wondered if a person could take a fork by accident and said, ‘Yes, I see. It was Leslie Howard then who … No, huh? Clark Gable? Uh-hmm …’

Five minutes later she'd got to the end. He delivered his white lie and hung up.

The telephone rang. Månsson didn't answer immediately. He was off work and wanted to keep it that way. He slowly drained his Gripenberger. Watching the evening sky darken, he lifted the receiver and answered, ‘Månsson.’

‘This is Nilsson. That was one hell of a long conversation. I've been trying to get you for half an hour.’

Nilsson was an assistant detective, on duty that night at the central police station on Davidshall Square. Månsson sighed.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘What's up?’

‘A man has been shot in the dining room at the Savoy. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to get over there.’

The glass was empty but still cold. Månsson picked it up and rolled it against his forehead with the palm of his hand.

‘Is he dead?’ he asked.

‘Don't know,’ said Nilsson.

‘Can't you send Skacke?’

‘He's off. Impossible to get hold of. I'll keep looking for him. Backlund is there now, but you probably ought to …’

Månsson gave a start and put down the glass.

‘Backlund? Okay, I'll leave right away,’ he said.

He promptly called a taxi, then put the receiver on the table. While dressing, he listened to the rasping voice from the receiver mechanically repeating the words ‘Taxi Central, one moment please’ until his call was finally put through to the operator.

Outside the Savoy Hotel several police cars were carefully parked, and two constables were blocking the entrance from a growing crowd of curious evening strollers jammed together at the bottom of the stairs.

Månsson took in the scene as he paid for the cab, put the receipt in his pocket, observed that one of the constables was being rather brusque and reflected that it wouldn't be long before Malmö's police force had as bad a reputation as their colleagues in Stockholm.

He said nothing, however, only nodded as he walked past the uniformed policemen into the lobby. It was noisy there now. The hotel's entire staff had gathered and were chatting with each other and with some customers streaming out of the grill. Several policemen completed the picture. They seemed at a loss, unfamiliar with the surroundings. Evidently no one had told them how to act or what to expect.

Månsson was a big man in his fifties. He was dressed casually in polyester trousers and sandals, with his shirt out. He took a toothpick from his breast pocket, pulled off the paper wrapper and stuck it in his mouth. As he chewed, he methodically took stock of the situation. The toothpick was American, menthol-flavoured; he'd picked it up on the train ferry Malmöhus, which provides such things for its passengers.

Standing by the door leading to the large dining room was a patrolman named Elofsson, whom Månsson thought was a little more intelligent than the rest.

He walked over to him and said, ‘What's the story?’

‘Looks like someone's been shot.’

‘Have you had any instructions?’

‘Not a word.’

‘What's Backlund doing?’

‘Questioning witnesses.’

‘Where's the man who was shot?’

‘At the hospital, I suppose.’

Elofsson turned slightly red. Then he said, ‘The ambulance got here before the police, obviously.’

Månsson sighed and went into the dining room.

Backlund was standing by the table with the gleaming silver tureens questioning a waiter. He was an elderly man with glasses and ordinary features. Somehow he'd managed to become a first assistant detective. He was holding his notebook open in his hand, busily taking notes. Månsson stopped within hearing distance, but said nothing.

‘And at what time did this happen?’

‘Uh, about eight-thirty.’

‘About?’

‘Well, I don't know for sure.’

‘In other words, you don't know what time it was.’

‘No, I don't. ’

‘Rather odd,’ said Backlund.

‘What?’

‘I said, it seems rather odd. You have a wrist watch, don't you?’

‘Of course.’

‘And there is a clock on the wall over there, if I'm not mistaken.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘But what?’

‘Both of them are wrong. Anyway, I didn't think of looking at the clock.’

Backlund appeared overwhelmed by the response. He put down the pad and pencil and began to clean his glasses. He took a deep breath, grabbed the notebook and started writing again.

‘Even though you had two clocks at your disposal, you didn't know what time it was.’

‘Well, sort of.’

‘We've got no use for “sort of” answers.’

‘But the clocks aren't synchronized. Mine's fast, and the clock over there's slow.’

Backlund consulted his Ultratron. ‘Odd,’ he said, writing something down.

Månsson wondered what.

‘So you were standing here when the criminal walked by?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you give me as full a description as possible?’

‘I didn't really get a good look at him.’

‘You didn't see the gunman?’ said Backlund, startled.

‘Well, yes, when he climbed out of the window.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I don't know. It was pretty far away, and that table was hidden by the pillar.’

‘You mean you don't know what he looked like?’

‘Not really.’

‘How was he dressed then?’

‘In a brown sports coat, I think.’

‘Think?’

‘Yeah. I only saw him for a second.’

‘What else did he have on? Trousers, for example.’

‘Oh yes, he had trousers on.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Well, it certainly would have seemed a little … like you said, odd, otherwise. If he hadn't had any trousers on, I mean.’

Backlund wrote furiously. Månsson started chewing on the other end of the toothpick and quietly said, ‘Oh, Backlund …?’

The other man turned around and glared.

‘I'm in the middle of questioning an important witness …’

He broke off and said sullenly, ‘Oh, so it's you.’

‘What's going on?’

‘A man was shot in here,’ said Backlund in great earnest. ‘And you know who?’

‘No.’

‘Viktor Palmgren. The corporation president.’ Backlund laid heavy stress on the title.

‘Oh, him,’ said Månsson. And thought, this one'll be a nightmare. Aloud he said, ‘It happened over an hour ago and the gunman climbed out of the window and got away.’

‘It may look that way.’

Backlund never took anything for granted.

‘Why are there six police cars outside?’

‘I had them close off the area.’

‘The whole block?’

‘The scene of the crime,’ said Backlund.

‘Get rid of everybody in uniform,’ Månsson said wearily. ‘It can't be very pleasant for the hotel to have police swarming around in the foyer and out on the street. Besides, they must be needed more somewhere else. Then try to get up a description. There has to be a better witness than this guy.’

‘Naturally, we'll question everybody,’ said Backlund.

‘All in due course,’ said Månsson. ‘But don't detain anyone who doesn't have something crucial to say. Just take names and addresses.’

Backlund looked at him suspiciously and said, ‘What are you planning to do?’

‘Make some telephone calls,’ said Månsson.

‘Who to?’

‘The newspapers, to find out what's happened.’

‘Was that supposed to be a joke?’ said Backlund coldly.

‘Right,’ said Månsson absentmindedly and looked around.

Journalists and photographers were roaming around in the dining room. Some of them must have been there long before the police, and one or more had been on the spot in the grill or the bar when the famous shot was fired. Probably. If Månsson's suspicions proved correct.

‘But the manual requires …’ Backlund began.

Just then Benny Skacke hurried into the dining room. He was thirty years old, and already an assistant detective. Previously he had been with the National Murder Squad in Stockholm, but had asked to be transferred after taking a rather foolish risk that had almost cost the life of one of his superiors. He was dedicated, conscientious, somewhat naïve. Månsson liked him.

‘Skacke can help you,’ he said.

‘A Stockholmer,’ said Backlund sceptically.

‘Right,’ said Månsson. ‘And don't forget that description. That's all that matters now.’

He threw his shredded toothpick into an ashtray, went out into the lobby and headed for the telephone across from the reception desk.

Månsson made five calls in rapid succession. Then he shook his head and went into the bar.

‘Well, look who's here!’ said the barman.

‘How's it going?’ Månsson said and sat down.

‘What can we get you today? The usual?’

‘No. Just a grape juice. I've got to think.’

