by Maj Sjowall
“I don’t understand you guys,” complained Hjelm. “Isn’t that case closed? But all the same …”
At that moment Kollberg opened the door and Martin Beck hurriedly put an end to the conversation.
12
At lunchtime on Tuesday the nineteenth, Gunvald Larsson was just about to give up altogether. He knew that some of his activities during the last few days had been anything but according to the regulations, and hitherto he had not found anything that might justify his actions. In actual fact, he had not even succeeded in proving that any connection whatsoever existed between Göran Malm and the other people in the house when the fire started, and he knew even less than before about where the igniting spark had come from.
His morning visit to South Hospital had not produced anything more than simple confirmation of various possible presumptions. Kristina Modig had slept in one of the small attics because there was a shortage of space in her mother’s apartment and because she did not want to be crowded in with her noisy small brother and sister. The girl’s habits were presumably not what they ought to have been, but actually what business was that with the police? As a minor, she had at one time been a charge of the state, and also nowadays there was an increasing tendency among the authorities to look the other way when it came to young girls going astray. Their escapades were too numerous, the social-welfare workers too few and ways of correction either nonexistent or out of date. The result was that in many cases the youngsters did as they liked, which gave the country a bad reputation and left parents and teachers in a state of despair and impotence. And anyhow, that did not, as has already been mentioned, concern the police in any way.
That Anna-Kajsa Modig was in great need of psychiatric care was obvious even to a relatively insensitive person such as Gunvald Larsson. She was distrait and difficult to communicate with, shaken by shudders, and she kept bursting into tears. He found out that there had been a kerosene stove in the attic, a fact he had already known. Their conversation produced nothing, but all the same he remained until the doctor grew tired of him and drove him out.
At the apartment in Timmermansgatan where Max Karlsson was said to live, there was no sign of life, although Larsson energetically kicked on the door. The answer was quite probably simply that there was no one at home.
Gunvald Larsson went home to Bollmora, tied a checkered apron around his waist, went out into the kitchen where he cooked a tasty meal of eggs, bacon and fried potatoes. Then he chose a brand of tea that suited his mood. By the time he had finished and had washed the dishes, it was already past three in the afternoon.
He stood for a moment by the window, staring out at the high blocks of apartments in this respectable but paralyzingly dull suburb. Then he went down to his car and drove back to Timmermansgatan.
Max Karlsson lived on the second floor in a building that was old but well maintained. Gunvald Larsson left his car three blocks away, less out of caution than because of the chronic lack of parking space. He walked along the pavement with long quick strides and was less than ten yards away from the entrance when he observed a person coming in the opposite direction; a girl of about thirteen or fourteen, like thousands of others, with long straggly hair, stitched black jeans and a jacket. She was carrying a worn leather bag in one hand and had presumably come straight from school, such an extremely usual type of girl and clothing that he would probably never have noticed her if she had not behaved as she did. There was a kind of nonchalance in her movements, as if she were trying hard to appear candid and natural, and yet she could not help looking around with a blend of anxiety and guilty excitement. As she met his eyes, she hesitated a fraction and held back, so that he continued to walk straight on, past her and past the entrance. The schoolgirl tossed her head and swung in through the entrance door.
Gunvald Larsson stopped abruptly, turned and followed her. Although he was a large and heavy man, he moved quickly and silently, and when the girl knocked on Karlsson’s door, he was already halfway up the stairs. She knocked lightly four times, clearly some kind of simple signal, and he made an effort to remember the rhythm, which was made much easier for him by her repeating it almost at once, after an interval of perhaps five or six seconds. Immediately after the second knocks, the door was opened; he heard a safety-chain being unhooked and the door being opened and then at once closed again. He went down onto the porch and stood absolutely still with his back against the wall, waiting.
Two or three minutes later, the door up there opened and light steps could be heard on the stairs. It had clearly been a rapid deal, for when the girl came out onto the porch, she was still fumbling with the catch on the outer pocket of her bag. Gunvald Larsson stretched out his left hand and grasped her wrist. She stopped abruptly and stared at him, but without any attempt to shout for help or tear herself away and run. She did not even appear to be especially frightened, but more resigned, as if she had been prepared for a long time for something like this to happen sooner or later. Still without saying anything, he opened the bag and took out a matchbox. It contained about ten white tablets. He let go the girl’s wrist and nodded at her to be off. She gave him a surprised gray look and half ran out through the door.
Gunvald Larsson was in no hurry. He looked at the tablets for a moment, then put them into his pocket and walked slowly up the stairs. He waited for thirty seconds outside the door, listening. Nothing could be heard from inside the apartment. He raised his hand and with the tips of his fingers gave two swift series of knocks, with an interval of about five seconds between them.
Max Karlsson opened the door. He looked considerably tidier than when they had last met, but Gunvald Larsson remembered his face and there was no doubt about their recognition being mutual.
“Good afternoon,” said Gunvald Larsson, putting his foot in the door.
“Oh, so it’s you?” said Max Karlsson.
“Just thought I’d find out how you were.”
