by Maj Sjowall
Kollberg succumbed to another attack of laughing and almost choked over his bun.
“I don’t really like this fire business,” said Martin Beck.
It sounded as if he were talking to himself.
“What are you sitting there mumbling about?” said Kollberg, when he had got his breath back. “Is it something one should like? Isn’t it enough that four people were burned to death and that six-foot imbecile got a medal?”
Kollberg grew serious, looked attentively at Martin Beck and said:
“Everything’s quite clear, isn’t it? Malm turns on the gas and kills himself. What happens next he doesn’t care a damned fig about, as he’s self-centered and anyhow stone-dead when the bang goes. Three innocent people die too and the police lose a witness and a chance to hook in that Olofsson, or whatever he’s called. And that’s nothing whatsoever to do with you or me. Aren’t I right?”
Martin Beck blew his nose thoroughly.
“Everything clicks,” said Kollberg definitively. “And don’t go and say it clicks too well. Or that your famous intuition …”
He stopped and looked critically and searchingly at Martin Beck.
“Hell, you do seem down about something, I must say.”
Martin Beck shrugged his shoulders.
Kollberg nodded to himself.
They knew each other very well and had for a long time, and Kollberg knew exactly why Martin Beck was depressed. But it was a subject he was not going to take up without being asked to and so he said lightly:
“To hell with that fire. I’ve forgotten it already. What about coming back with me tonight? Gun’s going to some class or other and we could have a drink together and have a game of chess.”
“Yes, why not?” said Martin Beck.
Then at least he could escape going home for a few hours.
11
Gunvald Larsson was indeed discharged after the doctor’s rounds on the morning of the fifteenth of March. The doctor told him to take it easy and put him off work for ten days, until Monday, the twenty-fifth.
Half an hour later, he stepped out into the bitter wind outside the front entrance of South Hospital, flagged down a taxi and headed straight for the police station in Kungsholmen. He didn’t bother to contact any of his colleagues and went up to his office without being seen by anyone, except the man on duty in the hall. Once up there, he shut himself in and made a number of telephone calls, of which at least one would have brought a severe reprimand on his head if any of his superiors had happened to listen in on it.
As he was telephoning, he wrote down a number of facts on a piece of paper and gradually these notes grew into a list of a number of people.
Of all the policemen who in some way or another had been concerned with the fire in Sköldgatan, Gunvald Larsson was alone in coming from an upper-class environment. His father had been considered wealthy, even if there had been very little left after the winding up of the estate; he himself had grown up in the fashionable Stockholm district of Östermalm and gone to the best schools. But he had fairly soon begun to appear as a problem member of the family. His views differed and were uncomfortable, and he was also given to airing them at unsuitable as well as suitable moments. Finally his father had been unable to see any other course than to allow him to become a naval officer.
Gunvald Larsson had not liked the Navy and after a few years, had transferred to the Merchant Navy. There he soon realized that what he had learned in naval college and on board mine-sweepers and antediluvian warships did not count for much.
All his brothers and sisters had made their own way in due course and were already well established when their parents died. He was never in contact with them and largely speaking had forgotten they existed.
As he had no desire to spend the rest of his life as a seaman, he had to find himself another profession, preferably one which was not too sedentary and in which his unusual training at least to some extent would be to his advantage. So he became a policeman, much to the surprise and not inconsiderable horror of his relations in Lidingö and Upper Östermalm.
Opinions on his qualities as a policeman were greatly divided. And on top of that, nearly everyone disliked him.
He did most things his own way and his methods were usually unorthodox, to say the least of it.
As was the list that now lay before him on his desk.
Göran Malm, 42, thief, dead (suicide?)
Kenneth Roth, 27, thief, dead, buried
Kristina Modig, 14, juvenile whore, dead, buried
Madeleine Olsen, 24, redheaded whore, dead
Kent Modig, 5, child (children’s home)
Clary Modig, 7 months, infant (children’s home)
Agnes Söderberg, 68, senile, Rosenlund Old People’s Home
Herman Söderberg, 67, senile drunk, Högalid Nursing Home
Max Karlsson, 23, gangster, 12 Timmermansgatan
Anna-Kajsa Modig, 30, whore, South Hospital (psychiatric)
Carla Berggren, ?, whore, 25 Götgatan
Gunvald Larsson read through the list and saw that it would only be worth talking to the last three. Of the others, four were dead, two were small children and wholly ignorant, and two were hopelessly senile.
So he folded up the piece of paper, put it into his pocket and left. He didn’t even bother to nod to the duty officer in the hall. He sought out his car parked in the lot and drove home.
During Saturday and Sunday, he stayed indoors, strictly occupied reading a novel by Sax Rohmer.
He did not give a thought to the fire.
On Monday morning, the eighteenth of March, he got up early, took off his remaining bandages, showered, shaved and took a long time carefully choosing his clothes. Then he got into his car and drove to the address in Götgatan where Carla Berggren lived.