Sometimes everything gets messed up, Månsson thought. This case had really got off to a bad start. In the first place, Viktor Palmgren was important and well known. True, it was hard to tell exactly why, but one thing was certain – he had plenty of money, at least a million. The fact that he had been shot down in one of the most famous restaurants in Europe didn't help matters. This case would attract a lot of attention and could have far-reaching consequences. Immediately after the shooting, the hotel personnel had carried the wounded man out to a TV lounge and fixed a makeshift stretcher. They'd alerted the police and an ambulance at the same time. The ambulance had come very quickly, picked up the wounded man and taken him to General Hospital. For a while there had been no sign of the police. In spite of the fact that a patrol car had been parked at the railway station – in other words, less than two hundred yards from the scene of the crime. How had that happened? He had received the explanation now, but it wasn't especially flattering to the police. The call had been misinterpreted at first, the case judged to be less urgent than others. The two policemen at the train station had therefore spent their time picking up a completely harmless drunk. Only after the police had been alerted a second time had cars and uniformed men been dispatched to the hotel, with Backlund fearlessly in the lead. What had then been undertaken in the way of investigation seemed totally slipshod. Månsson himself had sat rehashing Gone With the Wind with his wife for more than forty minutes. Besides that, he'd had two drinks and been forced to wait for a taxi. When the first policeman arrived, half an hour had passed since the shot was fired. As to Viktor Palmgren's condition, the situation was equally unclear. He had been examined at the emergency ward in Malmö, then referred to a neurosurgeon in Lund, about fifteen miles away. At this very second the ambulance was still on its way. One of the most important witnesses, Palmgren's wife, was also in the ambulance. She'd probably sat across from him at the table and had been the person most likely to get a close look at the gunman.

An hour had already gone by. An hour wasted, and every second of it was precious.

Månsson shook his head again and glanced at the clock above the bar. Nine-thirty.

Backlund marched into the bar, followed closely by Skacke.

‘And you just sit here?’ Backlund said, quite surprised.

He strained his eyes to stare at Månsson.

‘How's the description coming?’ said Månsson. ‘We've got to get a move on.’

Backlund fumbled with his notebook, put it on the bar, took off his glasses and began cleaning them.

‘Listen,’ Skacke said quickly, ‘this is the best we can come up with right now. Medium tall, thin face, thin dark brown hair, combed back. Brown sports coat, pastel shirt, dark grey trousers, black or brown shoes. Age about forty.’

‘Fine,’ said Månsson. ‘Send it out. Right away. Block all main roads, check out trains, planes and boats.’

‘Right,’ said Skacke.

‘I want him to stay in town,’ said Månsson.

Skacke left.

Backlund put on his glasses, stared at Månsson and repeated his pertinent question, ‘And you just sit here?’

Then he looked at the glass, saying with even greater astonishment, ‘Drinking?’

Månsson didn't reply.

Backlund turned his attention to the clock over the bar, compared it with his watch and said, ‘That clock's wrong.’

‘Of course,’ the barman said. ‘It's fast. A little service for guests who're in a hurry to catch a train or boat.’

‘Hmm,’ Backlund said. ‘We'll never get this figured out. How can we determine the correct time when we can't rely on the clock?’

‘It won't be too easy,’ Månsson said absentmindedly.

Skacke came back.

‘Well, that's done,’ he said.

‘Probably too late,’ Månsson said.

‘What in the world are you talking about?’ Backlund said, seizing his notepad. ‘About this waiter …’

Dismissing him with a gesture, Månsson said, ‘Wait. We'll take that later. Benny, go call the police in Lund and ask them to send a man to the neurosurgeon at the hospital. The man they send should have a tape recorder with him so he can catch anything Palmgren says. If and when he regains consciousness. He'll have to question Mrs Palmgren, too.’

Skacke departed again.

‘About the waiter. I'd say he wouldn't have noticed a thing if Dracula himself had fluttered through the dining room,’ the barman said.

Irritated, Backlund kept quiet. Månsson waited to say anything else until Skacke came back. Since Backlund was officially Skacke's superior, he carefully addressed his question to both of them.

‘Who do you two think is the best witness?’

‘A guy named Edvardsson,’ said Skacke. ‘He was sitting only three tables away. But …’

‘But what?’

‘He isn't sober.’

‘Alcohol is a curse,’ Backlund said.

‘Okay, we wait with him until tomorrow,’ said Månsson. ‘Who can drop me off at headquarters?’

‘I can,’ said Skacke.

‘I'll stay here,’ Backlund said stubbornly. ‘This is officially my case.’

‘Right,’ said Månsson. ‘We'll be seeing you.’

In the car he mumbled, ‘Trains and boats …’

‘Do you think he's got away?’ asked Skacke hesitantly.

‘He could have. Any way you look at it, we've got a whole lot of people to call. And we can't worry about waking anybody up.’

Skacke looked sideways at Månsson, who was taking out another toothpick. The car swung into the courtyard of the main police station.

‘Planes,’ Månsson said to himself. ‘It could be a rough night.’

The station seemed large, grim and very empty at this time of day. It was an impressive building. Their steps echoed desolately on the broad stone staircase.

By nature, Månsson was as slow-moving as he was tall. He detested rough nights, and besides, most of his career was behind him.

The opposite was true of Skacke. He was twenty years younger, thought about his career a lot and was eager and ambitious. But his previous experience as a policeman had made him careful, anxious to do what was expected.

So, in fact, they complemented each other quite well.

Inside his room Månsson immediately opened the window, which overlooked the station's tarmac yard. Then he sank down in his desk chair and sat silently for several minutes, reflectively spinning the platen on his old Underwood.

Finally he said, ‘Get all the radio messages and calls sent up here. Take them on your telephone.’

Skacke had a room on the other side of the corridor, across from Månsson.

‘You can leave the doors open,’ Månsson said.

And after several seconds he added with mild irony, ‘That way we'll have a real operations centre.’

Skacke went into his room and began using the telephone. After a little while Månsson followed him. He stood with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, one shoulder propped against the doorframe.

‘Have you given this any thought, Benny?’ he said.

‘Not very much,’ said Skacke carefully. ‘It seems incredible, somehow.’

‘Incredible is the word for it,’ Månsson said.

‘What I don't get is the motive.’

‘I don't think we should give a damn about the motive until we get the details straight.’

The telephone rang. Skacke made a note.

‘The person who shot Palmgren had only one chance in a thousand of making it out of the hotel dining room afterwards. Up to the second the shot was fired, he acted like a fanatic.’

‘Something like an assassination?’

‘Right. And afterwards? What happens? Miraculously enough he escapes, and then he doesn't act like a fanatic any more, but panics.’

‘Is that why you think he's trying to leave town?’

‘Partly. He walks in and shoots and doesn't care what happens afterwards. But then, like most criminals, he panics. He simply gets frightened and only wants to get away from there, as far and as fast as possible.’

That's one theory, Skacke thought. Seems rather loosely founded, though.

But he said nothing.

‘Of course it's only a theory,’ Månsson said. ‘A good detective can't rely on theories alone. But for the time being I don't see any other line we can work on.’

The telephone rang.

Work, Månsson thought. What a way to work.

And he was supposed to have a day off!

It was a rough night in the sense that nothing really happened. Some people who more or less fitted the description were stopped on the motorways leading out of the city and at the train station. None of them seemed to have anything to do with the case, but their names were taken.

At twenty to one the last train left the station.

At quarter to two the police in Lund sent the message that Palmgren was alive.

At three o'clock another message came from the same source. Mrs Palmgren was in shock, and it was difficult to question her thoroughly. However, she had seen the gunman clearly and was sure she didn't recognize him.

‘Seems on the ball, that guy in Lund,’ said Månsson with a yawn.

Just after four the Lund police got in touch again. The team of doctors treating Palmgren had decided for the present not to operate. The bullet had penetrated behind his left ear; it was impossible to tell what damage had been caused. The condition of the patient was reported to be as good as could be expected.

Månsson's condition wasn't good. Tired, his throat very dry, he went out to the bathroom time after time to fill up on water.

‘Is it possible for someone to live with a bullet in his head?’ asked Skacke.