“Very well, thanks.”
The man was in a tricky situation. He knew his visitor was a policeman and that he had used the prearranged signal. The safety-chain was on, and if he attempted to shut the door and really had something to hide, then he would automatically have revealed himself.
“Thought I’d ask you a few things,” said Gunvald Larsson.
His situation was not all that simple either. He had no right whatsoever to enter the apartment and officially could not even question the man, if the man himself did not agree to it.
“Well,” said Max Karlsson, vaguely. He made no move to unhook the chain, but it was clear that he did not know what attitude to take.
Gunvald Larsson solved the problem by putting his right shoulder against the door, suddenly and with all his weight behind the blow. There was a creaking sound in the fastening of the chain as the screws were ripped away from the dry woodwork. The man inside retreated hastily so as to avoid being hit by the door. Gunvald Larsson walked in, closed the door behind him and turned the key. He looked at the ruined chain and said:
“Rotten work.”
“Are you crazy?”
“You should use longer screws.”
“What the hell is all this? How dare you break in like this?”
“I didn’t mean to,” said Gunvald Larsson. “It wasn’t my fault that it broke anyhow. I said you should have used longer screws, didn’t I?”
“What do you want?”
“Just a little chat.”
Gunvald Larsson looked around to make sure the man was alone. The apartment was not large, but looked pleasant and comfortable. Max Karlsson himself was quite respectable, and also large, broad-shouldered and at least 170 pounds in his stockings. Sure to be able to look after himself, thought Gunvald Larsson.
“Chat?” said the man, clenching his fists. “What about?”
“About what you were doing in that apartment before it caught fire.”
The man seemed to relax a little.
“Oh, that,” he said.
�
��Yes, that. Exactly.”
“We were just having a little party. A few sandwiches and some beer, and playing some records.”
“Just a family party, eh?”
“Yes, that chick Madeleine was my girl and …”
He stopped and tried to look grief-stricken.
“And what?” said Gunvald Larsson quietly.
“And Kenneth went around with that girl Carla.”
“So it wasn’t the other way around?”
“The other way around? What d’you mean?”
“That schoolgirl who was up here five minutes ago, who does she go around with?”
“Which schoolgirl? No one’s been here …”
And Gunvald Larsson hit him, swiftly and hard, catching him unawares.
Max Karlsson staggered back two steps, but did not fall. Instead, he said:
“What the hell are you up to, you goddam cop?”
Gunvald Larsson hit him again. The man clutched at the edge of the table, but could not keep his balance. He caught hold of the tablecloth and pulled that down with him. A decorative carafe of thick cut-glass fell to the floor. He got up with a thin stream of blood running out of one corner of his mouth and his right hand clasping the heavy piece of glass.
“No, now you damned …” he said.
He ran the back of his left hand across his face, looked at the blood and raised the weapon.
Gunvald Larsson hit him for the third time. Karlsson reeled backward against a chair and tumbled to the floor with it. As he stood there on all fours, Gunvald Larsson kicked him hard on the right wrist. The glass carafe shot away across the floor and hit the wall with a dull thump.
Max Karlsson rose slowly onto one knee, holding his hand over one eye. The look in the other eye was frightened and uneasy. Gunvald Larsson looked calmly at him and said:
“Now, where’s your stock?”
“What stock?”
Gunvald Larsson clenched his fist.
“No, no, for Christ’s sake,” the man said hurriedly. “Stop now. I’ll …”
“Where?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Where in the kitchen?”
“Under the bottom plate in the stove.”
“That’s better,” said Gunvald Larsson.
He looked at his clenched right fist. It was very large and had reddish patches on the places where the coarse fair hairs had been singed off. Max Karlsson looked at it too.
“And how was it now, with Roth and those two whores?” said Gunvald Larsson.
“We fu—”
“I’m not interested in your sexual filthiness. I want to know who set the house on fire?”
“Set the house on fire … no, for Christ’s sake, I don’t know anything about that. And Kenneth was killed …”
“What was Roth up to? Drugs?”
“How should I know …?”
“Tell the truth,” said Gunvald Larsson warningly.
“No, no. Stop now. Take me down to the station instead, for Christ’s sake.”
“Oh, you’d like that, now, wouldn’t you?” said Gunvald Larsson, taking a step nearer.
“Was Roth a pusher too?”
“No … booze …”
“Liquor?”
“Yes.”
“Stolen?”
“Yes.”
“Smuggling?”
“Yes.”
“Where did he keep his stock then?”
“In …”
“Yes, just carry on now.”
“In the attic of the house he lived in.”
“But you don’t deal in liquor?”
Karlsson shook his head.
“Just whores and drugs?”
“Yes.”
“And Malm, then? What did he do?”
“I didn’t know Malm.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Not very well, anyhow.”
“But you did a bit of business together, you and Roth and Malm?”
Karlsson licked his lips. He was still holding his hand over his right eye; the left one glinted with a bizarre mixture of hatred and fear.
“In a way,” he said finally.
“And Roth and Malm knew each other?”
“Yes.”
“So Roth was a bootlegger?”
