by Maj Sjowall
“I know you’ve got a lot to do,” said Kollberg, ingratiatingly.
“A lot to do? Is that meant to be some kind of joke? Do you know how many analyses we do every year?”
Kollberg had not the slightest idea and refrained from guessing.
“Fifty thousand. And do you know how many staff we have here?”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Well, then,” said Hjelm. “When we’ve worked on that stuff for six days, Rönn calls up and says the case has been closed and we can chuck the whole lot into the garbage can.”
Kollberg looked irritably at the time.
“That’s right,” he said. “Quite correct.”
“Oh, yes? I think it’s as correct as hell, because before we’d even begun to clear up, Gunvald Larsson rings up and says the case isn’t closed at all and that we must go on and there’s a terrific hurry and it’s important.”
“He had no authority to do that,” said Kollberg hastily. “He’s had a bang on the nut and is even nuttier than usual.”
“Uhuh. And on Monday I met Hammar by chance and he says exactly what you’ve just said, that the case is closed and everything tied up.”
“Yes?”
“And quarter of an hour later, Beck of all people calls up and wonders whether we can’t find something ‘unusual’ about that blasted fire.”
“Martin?”
“Yes. Exactly. So now all these people have been on to us, Melander and Rönn, and Larsson and Hammar and Beck. One after another and every one of them said different things and we don’t know what’s what at all.”
“Yes?”
“And now, today, I try to get hold of someone responsible for all this. And what do I get as an answer? Larsson is off sick and is at home. I call up his home and get no reply. Then I try to get hold of Hammar and he’s on leave. When I ask for Melander, someone says he went to the john an hour ago and hasn’t been seen since. Rönn has gone for the day and Beck’s at a meeting and Skacke has gone to look for Rönn. Finally I get hold of Ek and he’s just back from his holiday and hasn’t the faintest idea what I’m talking about and tells me to call up Hammar, who’s on leave, or Beck, who’s at a meeting, or Rönn, who’s gone for the day, or Skacke, who’s out looking for Rönn. You’re the only person I can talk to at all.”
Unfortunately, thought Kollberg. Aloud, he said: “What do you want, then?”
“Well, this man Malm was lying on his back on a mattress and as I pointed out to Beck, he was remarkably badly burned on his back as well. Both Beck and I came to the conclusion that this was due to the fact that the mattress had burned too. That sounds logical, doesn’t it?”
“Of course. But listen, this case is in fact closed.”
“I rather doubt that,” said Hjelm, nastily. “We’ve found a few things in the mattress which shouldn’t have been there.”
“What kind of things?”
“A small spring, for instance, and an aluminum capsule and the remains of certain chemicals.”
“And what does that mean?”
“That it was arson,” said Hjelm.
14
Lennart Kollberg was not a person one would normally describe as tongue-tied, but this time he sat as if turned to stone for a whole minute as he stared out through the window at the repulsive, noisy suburban and industrial area which surrounded the South police station. Finally, he said, feebly and incredulously:
“What? What d’you mean?”
“Didn’t I make myself quite clear?” said Hjelm smugly. “Or do I perhaps express myself indistinctly? It was deliberate. In other words, arson.”
“Arson?”
“Yes. Not much doubt on that point any longer. Someone had placed a detonator with a delayed fuse in the mattress. A small chemical incendiary bomb, if you like. A time bomb.”
“A time bomb?”
“Exactly. Cute little thing. Simple and easy to handle, probably no bigger than a matchbox. Of course, there’s not much left of it.”
Kollberg said nothing.
“Without an extremely thorough examination, you would be unlikely to find a trace of it,” Hjelm pointed out. “You really do have to know what you’re looking for.”
“And you knew that? Just by chance, I suppose?”
“In our profession, we don’t usually rely on chance. It so happened that I took note of certain details and then drew certain conclusions.”
Kollberg had now collected himself sufficiently to begin to get annoyed. He drew down his bushy eyebrows.
“Just stop sitting there chewing over your own excellent qualities. If you’ve got something to say, then just say it, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’ve already done that,” said Hjelm, loftily. “If you want it in words of one syllable all over again, then someone had placed a chemical time bomb in Malm’s mattress. A chemical compound with a detonator, which was connected to a small apparatus with a spring, roughly like a very simple clock. You’ll be getting further details when we’ve had time to analyze the remains.”
“Are you certain about this?”
“Am I certain? Out here we don’t usually guess at things. Anyhow, it seems somewhat peculiar that no one else thought about the fact that the clothes and skin of the man’s back were quite charred, although the body was found in the fencing position. Or that the mattress was as good as wholly destroyed while the bed itself was still in quite good shape, under the circumstances.”
“An incendiary in the mattress,” said Kollberg doubtfully. “A time bomb as big as a matchbox? There are still ten days to go before April the first.”
Hjelm muttered something incomprehensible. Anyhow, it was not polite.
“I’ve never heard anything like it,” said Kollberg.
“Well, I have. Here in Sweden, this method is new, as far as I know, but I know of several cases from the Continent, most of all from France. I’ve even seen this kind of apparatus. In Paris. At La Sûreté.”