‘Yes,’ said Månsson, ‘it's been done before. Sometimes it's enclosed by the tissue, and the person recovers. If the doctors had tried to remove it, however, he probably would've died.’

Backlund had evidently stuck to the Savoy for a long time, for at four-thirty he called to say that he had blockaded and sealed off an area in anticipation of the technical squad's investigation of the scene of the crime, which might take place in several hours, at the earliest.

‘He wants to know if he's needed here,’ said Skacke, holding his hand over the receiver.

‘The only place he could possibly be needed is at home in bed with his wife,’ said Månsson.

Skacke conveyed the message but modified the wording somewhat. Soon after this Skacke said, ‘I think we can rule out Bulltofta. The last plane left at five after eleven. Nobody on board answered the description. The next one takes off at six-thirty. It's been booked up since the day before yesterday, and there's nobody on the waiting list.’

Månsson mulled over that for a while. ‘Hmm,’ he said finally. ‘I think I'll call somebody who isn't going to like being dragged out of bed.’

‘Who? The police chief?’

‘No, he probably hasn't slept any more than we have. By the way, where were you hiding out last night?’

‘At the cinema,’ said Skacke. ‘You can't sit at home and study every night.’

‘I've never sat at home and studied,’ said Månsson. ‘One of those hydrofoils left Malmö for Copenhagen at nine o'clock. Try to find out which one it was.’

That proved an unexpectedly difficult task, and half an hour went by before Skacke could report, ‘It's called Springeren, and right now it's in Copenhagen. It's unbelievable how grumpy some people can be when you call and get them out of bed.’

‘You can comfort yourself with the fact that I've got a much worse job now,’ said Månsson.

He went into his room, picked up the telephone, dialled Denmark, 00945, and then the home number of Police Captain Mogensen, Danish Bureau of Investigation. He counted seventeen rings before a thick voice said, ‘Mogensen.’

‘This is Per Månsson in Malmö.’

‘What the hell do you want?’ said Mogensen. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘Yes,’ said Månsson, ‘but this could be very important.’

‘It'd better be damned important,’ the Dane said threateningly.

‘We had an attempted murder here in Malmö last night,’ said Månsson. ‘There's a chance that the gunman flew to Copenhagen. We have a description.’

Then he related the whole story, and Mogensen said bitterly, ‘For Christ's sake, do you think I can work miracles?’

‘Why not?’ said Månsson. ‘Let us know if you find out anything.’

‘Go to hell,’ said Mogensen in a surprisingly clear voice and slammed down the receiver.

Månsson shook himself, yawning.

Nothing happened.

Backlund called later to say that they'd begun investigating the scene of the crime. It was then eight o'clock.

‘Hell, he's really on the ball,’ Månsson said.

‘Where do we go from here?’ asked Skacke.

‘Nowhere. Wait.’

At twenty to nine Månsson's private line rang. He lifted the receiver, listened for a minute or two, broke off the conversation without saying so much as thanks or goodbye and yelled to Skacke, ‘Call Stockholm. Right away.’

‘What should I say?’

Månsson looked at the clock.

‘That was Mogensen. He said a Swede who gave his name as Bengt Stensson bought a ticket from Kastrup to Stockholm last night and then waited stand-by for several hours. He finally got on an SAS flight that took off at eight twenty-five. The plane should have landed at Arlanda ten minutes ago at most. The guy might fit the description. I want the bus from the airport into the city stopped at the air terminal, and this man taken into custody.’

Skacke rushed to the telephone.

‘Okay,’ he said breathlessly half a minute later. ‘Stockholm will take care of it.’

‘Who did you talk to?’

‘Gunvald Larsson.’

‘Oh, him.’

They waited.

After half an hour Skacke's telephone rang. He yanked the receiver to his ear, listened and was left sitting with it in his hand. ‘They blew it,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ Månsson said laconically.

But they'd had twenty minutes, he thought.

3

A similar expression was used in the main police station on Kungsholmsgatan in Stockholm.

‘Well, they blew it,’ said Einar Rönn, sticking his sweaty red face through a crack in the door to Gunvald Larsson's room.

‘Which one?’ Gunvald Larsson asked absentmindedly.

He was thinking about something completely different, specifically three unusually brutal robberies in the metro the night before. Two rapes. Sixteen fights. This was Stockholm, quite a different place. Even though there were no murders last night, not even a homicide. Thank God. How many burglaries or thefts had been committed, he didn't know. Or how many addicts, sexual offenders, bootleggers and alcoholics the police had taken into custody. Or how many policemen had worked over presumably innocent people in patrol cars and local stations. Probably too many to count. He minded his own business.

Gunvald Larsson was a first assistant detective on the Assault and Battery Squad. Six foot three, strong as an ox, blond, blue-eyed, he was very snobbish for a policeman. This morning, for example, he was dressed in a pale grey, lightweight suit with matching tie, shoes and socks. He was an odd character; not many people liked him.

‘You know, that bus to Haga air terminal,’ Rönn said.

‘Well, what about it? They blew it?’

‘The uniforms who were supposed to check the passengers didn't get there soon enough. When they arrived the passengers had all got out and disappeared, and the bus had driven off.’

Finally switching his thoughts to the subject at hand, Gunvald Larsson glared at Rönn with his blue eyes and said, ‘What? But that's impossible.’

‘Unfortunately not,’ said Rönn. ‘They just didn't get there on time.’

‘Have you gone mad?’

‘I'm not the one who is in charge of this,’ Rönn said. ‘I wasn't the one.’

He was calm and good-natured, originally from Arjeplog in the north of Sweden. Although he had lived in Stockholm for a long time, he still used some dialect.

Gunvald Larsson had received Skacke's call quite by chance and considered checking this bus as a simple routine measure. He scowled angrily and said, ‘But damnit, I called Solna promptly. The man on duty there said they had a patrol car on Karolinskavägen. It takes three minutes at most to drive to the air terminal from there. They had at least twenty minutes. What happened?’

‘The guys in the car seem to have been detained on the way.’

‘Detained?’

‘Yes, they had to issue a warning. And when they got there the bus had already left.’

‘A warning?’

Putting on his glasses, Rönn looked at the piece of paper he was holding in his hand. ‘Right. The bus's name is Beata. Usually it comes from Bromma.’

‘Beata? What kind of asshole has started giving names to buses?’

‘Well, it's not my fault,’ Rönn said sedately.

‘Do the geniuses in the patrol car have names, too?’

‘Very likely. But I don't know what they are.’

‘Find out. For Christ's sake, if buses have names, constables must have them too. Although really they should only have numbers.’

‘Or symbols.’

‘Symbols?’

‘You know, like kids at nursery school. Like boats, cars, birds, mushrooms, insects or dogs.’

‘I've never been in a nursery school,’ Gunvald Larsson said scornfully. ‘Now find out. That guy Månsson in Malmö is going to die laughing if there's no reasonable explanation.’

Rönn left.

‘Insects or dogs,’ Gunvald Larsson said to himself. And added, ‘Everybody's mad.’

Then he went back to the robberies in the metro, picking his teeth with the letter-opener.

After ten minutes Rönn came back, glasses on his red nose, paper in hand. ‘I've got it now,’ he said. ‘Car three from the Solna police station. Constables Karl Kristiansson and Kurt Kvant.’

Gunvald Larsson jerked forward suddenly, nearly committing suicide with the letter-opener. ‘Christ, I should have known. I'm hounded by those two idiots. They're from Skåne, too. Get them over here on the double. We've got to straighten this thing out.’

Kristiansson and Kvant had a lot of explaining to do. Their story was complicated and not at all easy. Besides, they were scared to death of Gunvald Larsson and managed to postpone their visit to the police station on Kungsholmsgatan for nearly two hours. That was a mistake, for in the meantime Gunvald Larsson made a few inquiries of his own.