He had to walk up two flights of stairs, then obliquely across an asphalt courtyard and then up another dirty three flights of flaking brown paint and loose bannisters, before finally arriving outside a cracked door with a metal letterbox outside and the words Carla Berggren, Model, written by hand on an unevenly cut piece of cardboard.
There didn’t seem to be a bell, so he kicked the door lightly, opened it and stepped inside without waiting for a reply.
The apartment consisted of a single room. The torn blind was pulled halfway down over the window and it was rather dark inside. It was also very warm and the air musty and enclosed. The heat came from two old-fashioned electric elements with spiral threads. Clothes and other diverse objects were scattered around the floor and elsewhere. The only thing in the room which could not have been equally well carted directly to the garbage can was the bed. It was quite big and the bedclothes appeared comparatively clean.
Carla Berggren was alone at home. She was awake but had not got up, and was lying in bed reading a romance magazine. Just as the last time he had seen her, she was naked and looked much the same as then, apart from the fact that she had no goose flesh on her body and she was not quivering with tears and hysteria. On the contrary, she appeared very calm.
She was fine-limbed and very thin, peroxided, with small slack breasts, which presumably looked their best when she lay on her back like this, and she had mouse-colored hair between her legs. She stretched indolently, yawned and said:
“You’re a bit early for me, I’m afraid, but let’s get on with it.”
Gunvald Larsson said nothing and she apparently misinterpreted his silence.
“The money first, of course. Put it on the table over there. I suppose you know the rate? Or do you want something extra? How about a little Swedish massage—a hand job?”
He had had to bend down to get in through the doorway, and the room was so small that he filled it almost completely. It stank of sex and other body odors, ingrained tobacco smoke and cheap cosmetics. He took a step over toward the window and tried to get the blind up again, but the spring had gone and the only result was that he drew it down almost completely.
The girl o
n the bed followed him with her eyes. Suddenly she recognized him.
“Oh,” she said. “I recognize you. It was you who saved my life, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You’re welcome.”
She looked thoughtful, straddled her legs a little and drew her right hand across her genitals.
“That’s quite different,” she said. “Naturally, it’s free to you.”
“Put something on,” said Gunvald Larsson.
“Nearly everyone says I’m nice looking,” she said coyly.
“Not me.”
“And I’m good at it. Everyone says so.”
“It is also against my principles to question naked … people.”
He hesitated a little over the word, as if he were not certain which category she should be counted in.
“Question? Of course, you’re the fuzz.”
And after a moment’s hesitation:
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re a prostitute.”
“Oh, don’t be so unfair now. There’s nothing wrong with sex, is there?”
“Get dressed.”
She sighed and scrabbled round in the bedclothes, found a bathrobe and pulled it on without tying up the belt.
“What’s it about?” she said. “What d’you want?”
“I want to ask you a few things.”
“What about, then? Me?”
“Among other things. What for instance were you up to in that house?”
“Nothing illegal,” she said. “That’s true.”
Gunvald Larsson took out his ballpoint and a few pages extracted from his notebook.
“What’s your name?”
“Carla Berggren. But really …”
“Really? Now don’t lie.”
“No,” she said, with childish dignity. “I won’t lie to you. Really my name is Karin Sofia Pettersson. Berggren is Mom’s name. And Carla sounds better.”
“Where do come from?”
“Skillingaryd. It’s down in Småland.”
“How long have you lived in Stockholm?”
“Over a year. Almost eighteen months.”
“Have you had any regular work here?”
“We-ell, it depends what you mean. I do a bit of modeling now and again. Sometimes that’s quite hard work.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen—nearly anyhow.”
“Sixteen, then?”
She nodded.
“Well, what were you doing in that apartment?”
“We were only having a little party.”
“You mean you had a meal and all that?”
“No. It was a sex-party.”
“Sex-party?”
“Yes, that’s right. Haven’t you heard of them? It can be great fun.”
“Oh, yes,” said Gunvald Larsson without interest, turning a page.
“How well did you know these people?”
“The guy who lived there I’d never met before. Kent, or whatever his name was.”
“Kenneth Roth.”
“Oh, was that his name? Anyhow, I’d never even heard of the guy before. And Madeleine I knew a little. Now they’re both dead, aren’t they?”
“Yes. Then what about this Max Karlsson?”
“I know him. We used to go together now and again just for fun. Just for sex. It was he who took me there.”
“Is he your pimp?”
She shook her head and said with naïve solemnity:
“No, I don’t need one. It’s not worth it. Those guys only want money. Percentages and all that shit.”
“Did you know Göran Malm?”
“The guy who killed himself and set fire to the place? The guy who lived below?”
“Exactly.”
“Never heard of him. Helluva way to behave, anyhow.”
“Did the others know him?”
“I guess not. Anyhow, not. Max and Madeleine. Perhaps that Kent guy, or Kenneth, because he lived there, didn’t he?”
“Well, what did you do?”
“Fucked.”