Skacke came into the room without knocking. He stopped suddenly and gaped at Kollberg’s bewildered face.
“It wouldn’t do any harm if you gentlemen went on a study trip or two now and again,” said Hjelm poisonously.
“And how long is the time factor on this damned thing?”
“The ones I saw in Paris could be set for up to eight hours. And you can get them to detonate practically on the minute.”
“But surely you can hear it? Ticking?”
“No more than a wristwatch.”
“And what happens when it detonates?”
“Then a high-temperature chemical fire is rapidly ignited. It spreads over a limited area within a period of two seconds and cannot be extinguished by ordinary means. A person lying asleep would have next to no chance of escaping, if any. And in nine cases out of ten, the police think it’s from smoking in bed, or make some other guess …”
Hjelm made a dramatic pause before completing the sentence.
“… if the criminal-technologist investigating the case isn’t extremely knowledgeable and observant.”
“No,” said Kollberg suddenly. “This is absolutely ridiculous. There must be some limit to coincidences. Are you trying to tell me that that guy Malm first went home and blocked up all the cracks and ventilators and turned on the gas and then lay down on a bed in which someone else had already placed a time bomb? And that he took his own life and was dead when he was murdered? And that the bomb ignited the gas so that the house exploded and three other people were burned to death right in front of the nose of the stupidest detective in the history of criminology? Who was standing outside gaping? How do you explain that?”
“That’s really nothing to do with me,” said Hjelm with unusual warmth. “I’m just telling you the facts. Explanations I leave completely to you. That’s what the police are for, aren’t they?”
“Goodbye,” said Kollberg, flinging down the receiver.
“What’s all that about?” said Skacke. “Is someone dead? Rönn, b
y the way, isn’t—”
“Shut up,” said Kollberg. “And knock before you come charging into a superior’s room. Don’t forget what happened to Stenström.”
He got up and went over to the door. He put on his hat and coat. Then he pointed at Skacke with his pudgy forefinger and said:
“I’ve a number of very important assignments for you. Ring headquarters and tell Martin he must break up that meeting at once. Find Rönn and Hammar and get hold of Melander even if you have to break down the john door. Tell them that they must call up Hjelm immediately, the superintendent at the Forensic Institute. Tell Ek and Strömgren the same thing, and any other stupid fool you can find in the division. When you’ve done all that, then you can go and sit in your own office and call up Hjelm yourself and ask him what it is all about.”
“Are you going out?” asked Skacke.
“Official business,” said Kollberg, looking at his watch. “I’ll see you at Kungsholmsgatan in two hours’ time.”
He was almost nabbed for speeding right in Västberga Allé.
At his apartment in Palandergatan, his wife came out of the kitchen in a swirling cloud of aromatic fumes.
“Christ, you look peculiar,” she said, lightheartedly. “Food’s not ready. We’ve got a quarter of an hour.”
“No,” said Kollberg, glancing at the bedroom door. “Not there. The mattress might explode.”
15
By afternoon of that day, several efforts had produced results, in that Hammar was found and managed to collect himself and his somewhat astonished team together. The team consisted of Martin Beck, Fredrik Melander, Lennart Kollberg and Einar Rönn.
Hammar looked grimmer than ever. Spring had arrived, with sun and warmth, and at breakfast he had talked to his wife about retiring and spending his leave on a trip to their cottage in the country. He had been secure at the time in his belief that the fire did not concern him and he had almost forgotten it. The detestable Hjelm had suddenly upset his plans.
“Is Larsson still off sick?” asked Hammar.
“Yes,” said Kollberg. “He’s resting on his laurels.”
“He’s coming back on Monday,” said Rönn, blowing his nose.
Hammar leaned back in his chair, ran his fingers through his hair and scratched the back of his head.
“Looks as if we have to concentrate on this Bertil Olofsson,” he said. “Malm was just small fry and a pitiful object, sick, alcoholic and lazy and God knows what else. It is hard to imagine that anyone would take the trouble to get rid of such a person. The only thing that is clear about Malm is that he must have known something about Olofsson, something incriminating. And that’s more than we are able to say that we know. So let’s take a closer look at Olofsson.”
“Yes,” said Kollberg, who was tired of clichés.
“What do we know about Olofsson?” said Hammar inquisitorily.
“That he’s missing,” said Rönn pessimistically.
“He was sentenced to a year in prison a few years ago,” said Martin Beck. “For theft, I think. We’ll have to go through the proceedings.”
Melander took his pipe out of his mouth and said:
“Eighteen months for theft and forging documents. 1962. He served his sentence in Kumla.”
The others looked at him with resigned astonishment.
“We know about your memory, but we didn’t know you had all the sentences in your head too,” said Kollberg.
“Actually, I took a look at Olofsson’s records the other day,” said Melander imperturbably. “I thought it’d be interesting to know who he is.”
“You didn’t by any chance find out where he is, did you?”
“No.”
Silence reigned in the room. Then Kollberg said:
“Well? Who is he?”
Melander sucked at his pipe and appeared to think about the matter.