Finally they were standing there anyway, uniformed, proper, caps in hand. They were six foot one, blond and broad-shouldered, and looked woodenly at Gunvald Larsson with dull blue eyes. They were wondering to themselves why Gunvald Larsson would be the one to break the unwritten but golden rule that police officers aren't supposed to criticize the actions of other policemen or to testify against each other.

‘Good morning,’ said Gunvald Larsson in a friendly manner. ‘Nice that you could make it.’

‘Good morning,’ said Kristiansson hesitantly.

‘Hi,’ said Kvant insolently.

Gunvald Larsson stared at him, sighed and said, ‘You were the ones who were supposed to check the passengers on that bus in Haga, weren't you?’

‘Yes,’ said Kristiansson.

He reflected. Then he added, ‘But we got there late.’

‘We couldn't make it on time,’ Kvant improved.

‘I've gathered that,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘I've also gathered that you were parked on Karolinskavägen when you got the call. Driving to the air terminal from there takes about two minutes, three at most. What make of car do you have?’

‘A Plymouth,’ Kristiansson said, squirming.

‘A perch does a mile and a half an hour,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘It's the slowest fish there is. But still it could've easily covered that stretch in a shorter time than you did.’

He paused. Then roared, ‘Why the hell couldn't you get there on time?’

‘We had to caution somebody on the way,’ said Kvant stiffly.

‘A perch probably could have come up with a better explanation,’ Gunvald Larsson said with resignation. ‘Well, what was this caution about?’

‘We … were called names,’ Kristiansson said feebly.

‘Abuse of an officer of the law,’ said Kvant emphatically.

‘And how did that happen?’

‘A man riding by on a bicycle shouted insults at us.’

Kvant was still acting the part while Kristiansson was standing saying nothing, but looking more and more uneasy.

‘And that prevented you from carrying out the orders you'd just received?’

Kvant had the answer ready. ‘In an official statement, the National Chief of Police himself said that a complaint should definitely be brought against anyone who abuses an officer, especially an officer in uniform. A policeman can't be made a laughing stock.’

‘Is that so?’ said Gunvald Larsson.

The two constables glared at him unsympathetically.

He shrugged and went on: ‘Now I grant you that the potentate you mention is famous for his official statements, but I doubt that even he could have said anything so utterly stupid, for Christ's sake. Well, how did those insults go?’

‘“Pig!”’ Kvant said.

‘And you think you didn't deserve that?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Kvant said.

Gunvald Larsson looked searchingly at Kristiansson, who shifted his weight and mumbled, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Yeah,’ Kvant said. ‘And even if Siv would say …’

‘What is Siv?’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘Is that a bus, too?’

‘My wife,’ said Kvant.

Gunvald Larsson disentangled his fingers and put his enormous hairy hands on the desk top, palms down. ‘Here's how it happened,’ he said. ‘You were parked on Karolinskavägen. You had just gotten the alert. Then a man rode by on his bicycle and shouted “Pig!” at you. You were obliged to caution him. And that's why you didn't make it to the air terminal on time.’

‘That's right,’ said Kvant.

‘Yeeaah,’ said Kristiansson.

Gunvald Larsson watched them for a long time. Finally he said in a low voice, ‘Is that true?’

No one answered. Kvant began to look apprehensive. Kristiansson nervously fingered his pistol holster with one hand, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his cap.

Gunvald Larsson remained quiet for a long time, letting the silence deepen. Suddenly he raised his arms and slammed his palms down on the table, with a smack that made the whole room shake.

‘It's a lie,’ he shouted. ‘Every single word is a lie; and you know it, too. You'd stopped at a drive-in. One of you was standing outside the car eating a hot dog. As you said, a man rode by on a bicycle and someone shouted something at you. But it wasn't the man who shouted, it was his son who was sitting in the kiddie carrier on the back of the bike. And he didn't yell “Pig!” but “Daddy, this little pig …” He is only three years old. He plays with his toes, for Christ's sake.’

Gunvald Larsson broke off abruptly.

By now Kristiansson and Kvant were as red as beets.

At long last Kristiansson mumbled indistinctly, ‘How on earth did you know?’

Gunvald Larsson looked piercingly from one to the other. ‘All right, who was eating the hot dog?’ he asked.

‘Not me,’ said Kristiansson.

‘You son of a bitch,’ Kvant whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Well, let me answer the question for you,’ Gunvald Larsson said tiredly. ‘The man on the bicycle simply wouldn't let two idiots in uniform bawl him out for more than fifteen minutes for something a three-year-old happened to say. So he called here to complain and had every right to do so. Especially since there were witnesses.’

Kristiansson nodded glumly.

Kvant tried to make a final defence: ‘It's easy to hear the wrong thing when you've got your mouth full of …’

Gunvald Larsson cut him off by raising his right hand.

He pulled over his notepad, took a pencil out of his inside pocket and printed in large letters, ‘GO TO HELL!’ He tore off the page and shoved it across the desk. Kristiansson took the sheet, glanced at it, turned a deeper shade of red and gave it to Kvant.

‘I can't bear to say it one more time,’ Gunvald Larsson said.

Kristiansson and Kvant took the message and left.

4

Martin Beck didn't know anything about all that.

He was in his office at the South police station on Västberga Allé, working on quite different problems. He had pushed back his chair and was sitting with his legs outstretched and his feet on the lower desk drawer, which he'd drawn halfway out. He bit down on the filter tip of a newly lit Florida, thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and squinted out of the window. He was thinking.

Since he was a chief inspector in the National Murder Squad, it might be supposed that he was meditating on the axe murder on the south side, which was still unsolved after a week. Or on the unidentified female corpse that had been fished up from Riddarfjärden the day before. But that wasn't the case.

He was brooding over what he should buy for his dinner party that night.

At the end of May, Martin Beck had found a two-room flat on Köpmangatan and moved away from home. He and Inga had been married for eighteen years, but the marriage had been on the rocks for some time, and in January, when his daughter Ingrid had moved in with a friend, lock, stock and barrel, he'd talked to his wife about separating. At first she'd protested, but when the lease was ready, and she was faced with the facts, she accepted. Rolf, their fourteen-year-old, was her favourite, and Martin Beck suspected that she was actually pleased to be alone with the boy.

The flat was cosy and large enough, and when he'd finally arranged the few things he'd taken with him from his and Inga's home out in the dismal suburb of Bagarmossen and bought what he still needed, he'd had an attack of recklessness and invited his three best friends for dinner. Considering that, at best, his knowledge of cooking consisted of boiling eggs and brewing tea, that was reckless to say the least; he realized that now. He tried to recollect what Inga used to serve when they had company, but managed only to evoke diffuse images of hearty dishes whose preparation and ingredients were totally foreign to him.

Martin Beck lit another cigarette and thought with confusion of Sole Walewska and filet of veal à la Oscar. Not to mention cœur de filet provençale. Furthermore, there was one more detail that he hadn't taken into consideration when he extended his unpremeditated invitation. He had never seen three people with appetites so voracious as those of the forthcoming guests.

Lennart Kollberg, who was the person he worked with most closely, was both a gourmet and a gourmand; he'd had the chance to observe this the times he'd ventured down to the lunchroom. In addition, Kollberg's size indicated a strong interest in the delicacies of the table – not even an ugly knife wound in the stomach about a year earlier had been able to remedy that trait. Gun Kollberg didn't have her husband's figure, but did have a good appetite. Åsa Torell, now a colleague of his too, since she had joined the Vice Squad after graduating from the Police Academy, was a real Gargantua.

He remembered very distinctly how small, thin and spindly she'd looked a year and a half earlier, when her husband, Martin Beck's youngest assistant detective, had been shot to death on a bus by a mass murderer. She'd got over the worst now, regained her appetite and even become a little rounder. Presumably she had an astounding metabolic rate.

Martin Beck considered asking Åsa to come earlier so she could help, but dismissed the thought.

A meaty fist rapped on the door, which was promptly opened, and Kollberg came into the room.