“Yes.”
“And you sold drugs. Until about ten minutes ago. Now you’ve ceased operating. What did Malm do?”
“Something with cars, I think.”
“Ah-hah,” said Gunvald Larsson. “So you were three small dealers, each in his own branch. What had you in common?”
“Nothing.”
“I mean who was the boss at the top?”
“No one. I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
The fist came out for the fourth time, with tremendous force. It hit the man on his right shoulder and threw him helplessly backward against the wall.
“The name,” roared Gunvald Larsson. “The name! And quickly too, like hell.”
The reply came in a hoarse whisper.
“Olofsson. Bertil Olofsson.”
Gunvald Larsson looked at the man called Max Karlsson for a long time, the man whose life he had saved ten days earlier. Finally he said philosophically:
“Tell the truth, it’ll always win, summer, winter, autumn, spring; the truth goes out in all weathers, is always clad in summer clothes.”
The man stared witlessly at him through his undamaged eye.
“Well now,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Up you get and go ahead out into the kitchen and show me where the stuff is.”
The hiding place had been cunningly devised and would quite easily have been overlooked in a superficial search. The bottom part of the stove had been cleared and there was a lot of stuff there, both hash and amphetamines, all neatly done up in packets. On the other hand, it was not a matter of sensational quantities. Karlsson was a typical small-timer, the one who finally delivered the narcotics to schoolchildren in their lunch periods in exchange for their pocket-money and what they could steal from their parents, or from breaking into phone booths and vending machines. How many middlemen the goods had been through before they reached him, he certainly would have no idea, and between him and the root of the evil lay an enormous complex of political miscalculations and failed social philosophy.
Gunvald Larsson went out into the hall and rang the police.
“Send a couple of those guys who hunt out drug pushers,” he said laconically.
The men who came for Karlsson belonged to a special department which dealt with narcotics. They were large and rosy-cheeked and brightly dressed in colored sweaters and woolly caps. One of them saluted as he came in and Gunvald said acidly:
“Fine disguise. Perhaps you ought to have brought a fishing rod with you, though. And don’t uniform trousers get spoiled when you crumple them into your socks like that? And also, one doesn’t in fact salute when wearing an Icelandic sweater.”
Both the narcotics men reddened even more and glanced from the scattered furniture to their suspect’s black eye.
“There was a little trouble,” said Gunvald Larsson casually.
He looked round and added:
“You can tell the person who takes on this case from me that he’s called Max Karlsson and he won’t say anything.”
Then he shrugged his shoulders and left.
He was right. The man said nothing, not even that his name was Max Karlsson. He was that type.
Gunvald Larsson had found out that there had been three small-time gangsters in the house in Sköldgatan and that two of them were dead and the third on his way to prison. He had not found out where the much-discussed spark had come from and his chances of doing so appeared to be even remoter than before.
On the other hand, it occurred to him that he was actually off sick. He went home, undressed and showered. Then he pulled out the telephone plug, lay on his bed and opened the novel by Sax Rohmer.
13
The blow that produced a verit
able constellation of stars was delivered before lunch on the following day, that is, Wednesday, the twentieth of March, and it was Kollberg who quite undeservedly received it.
He was sitting at his desk in the South police station out in Västberga, trying to solve the chess problem in Svenska Dagbladet. It was not going too well, because he kept thinking about what he was going to have for lunch and as a result found it difficult to concentrate. An hour earlier, he had called his wife and told her that he was thinking of coming home for lunch. This was cunningly worked out insofar as he had given her plenty of time to make preparations and thus he might be able to reckon on something extra specially good.
Martin Beck had called up in the morning and mumbled something about a meeting at headquarters and that he would be late, which had inspired Kollberg to send Skacke out on an assignment that might possibly strengthen his leg muscles but was otherwise quite useless.
He glanced at his watch and felt at peace with the world and his expectations for the future.
And at that moment the telephone rang.
He lifted the receiver and said:
“Yes, Kollberg.”
“Mm. Uhuh. Hjelm here. Hello!”
Kollberg could not remember asking the Forensic Institute about anything special lately and so he said unsuspectingly:
“Hello! Anything I can do for you?”
“In that case it would be the first time in the history of criminology,” said the man sourly.
Hjelm was a querulous and easily irritated person, but at the same time a famous criminal-technologist, and experience had shown that it was unwise to rub him the wrong way. So Kollberg usually avoided speaking to him more than absolutely necessary, and neither did he say anything this time.
“Sometimes I begin to doubt your sanity,” complained Hjelm.
“In what way?” asked Kollberg courteously.
“Ten days ago, Melander sends several hundred objects from a fire to us, piles of shitty rubbish ranging from old tins to a stone with Gunvald Larsson’s fingerprints on it.”
“Oh, yes,” said Kollberg.
“Oh, yes. Well, you can say that, but you don’t have to sit here grubbing around in the mess all day long. It’s very much easier to put bits of frozen dog-shit into a plastic bag and write ‘unknown object’ on the label than it is to try to find out what it is. Don’t you agree?”