“A rather common type, I should say. The sentence Martin mentioned was by no means the first. But it was the first time he was given an unconditional prison sentence. Before that he had been found guilty of receiving, illegal possession of drugs, theft of vehicles, motoring offenses and a number of other minor items. He was on probation until two years ago.”
“And presumably already sought after when Malm was caught in Olofsson’s car,” said Kollberg. “For car theft, or what was it?”
“Yes, exactly,” said Martin Beck. “I’ve found all that out. It was the police in Gustavsberg who discovered that Olofsson had several stolen cars at his place on Värmdö. He had a cottage there, which he’d inherited from his father. The cottage is very remote, deep in the forest, and to get there you have to drive for more than half a mile along a narrow forest road. By sheer chance, a radio car from Gustavsberg happened to go there. Anyhow, there was no one there, but in the yard behind the house there were three sedans. Inside the garage, they found another car which had been recently sprayed. They also found paint, sprayers, polishing materials, number plates, registration certificates and a number of other things in the garage. As soon as it was confirmed that the four cars were stolen, two men were sent to Olofsson’s home in Årsta to get him. He wasn’t there. And he’s still missing.”
Martin Beck went over to the cupboard containing the carafe and poured out a glass of water and drank it.
“When did this happen?” asked Hammar.
“Twelfth of February,” said Martin Beck. “More than a month ago.”
Kollberg took out his pocket diary and leafed through it.
“A Monday,” he said. “Were any efforts made to get hold of Olofsson before then?”
Martin Beck shook his head.
“Not outside the routine ones. At first they were just expecting him back sooner or later. Then when Malm was caught, he said that Olofsson had gone abroad, so they went on waiting, keeping his apartment and the cottage under observation all the time.”
“Do you think Olofsson may have found out that the boys in Gustavsberg had discovered what he was up to, and had time to get away before the police came?” asked Rönn.
Kollberg yawned.
“You mean that he deliberately kept out of the way?” said Martin Beck. “I doubt it. There wasn’t a soul anywhere near the cottage who could have warned him that the police had been there snooping around.”
“Does anyone know when he was last in his apartment?” asked Melander. “Have the neighbors been questioned, for instance?”
“Don’t think so,” said Martin Beck. “This business of a search for Olofsson has been carried out in a very routine manner.”
“In other words, apathetically,” said Hammar.
Then he struck the top of the desk with the palms of his hands and rose to his feet. In a loud voice he said:
“Get going, then, gentlemen. Ask the neighbors and everyone you can get hold of. Everyone who had anything to do with Olofsson. And read the court records and personal files and everything else there is to read on this blasted rogue, so you know who you’re looking for. And above all, find him! Now! Immediately! If he was the person who planted that thing in Malm’s mattress, then naturally he’ll keep out of the way now, even if he didn’t do so before. If you need more men, just say so.”
“What men?” said Kollberg. “Where from?”
“Well,” said Hammar, shrugging his shoulders, “you’ve got that lad Skacke, of course.”
Kollberg had already got up and was on his way out of the door when he heard Skacke’s name mentioned. He stopped and opened his mouth to say something, but Martin Beck pushed him out into the corridor and shut the door behind him.
“Helluva lot of chatter about nothing,” said Kollberg. “If you went by Hammar’s behavior, then perhaps Skacke’s got great chances of becoming Chief of Police.”
He shook himself and added:
“Thank God I’m old enough not to have to experience that, anyhow.”
They devoted the remainder of the afternoon to collecting additional information on Bertil Olofsson.
From his personal files, it appeared that among other things Bertil Olofsson had been born thirty-six years earlier, had been to school six years, lacked any further education and had had a large number of short-lived jobs of varying natures, but that recently he had largely been unemployed. His father had died when Bertil Olofsson was eight and his mother had married again two years later and still lived with the stepfather. His only sibling was a half-brother ten years younger than he, who was a dentist in Göteborg. His own marriage had been childless and generally an unsuccessful one, now behind him, and since his prison sentence he had lived spasmodically with a woman five years older than himself.
The psychologists described him as emotionally unstable and asocial. He was also inhibited. His probation officer said he had had poor contact with Olofsson, because of the man’s hostile attitude and unwillingness to cooperate.
Before they parted for the day, Martin Beck dealt out the most imminent assignments. Einar Rönn was to go to Segeltorp to talk to Olofsson’s mother and stepfather, while Melander was to try to find some more reliable information on his activities through contacts he had in the underworld. Martin Beck himself was to get the necessary warrants and, together with Kollberg, search the apartment and the cottage.
Until further notice, Benny Skacke was left outside the hunt for Olofsson.
16
It was not yet eight o’clock on Thursday morning when Kollberg came to pick up Martin Beck. The latter was still not dressed, but was sitting in the kitchen in his dressing gown, talking to his daughter, Ingrid, who had a free morning and for once had time to eat a decent breakfast before going to school. He himself was just having a cup of tea, but the girl was vigorously dunking her cheese-and-crispbread sandwich into her cocoa as she chatted about the Vietnam protest meeting she had been to the evening before. When the doorbell rang, Martin Beck pulled the knot around his waist tighter and put down his cigarette, although he suspected Ingrid would sneak a puff as soon as he was out of sight. Then he went and opened the door.