‘What are you sitting here thinking about?’ he said, throwing himself into the extra chair, which creaked precariously under his weight.

Nobody would suspect that Kollberg knew more about burglars' tricks and the science of self-defence than perhaps anyone else on the force.

Martin Beck took his feet down from the drawer and pushed the chair nearer the desk. He put out his cigarette carefully before answering.

‘About that axe murder in Hjorthagen,’ he lied. ‘Nothing new's turned up?’

‘Have you seen the autopsy report? It says that the guy died after the first blow. He had an unusually thin skull.’

‘Yes, I've seen it,’ Martin Beck said.

‘We'll have to see when we can talk to his wife,’ Kollberg said. ‘She's still in deep shock, according to what they said at the hospital this morning. Maybe she bludgeoned him to death herself, who knows?’

He stood up and walked over to open the window.

‘Close it,’ said Martin Beck.

Kollberg closed the window.

‘How can you stand it?’ he complained. ‘It's like an oven in here.’

‘I'd rather be baked than poisoned,’ Martin Beck said philosophically.

The South police station was located very near to Essinge Parkway, and when the traffic was heavy, like now, at the beginning of the holiday season, it was obvious how thick the air was with exhaust fumes.

‘You'll only have yourself to blame,’ Kollberg said and lumbered over to the door. ‘Try to survive until tonight, anyway. Did you say seven?’

‘Yes, seven,’ Martin Beck said.

‘I'm hungry already,’ said Kollberg provocatively.

‘Glad you can come,’ Martin Beck said, but the door had already slammed shut behind Kollberg.

A moment later the telephone began ringing and people arrived with papers to sign, reports to read and questions to answer, and he had to push aside all thoughts of the evening's menu.

At quarter to four he left the police station and took the metro to Hötorgshallen. There he walked around shopping for such a long while that finally he had to take a taxi home to Gamla Stan to have time to fix everything.

At five to seven he'd finished setting the table and surveyed his work.

There was matjes herring on a bed of dill, sour cream and chives. A dish of carp roe with a wreath of diced onion, dill and lemon slices. Thin slices of smoked salmon spread out on fragile lettuce leaves. Sliced hard-boiled eggs. Smoked herring. Smoked flounder. Hungarian salami, Polish sausage, Finnish sausage and liver sausage from Skåne. A large bowl of lettuce with lots of fresh shrimp. He was especially proud of that, since he had made it himself and to his surprise it even tasted good. Six different cheeses on a cutting board. Radishes and olives. Pumpernickel, Hungarian country bread, and French bread, hot and crusty. Country butter in a tub. Fresh potatoes were simmering on the stove, sending out small puffs of dill fragrance. In the refrigerator were four bottles of Piesporter Falkenberg, cans of Carlsberg Hof and a bottle of Løjtens schnapps in the freezer compartment.

Martin Beck felt very satisfied with the results of his efforts. Now only the guests were missing.

Åsa Torell arrived first. Martin Beck mixed two Campari sodas for them and she made a tour of inspection, drink in hand.

The flat consisted of a bedroom, living room, kitchen, bathroom and hall. The rooms were small, but easy to take care of and comfortable, too.

‘I don't really have to ask if you like it here,’ Åsa Torell said.

‘Like most native Stockholmers, I've always dreamed of having a flat in Gamla Stan,’ Martin Beck said. ‘It's great to get along on my own, too.’

Åsa nodded. She was leaning against the window frame, her ankles crossed, holding the glass with both hands. Small and delicate, she had big brown eyes, short dark hair and tanned skin, and she looked healthy, calm and relaxed. It made Martin Beck happy to see her so, for it had taken her a long time to get over Åke Stenström's death.

‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘You moved not very long ago, too.’

‘Come see me sometime and I'll show you around,’ said Åsa.

After Stenström's death, Åsa had lived with Gun and Lennart Kollberg for a while, and since she didn't want to return to the flat where she'd lived with him, she'd exchanged it for a one-room flat on Kungsholmsstrand. She had also quit her job at a travel agency and started studying at the Police Academy.

Dinner was a great success. Despite the fact that Martin Beck didn't eat much himself (he did so seldom, if ever), the food was disposed of rapidly. He wondered anxiously if he'd underestimated their appetites, but when the guests stood up from the table, they seemed full and content, and Kollberg discreetly unbuttoned the waistband of his trousers. Åsa and Gun preferred schnapps and beer to wine, and when the dinner was over, the Løjtens bottle was empty.

Martin Beck served cognac with coffee, raised his glass and said, ‘Now let's all get a really good hangover tomorrow, when we have time off on the same day for once.’

‘I don't have time off,’ Gun said. ‘Bodil comes and jumps on my stomach at five and wants breakfast.’

Bodil was the Kollbergs' almost two-year-old daughter.

‘Don't think about it,’ Kollberg said. ‘I'll take care of her tomorrow, hungover or not. And don't talk about work. If I'd been able to get a decent job, I'd have quit after that incident a year ago.’

‘Don't think about it now,’ Martin Beck said.

‘It's damned hard not to,’ Kollberg said. ‘The whole police force here is going to fall apart sooner or later. Just look at those poor clods from the country, who meander around in their uniforms and don't know what to do with themselves. And what an administration!’

‘Oh, well,’ Martin Beck said to divert him and grasped his cognac.

Even he was very worried, most of all by the way in which the force had been politicized and centralized after the recent reorganization. That the quality of the personnel on patrol was getting lower all the time hardly improved things. But this was hardly the proper occasion to discuss the matter.

‘Oh, well,’ he repeated wistfully and lifted his glass.

After coffee Åsa and Gun wanted to wash the dishes. When Martin Beck protested, they explained that they loved to wash dishes anywhere but at home. He let them have their way and carried in whisky and water.

The telephone rang.

Kollberg looked at the clock.

‘A quarter past ten,’ he said. ‘I'll be damned if it isn't Malm telling us that we have to work tomorrow anyway. I'm not here.’

Malm was Chief Superintendent of Police and had succeeded Hammar, their previous chief, who had recently retired. Malm had come from nowhere, that is to say from the National Police Board, and his qualifications appeared to be exclusively political. Anyway, it seemed a bit mysterious.

Martin Beck picked up the receiver.

Then he grimaced eloquently.

Instead of Malm, it was the National Chief of Police, who said gratingly, ‘Something's happened. I have to ask you to go to Malmö first thing tomorrow morning.’

Then he added, somewhat belatedly, ‘Please excuse me if I'm disturbing you.’

Martin Beck didn't respond to that, but said, ‘To Malmö? What's happened?’

Kollberg, who'd just mixed a highball for himself, raised his eyes and shook his head. Martin Beck gave him a took of defeat and pointed to his glass.

‘Have you heard of Viktor Palmgren?’ said the Chief of Police.

‘The executive? The VIP?’

‘Yes.’

‘Of course I've heard of him, but I don't know much about him other than that he has a million different companies and he's loaded. Oh, yeah, he also has a beautiful young wife who was a model or something. What's wrong with him?’

‘He's dead. He died tonight at the neurosurgical clinic in Lund after he was shot in the head by an unknown assailant in the dining room of the Savoy in Malmö. It happened last night. Don't you have newspapers out in Västberga?’

Martin Beck again refrained from replying. Instead he said, ‘Can't they take care of it themselves down in Malmö?’

He took the glass of whisky Kollberg offered him and took a drink.

‘Isn't Per Månsson on duty?’ he continued. ‘He surely ought to be capable of …’

The Chief of Police cut him off impatiently.

‘Of course Månsson is on duty, but I want you to go down and help him. Or rather to take charge of the case. And I want you to leave as soon as you can.’

Thanks a lot, thought Martin Beck. A plane did leave Bromma at a quarter to one in the morning, but he didn't plan to be on it.

‘I want you to leave early tomorrow,’ the Chief of Police said.

Obviously he didn't know the schedule.

‘This is an extremely complicated, sensitive matter. And we have to solve it without delay.’