Gunvald Larsson looked steadily at her. Then he said slowly:
“Perhaps we could have it all in a little more detail. What time did you get there? And how did it come about that you went there at all?”
“Max fetched me. Said we were going to have a good time. And we picked up Madeleine on the way.”
“Did you walk there?”
“Walk! In that weather? We took a cab.”
“And what time did you arrive?”
“About nine or so, I should think. Round about then.”
“And what happened then?”
“That guy who lived there had two bottles of wine which we shared. Then we played a few records and all that.”
“You didn’t notice anything peculiar?”
She shook her head again.
“What sort of peculiar?”
“Go on,” said Gunvald Larsson.
“Well, then after a while Madeleine took her clothes off. She isn’t much to look at. And then I did the same. The guys too, for that matter. Then … then we danced.”
“Naked?”
“Yes, it’s great.”
“Oh, yes. Go on.”
“We did that for quite a time. Then we sat and smoked for a bit.”
“Smoked?”
“Yes. Hash. To get going. It’s good.”
“Who offered you the hash?”
“Max. He usually—”
“Yes? What does he usually?”
“Eghhh! I promised I’d tell you the truth, didn’t I? And I haven’t done anything. And anyhow, you saved my life.”
“What did Max usually do?”
“He used to sell hash. To kids mostly, and all that.”
Gunvald Larsson made a note.
“And then?”
“Well, then the guys tossed for us. We were in good form by then, though a bit giggly. A little high. You get like that, you know.”
“Tossed a coin?”
“Yes. Max got Madeleine and they went into the other room. I and that Kenneth guy stayed in the kitchen. We meant to …”
“Yes?”
“Oh, you must have been in on that kind of party yourself. We thought we’d do a single first and then wind up with the whole group if the guys were able to. That’s the most fun, really.”
“Did you put the light out then?”
“Yes. That guy and I lay on the kitchen floor. Though …”
“Though what?”
“Well, something funny happened. I passed out. And I was waked up by Madeleine creeping in and shaking me and saying that Max was annoyed I didn’t come. And at that point I was lying sprawled out on top of that guy.”
“Was the door between the kitchen and the room shut?”
“Yes, and that Kenneth guy was asleep too. Madeleine began to shake him. I lit my lighter and looked at the time and then I saw that I’d been in the kitchen with him for over an hour.”
Gunvald Larsson nodded.
“Well, I felt awfully listless. But I got up all the same and went into the room and there was nothing wrong with Max. He grabbed at me and slung me down and said …”
“Well, what did he say?”
“Come on and get going now, he said. That redheaded bitch wasn’t much to have. And then …”
“Yes?”
“Then I don’t remember anything else until there was a bang like a gun and then smoke and flames all over the place. And then you came … Christ, it was awful.”
“And you didn’t notice anything strange?”
“Just that time when I fell asleep. That doesn’t usually happen. I’ve been with lots of real experts and they all say I’m damned good. And nice to look at.”
Gunvald Larsson nodded and put away his pieces of paper. He looked at the girl for a long time. Then he said:
“I think you’re rather ugly. You’ve got flabby breasts and bags u
nder your eyes and you look sick and wretched. In a few years’ time you’ll be a complete wreck and you’ll look so damned awful, no one’ll want to touch you with a bargepole. Goodbye.”
He stopped on the first flight of stairs and went back up to the apartment. The girl had taken off the bathrobe and was standing feeling under her armpit with her fingers. She giggled and said:
“I’ve got stubble under my arms while in the hospital. Have you changed your mind?”
“I think you ought to buy a ticket to Småland and go home and get yourself an honest job,” he said.
“There aren’t any jobs,” she said.
He slammed the door behind him with such force that it almost jumped off its hinges.
Gunvald Larsson stood still in Götgatan for a minute or so. What had he found out? That the gas in Malm’s apartment had seeped up into the kitchen of the apartment above, presumably along the waterpipes and the drains. That the concentration was sufficient that the people up there had fallen asleep, but not sufficient to be set alight when Karin Sofia Pettersson lit her cigarette lighter.
What did that mean? Nothing, on the whole, anyhow nothing that brought him any joy.
He felt sticky and unhealthy. His confrontation with that sixteen-year-old girl in her grimy room had given him a feeling of purely physical discomfort. He went straight to the Sture Baths and spent three thought-free hours in the gentlemen’s Turkish baths.
That Monday afternoon, Martin Beck made a telephone call which he did not wish anyone else to hear. He waited until Kollberg and Skacke were out of the way, then dialed the Forensic labs and asked to speak to a man called Hjelm, who was considered to be one of the most skillful criminal technologists in the world.
“You saw Malm’s body both before and after the autopsy, didn’t you?” he said.
“Yes, I certainly did,” said Hjelm sourly.
“Was there anything at all that you consider unusual?”
“Not exactly. If anything, it would be that the body was so well burned, so to speak. From all sides, if you see what I mean. Even on his back, although he was lying on his back.”
Hjelm paused and then added reflectively: “Of course, the mattress was burning too.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Martin Beck.