It was quiet for a moment. Martin Beck sipped his drink and waited. Finally the other man continued, ‘It's the wish of someone higher up that you take charge of this.’

Martin Beck frowned and met Kollberg's questioning look.

‘Was Palmgren that important?’ he said.

‘Obviously. There were strong vested interests in certain areas of his operations.’

Can't you skip the clichés and come out with it? Martin Beck thought. Which interests and which certain areas of which operations?

Evidently it was important to be cryptic.

‘Unfortunately I don't have a clear idea of what kind of operations he was engaged in,’ he said.

‘You'll be informed about all that eventually,’ the Chief of Police said. ‘The most important thing is that you get to Malmö as quickly as possible. I've talked to Malm, and he's willing to release you. We have to do our utmost to apprehend this man. And be careful when you talk to the press. As you can well understand, there's going to be a good deal written about this. Well, when can you leave?’

‘There's a plane at nine-fifty in the morning, I think,’ Martin Beck said hesitantly.

‘Fine. Take it,’ said the Chief of Police and hung up.

5

Viktor Palmgren died at seven thirty-three on Thursday evening. As recently as half an hour before the official declaration of death, the doctors involved in his case had said that his constitution was stable and the much-discussed general condition not so serious.

On the whole, the only thing wrong with him was that he had a bullet in his head.

Present at the instant of death were his wife, two brain surgeons, two nurses and a first assistant detective from the police in Lund.

There had been general consensus that an operation would have been much too risky, which seemed fairly sensible, even to a layman. For the fact remained that Palmgren had been conscious from time to time and on one occasion in such good shape that they could communicate with him.

The detective, who felt more dead than alive by this time, had asked him a couple of questions: ‘Did you get a good look at the man who shot you?’ And, ‘Did you recognize him?’

The answers had been unambiguous, positive to the first question and negative to the second. Palmgren had seen the would-be killer, but for the first and last time in his life.

That didn't exactly make it any more comprehensible. In Malmö, Månsson's face was creased with heavy lines of misgiving, and he yearned for his bed, or at least for a clean shirt.

It was an unbearably hot day, and the main police station was by no means air-conditioned.

The only small lead he'd had to go on had been bungled.

Those Stockholmers, Månsson thought.

But he didn't say it, out of consideration for Skacke, who was sensitive.

Furthermore, how much had that lead been worth?

He didn't know.

Maybe nothing.

But still. The Danish police had questioned the staff of the hydrofoil Springeren, and one of the hostesses on board during the nine o'clock trip from Malmö to Copenhagen had noticed a man, primarily because he had insisted on standing on the after-deck during the first part of the thirty-five-minute journey. His appearance, meaning mostly his clothing, corresponded somewhat to the scanty description.

Something actually seemed to fit together.

The fact is, you don't stand up on the deck of these hydrofoils, which in most respects resemble airplanes more than boats. It's even doubtful whether you would be permitted to stand out in the fresh air during the passage. Eventually the man had wandered down and sat in one of the armchairs. He hadn't purchased tax-free chocolate, alcohol or cigarettes on board and thus hadn't left any written notes behind him. To buy anything, you have to fill out a printed order form.

Why had this person tried to remain on deck for as long as possible?

Perhaps to throw something into the water.

In that case, what?

The weapon.

If, in fact, the same person was involved. If, in which case, he wanted to get rid of the weapon.

If, in fact, the man in question hadn't been afraid of becoming seasick and had therefore preferred the fresh air.

‘If, if, if,’ Månsson mumbled to himself and broke his last toothpick between his teeth.

It was an abominable day. In the first place, the heat, which was next to unbearable when you were forced to sit indoors. Moreover, inside the windows, you were completely unprotected from the blazing afternoon sun. In the second place, this passive waiting. Waiting for information, waiting for witnesses who had to exist but didn't get in touch.

The examination of the scene of the crime was going badly. Hundreds of fingerprints had been found, but there was no reason to assume that any of them belonged to the man who had shot Viktor Palmgren. They'd placed their greatest hopes on the window, but the few prints on the glass were much too blurred to be identified.

Backlund was most irritated by not being able to find the empty shell.

He called several times about that.

‘I don't understand where it could have gone,’ he said with annoyance.

Månsson thought that the answer to that question was so simple that even Backlund should have been able to work it out. So he said with mild irony, ‘Let me know if you have a theory.’

They couldn't find any footprints, either. Quite naturally, since so many people had tramped around in the dining room, and also because it's next to impossible to find any usable impressions on wall-to-wall carpeting. Outside the window the man had stepped into a window box before hopping down on to the pavement. To the great detriment of the flowers, but offering scarcely any information to the forensic technicians.

‘This dinner,’ Skacke said.

‘Yes, what about it?’

‘It seems to have been some sort of business meeting rather than a private gathering.’

‘Maybe so,’ Månsson said. ‘Do you have the list of the people who were seated at the table?’

‘It's right here.’

They studied it together.

Viktor Palmgren, executive, Malmö, 56 Charlotte Palmgren, housewife, Malmö, 32 Hampus Broberg, district manager, Stockholm, 43 Helena Hansson, executive secretary, Stockholm, 26 Ole Hoff-Jensen, district manager, Copenhagen, 48 Birthe Hoff-Jensen, housewife, Copenhagen, 43 Mats Linder, vice-president, Malmö, 30

‘All of them must work for Palmgren's companies,’ said Månsson.

‘It looks like it,’ said Skacke. ‘They'll have to be questioned thoroughly once more, of course.’

Månsson sighed and thought about the geographical distribution. The Jensen couple had already returned to Denmark the previous evening. Hampus Broberg and Helena Hansson had taken the morning flight to Stockholm, and Charlotte Palmgren was at her husband's bedside at the clinic in Lund. Only Mats Linder was still in Malmö. And they couldn't even be really sure of that. As Palmgren's second in command, he travelled a lot.

Thus the day's misfortunes seemed to culminate in the news of death, which reached them at a quarter to eight and which at once transformed the case into murder.

But it was to get worse.

It was ten-thirty and they sat drinking coffee, hollow-eyed and weary. The telephone rang and Månsson answered.

‘Yes, this is Detective Inspector Månsson.’

And immediately afterwards:

‘I see.’

He repeated the phrase three times before he said goodbye and hung up.

He looked at Skacke and said, ‘This isn't our case any more. They're sending a man down from the National Murder Squad.’

‘Not Kollberg,’ Skacke said anxiously.

‘No, it'll be the one and only Beck. He's coming tomorrow morning.’

‘What'll we do now?’

‘Go home to bed,’ said Månsson and stood up.

6

When the plane from Stockholm landed at Bulltofta, Martin Beck didn't feel very well.

He'd always had a distinct aversion to flying, and inasmuch as this Friday morning he was also suffering from the effects of the party the night before, the trip had been particularly unpleasant.

The hot, heavy air struck him when he came out of the relatively cool cabin, and he began to sweat even before he'd finished walking down the steps. The tarmac felt soft under his shoe soles as he walked towards the domestic arrivals building.

The air in the taxi was sweltering despite the open window, and the imitation leather covering on the back seat felt red-hot through the thin cloth of his shirt.

He knew that Månsson was waiting for him at the police station, but he decided to go to the hotel first to shower and change. This time he had reserved a room not at the St Jörgen's, as he usually did, but at the Savoy.

The doorman greeted him so exuberantly that for an instant Martin Beck suspected that he was being confused with a long-lost guest of great importance.

The room was airy and cool, facing north. From the window he could see the canal and the railway station and beyond the harbour and Kockum's wharf, a white hydrofoil, which was just disappearing into the pale blue haze on its way over the Sound to Copenhagen.

Martin Beck undressed and walked around the room naked while he unpacked his suitcase. Then he went into the bathroom and took a long, cold shower.

He put on clean underclothes and a fresh shirt, and when he had finished dressing he noticed that the time on the clock at the train station was twelve exactly. He took a cab to the main police station and walked directly up to Månsson's room.

Månsson had the windows wide open on to the courtyard, which lay in shadow at this time of day. He was in shirt sleeves, drinking beer while he leafed through a bundle of papers.

After they had greeted each other, and Martin Beck had taken off his jacket, settled down in the extra armchair and lit a Florida, Månsson handed him the bundle of papers.

‘For a start you can take a look at this report. As you'll see, the whole thing was handled badly from the very beginning.’

Martin Beck read through the papers carefully and now and then put questions to Månsson, who filled in with details that weren't in the report. Månsson also recounted Rönn's slightly modified version of Kristiansson's and Kvant's behaviour on Karolinskavägen. Gunvald Larsson had refused to have anything more to do with the case.

When Martin Beck had finished reading, he laid the transcripts on the table in front of him and said, ‘It's obvious that we'll have to first concentrate on questioning the witnesses properly. This really hasn't been very productive. What do they mean, anyway, by this curious phrase?’

He hunted out a piece of paper and read, ‘“The deviation from the correct time of various clocks existent on the scene of the crime at the moment of the commission of the crime …” Does that mean anything?’

Månsson shrugged.

‘That's Backlund,’ he said. ‘You've met Backlund?’

‘Oh, him. I see,’ said Martin Beck.

He had met Backlund. Once. Several years ago. That was enough.

A car drove into the courtyard and stopped below the window. Then noises were heard, car doors being slammed shut, people running and loud voices shouting something in German.

Månsson got up slowly and looked out.

‘They must have made a clean sweep on Gustav Adolf Square,’ be said, ‘or down by the wharves. We've stepped up surveillance there, but it's mostly teenagers who have a little hash for their own use who get picked up. We seldom get at the big shipments and the really dangerous dealers.’

‘Same thing with us.’

Månsson shut the window and sat down.

‘How's Skacke doing?’ Martin Beck asked.

‘Fine,’ Månsson said. ‘He's an ambitious boy. Sits at home and studies every night. He does a good job, too, very careful and doesn't do anything rash. He really learned a lesson that time. He was very relieved, by the way, when he heard that you were coming, and not Kollberg.’

Less than a year before, Benny Skacke had been more or less the direct cause of Kollberg's being stabbed in the stomach by a man that both of them were going to arrest at Arlanda airport.

‘Good reinforcement for the football team too, I hear,’ Månsson said.

‘Is that so?’ said Martin Beck disinterestedly. ‘What's he doing right now?’

‘He's trying to get hold of that man who was sitting alone several tables away from Palmgren's party. His name is Edvardsson, and he's a proofreader for Arbetet. He was too drunk to be questioned last Wednesday, and yesterday we couldn't get hold of him. He was probably at home with a hangover and refused to answer the door.’

‘If he was drunk when Palmgren was shot, maybe he's not worth much as a witness,’ Martin Beck said. ‘And when can we question Palmgren's wife?’

Månsson took a swallow of beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

‘This afternoon, I hope. Or tomorrow. Do you want to deal with her?’

‘Maybe it'd be better if you did it yourself. You must know more about Palmgren than I do.’

‘I doubt it,’ Månsson said. ‘But okay, you're the one to decide. You can talk to Edvardsson, if Skacke gets hold of him. I have a feeling that he's the most important witness so far, despite everything. Would you like a beer? It's warm, I'm afraid.’

Martin Beck shook his head. He was extremely thirsty, but warm beer didn't appeal to him.

‘Why don't we go up to the canteen and have some mineral water instead?’ he said.

They each drank a bottle of mineral water standing at the bar and then returned to Månsson's room. Benny Skacke was sitting in the extra chair reading something from his notepad. He stood up quickly when they came in, and he and Martin Beck shook hands.

‘Well, did you get hold of Edvardsson?’ Månsson asked.

‘Yes, eventually. He's at the newspaper right now, but should be home about three o'clock,’ Skacke said.

He looked at his notes.

‘Kamrergatan 2.’

‘Call and say that I'll come at three,’ Martin Beck said.

The building on Kamrergatan seemed to be the first finished in a series of new structures; on the other side of the street were squat, old houses that had been vacated and would soon fall prey to bulldozers to make room for newer and larger blocks of flats.

Edvardsson lived on the top floor and opened the door soon after Martin Beck had rung the bell. About fifty years old, he had an intelligent face with a prominent nose and deep furrows around his mouth. He squinted at Martin Beck before he threw open the door and said, ‘Superintendent Beck? Come in.’

Martin Beck preceded him into the room, which was frugally furnished. The walls were covered with book shelves, and on the desk by the window was a typewriter with a half-typed sheet of paper in the platen.

Edvardsson removed a stack of newspapers from the room's only armchair and said, ‘Please sit down and I'll get something to drink. I have cold beer in the fridge.’

‘Beer sounds good,’ Martin Beck said.

The man went out into the kitchenette and returned with glasses and two bottles of beer.

‘Beck's Beer,’ he said. ‘Appropriate, eh?’

When he had poured the beer into the glasses he sat down on the sofa with one arm over the back.

Martin Beck took a big swallow of beer, which was cold and good in the oppressive heat. Then he said, ‘Well, you know what my visit is about.’

Edvardsson nodded and lit a cigarette.

‘Yes, about Palmgren. I can't exactly say I regret his passing.’

‘Did you know him?’ Martin Beck asked.

‘Personally? No, not at all. But you couldn't help but run into him in every possible connection. The impression I had was of a domineering, arrogant man – well, I've never gotten along with that type of person.’

‘What does that mean? “That type”?’

‘People for whom money means everything and who don't hesitate to use any means to get it.’

‘I'd like to hear more about Palmgren later, if you'd like to clarify what you think of him, but first I want to know something else. Did you see the gunman?’

Edvardsson ran a hand through his hair, which was a bit grizzled and lay in a wave over his forehead.

‘I'm afraid I can't be of too much help. I was sitting reading and didn't really react until the fellow was already halfway out of the window. At first I only noticed Palmgren, and then I saw the gunman – but just out of the corner of my eye. He took off very quickly, and when I got around to looking out of the window, he'd disappeared.’

Martin Beck took a crumpled pack of Floridas from his pocket and lit one.

‘Have you any idea what he looked like?’ he asked.

‘I seem to remember that he was dressed in rather dark clothes, probably in a suit or a sports coat and trousers that didn't match, and that he wasn't a young man. But it's only an impression I have – he could have been thirty, forty, or fifty, but hardly older or younger than that.’

‘Was Palmgren's party already seated when you got to the restaurant?’

‘No,’ said Edvardsson. ‘I'd eaten and had a whisky by the time they came. I live alone here, and sometimes it's nice to sit in a restaurant and read a book, and then I end up sitting there for quite a long time.’

He paused and added, ‘Even though it gets damned expensive, of course.’

‘Did you recognize anyone besides Palmgren in this gathering?’

‘His wife and that young man who's said to be – have been – Palmgren's right-hand man. I didn't recognize the others, but it looked as if they were employees, too. A couple of them spoke Danish.’

Edvardsson took a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped the perspiration off his forehead. He was dressed in a white shirt and tie, pale polyester trousers and black shoes. His shirt was soaked with sweat. Martin Beck felt his own shirt begin to grow damp and stick to his body.

‘Did you happen to hear what the conversation was about?’ he asked.

‘To tell you the truth, I did. I'm fairly curious and think it's fun to study people, so, in fact, I was eavesdropping a little. Palmgren and the Dane talked shop – I didn't catch what it was all about, but they mentioned Rhodesia several times. He had a lot of irons in the fire, Palmgren – I even heard him say that himself on at least one occasion – and there were a number of shady deals underway, I've heard tell. The ladies talked about the kind of things that that kind of lady usually talks about – clothes, trips, mutual acquaintances, parties … Mrs Palmgren and the younger of the other two talked about someone who'd had her sagging breasts operated on so that they looked like tennis balls right under her chin. Charlotte Palmgren talked about a party at 21 in New York, where Frank Sinatra had been, and someone called Mackan had bought champagne for all of them the whole night. And a million other things like that. A fantastic bra for 75 kronor at Twilfit. That it's too warm to wear a wig in the summer, so you have to put your hair up every day.’

Martin Beck reflected that Edvardsson couldn't have read much of his book that night.

‘And the other men? Did they talk shop, too?’

‘Not very much. It seems they'd had a meeting before dinner. The fourth man – not the Dane and not the young one, that is – said something about it. No, their conversation wasn't on a very high level either. For example, they talked a long time about Palmgren's tie, which unfortunately I couldn't see since he sat with his back to me. It must have been something special, for they all admired it, and Palmgren said that he'd bought it for 95 francs on the Champs-Elysées in Paris. And the fourth man told them that he had a problem that kept him awake at night. His daughter had actually moved in with a Negro. Palmgren suggested he send her to Switzerland, where there are hardly any blacks.’

Edvardsson got up, carried the empty bottles out into the kitchenette and returned with two more bottles of beer. They were misty and looked extremely tempting.

‘Yes,’ Edvardsson said, ‘that's most of what I remember from the table conversation. Not especially helpful, is it?’

‘No,’ Martin Beck said truthfully. ‘What do you know about Palmgren?’

‘Not much. He lives in one of the largest of those old upper-class mansions out towards Limhamn. He made a pile of money and also spent plenty, among other things on his wife and that old house.’

Edvardsson was silent a moment. Then he asked a question in return: ‘What do you know about Palmgren?’

‘Not too much more than that.’

‘God save us if the police know as little as I do about characters like Viktor Palmgren,’ said Edvardsson and drank deeply from his glass of beer.

‘Right when Palmgren was shot, he was giving a speech, wasn't he?’

‘Yes, I remember, he stood up and started rambling on – the usual sort of nonsense. Welcomed them and thanked them for good work and lectured the ladies and had his fun. He seemed skilled at it; he sounded tremendously jolly. The hotel staff withdrew so they wouldn't disturb them, and even the music stopped. The waiters had vanished into thin air, and I had to sit there sucking on ice cubes. Do you really not know what Palmgren was doing, or is it a police secret?’

Martin Beck eyed the glass of beer. Took it. Took a sip cautiously.

‘I don't know very much, in fact,’ he said. ‘But there are others who probably know. A lot of foreign business and a property company in Stockholm.’

‘I see,’ Edvardsson said and then seemed lost in thought.

After a moment he said, ‘The little I saw of that murderer, I already told them about the day before yesterday. Two fellows from the police were on me. One fellow who kept asking what time it was, and also a younger one who seemed a little sharper.’

‘You weren't quite sober at the time, were you?’ Martin Beck said.

‘No. Lord knows, I wasn't. And then yesterday I tied on another one, so I'm still hungover. It must be this damned heat.’

Splendid, thought Martin Beck. Hungover detective questions hungover witness. Very constructive.

‘Maybe you know how it feels,’ Edvardsson said.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Martin Beck. Then he took the glass of beer and emptied it in one gulp. He stood up and said, ‘Thank you. Maybe you'll be hearing from us again.’

He stopped and asked another question:

‘By the way, did you happen to see the weapon the murderer used?’

Edvardsson hesitated.

‘Come to think of it now, it seems to me I caught a glimpse of it, at the moment he stuck it in his pocket. I don't know much about guns, of course, but it was a long, fairly narrow thing. With a kind of roller, or whatever you call it.’

‘Revolving chamber,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Goodbye and thanks for the beer.’

‘Come again sometime,’ Edvardsson said. ‘Now I'm going to have a pick-me-up, so I can put things into a little better shape here.’

Månsson was still sitting in about the same position behind his desk.

‘What shall I say?’ he said when Martin Beck slipped in through the door. ‘How did it go? Well, how did it go?’

‘That's a good question. Rather badly, I think. How's it going there?’

‘Not at all.’

‘How about the widow?’

‘I'll get her tomorrow. Best to be careful. She is in mourning.’

7

Per Månsson was born and grew up in the working-class section around Möllevång Square in Malmö. He'd been a police officer for more than twenty-five years. Having lived with Malmö his whole life, he knew his city better than most – and liked it, too.

However, there was one part of the city he'd never really got to know, and this section had always made him feel uneasy. That was Västra Förstaden, with areas like Fridhem, Västervång and Bellevue, where many rich families had always lived. He could remember the famine years of the twenties and thirties, when many times as a little lad he had trudged in his clogs through the blocks of mansions on the way to Limhamn, where somehow it might be possible to find herring for dinner. He recalled the expensive cars and the uniformed chauffeurs, maids in black dresses with aprons and starched white caps, and upper-class children in tulle dresses and sailor suits. He'd felt so utterly outside of all that; the whole environment had appeared incomprehensible, like a fairy tale to him. Somehow it still felt the same way, by and large, despite the fact that the chauffeurs and most of the servant girls were gone and that nowadays upper-class children didn't differ very much on the surface from any other children.

After all, herring and potatoes was not a bad diet. Although fatherless and poor, he'd grown up to be a big strong man, taken the ‘hard road’ and eventually done quite well. At least he thought so himself.

Viktor Palmgren had lived in this same area; and consequently his widow probably still lived there.

So far he'd only seen pictures of the people around the fateful dinner table and didn't know very much about them. About Charlotte Palmgren, however, he knew that she was considered an exceptional beauty and had once been crowned Miss Something – was it only of Sweden or of the whole universe? Then she'd made herself famous as a model and after that become Mrs Palmgren, twenty-seven years old and at the height of her career. Now she was thirty-two and outwardly fairly unchanged, as only women can be who haven't had children, and who can afford to spend a lot of time and an unlimited amount of money on their appearance. Viktor Palmgren had been twenty-four years older than she, a fact which might give an indication of the mutual motives for the marriage. He'd probably wanted something good-looking to display to his business acquaintances and she, enough money so that she never again would need to do anything that might possibly be characterized as work. And that is the way it seemed to have worked out.

Nevertheless, Charlotte Palmgren was a widow, and Månsson couldn't avoid a certain measure of propriety. Therefore, much to his distaste, he put on his dark suit, white shirt and tie before he went down and got into the car to drive the relatively short stretch from Regementsgatan to Bellevue.

The Palmgren residence seemed to correspond with all of Månsson's childhood memories, which had perhaps become covered with a patina of slight exaggeration over the years. One could catch only a glimpse of the house from the street, a bit of the roof and a weather vane, for the hedges were not only well clipped and richly verdant, but also very high and thick. If he wasn't mistaken, there was likely to be a wrought-iron fence behind it. The plot seemed immense, and the lawn rather resembled formal gardens. The gate to the drive was just as impenetrable as the hedge; it was of copper, green with age, high, broad, and embellished with spiralling pinnacles. On one half of the door was a row of oversized brass letters, which formed the by now familiar name – Palmgren. On the other half was a letter box, the button for an electric doorbell and directly over it a square opening through which potential visitors could be scrutinized before being granted admission. Clearly it wasn't a matter of just walking in any old way. As he cautiously pressed down the handle, Månsson almost expected an alarm to start ringing somewhere inside. The door was locked, of course, and the opening hermetically sealed. Nothing could be seen through the letter slot – obviously it opened into a closed metal box.

Månsson raised his hand to the doorbell, but changed his mind, let his arm sink back and looked around.

Besides his own old Wartburg, two cars were parked by the kerb – a red Jaguar and a yellow MG. Did it seem plausible that Charlotte Palmgren would have two sports cars parked on the street? He stood still, listening, and thought for an instant that he discerned voices from within the park. Then the sounds died away, perhaps stifled by the heat and the stagnant, quivering air.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.