by Maj Sjowall
“Aren’t you dressed yet?” said Kollberg reproachfully.
“Didn’t we say eight o’clock?” said Martin Beck.
He went ahead into the kitchen.
“It’s two minutes to,” said Kollberg. “Hi, Ingrid.”
“Good morning,” mumbled Ingrid, guiltily waving away the cloud of smoke above her head.
Kollberg sat down on Martin Beck’s chair and surveyed the breakfast table. He himself had actually just consumed a hefty breakfast, but nevertheless he felt quite capable of trying another. Martin Beck had got out another cup and poured out tea for his visitor, while Ingrid pushed the butter dish, cheese and breadbasket over to his side of the table.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” said Martin Beck, and went into his room.
As he was dressing, he heard through the half-open kitchen door Ingrid questioning Kollberg about his seven-month-old daughter, Bodil, and Kollberg extolling her virtues with ill-concealed paternal pride. When Martin Beck came into the kitchen a moment later, shaved and dressed, Kollberg said:
“I’ve just got hold of another sitter.”
“Yes, I’ve promised I’ll sit with Bodil next time someone’s needed. I can, can’t I? Babies are such fun.”
“A year ago you were saying they were the most disgusting things in the world,” said Martin Beck.
“Oh, that was then. I was awfully childish then.”
Martin Beck winked at Kollberg and said respectfully:
“Of course, yes. I’m sorry. You’re a mature woman now, aren’t you?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Ingrid. “I’m never going to be a mature woman. I’m just going to be a chick and then I’m going to be an old lady.”
She poked her father in the midriff and disappeared into her room. When Martin Beck and Kollberg came out into the hall to put on their overcoats, loud pop-music was pouring out through her closed door.
“The Beatles,” said Martin Beck. “It’s a miracle her ears don’t drop off.”
“The Rolling Stones,” said Kollberg.
Martin Beck looked at him in surprise.
“How can you tell the difference?”
“Oh, there’s a great difference,” said Kollberg, starting down the stairs.
At this time of the morning, the traffic into town was already heavy, but Kollberg, who was considered by everyone else except himself to be a nervous and not very good driver, was nevertheless good at finding his way around Stockholm and drove down side-streets and roads quite unknown to Martin Beck, through residential districts and areas with tall office and apartment buildings. He parked the car outside a relatively newly built building on Sand-fjärdsgatan in Årsta.
“I bet the rents are quite something around here,” said Kollberg, as they went up in the self-service elevator. “One wouldn’t think anyone like Bertil Olofsson would rise to this.”
It took Martin Beck less than thirty seconds to open the door, which was considered a long time, as he had already got the key from the real estate agent. The apartment turned out to consist of one room, a hall, kitchen and bathroom, and according to the rent bill lying on the doormat among the advertisements and other rubbish, the rent for the past quarter was 1,296 kronor 51 ore. Apart from this, there was nothing of interest in the pile of advertising pamphlets, brochures and free samples of various kinds, which had been put through the letter slot and had had almost a month to collect. At the bottom of the heap lay a stenciled sheet from a nearby grocery store. SPECIAL OFFER was the headline, and then followed a list of various delicacies, giving the prices before and after reductions. The price of a can of Baltic herring had, for instance, tumbled from 2 kronor 63 öre to 2 kronor 49 öre. Martin Beck folded up the piece of paper and stuffed it into his pocket.
In the main room, there was a dining table, three chairs, a bed, a bedside table, two armchairs, a low table, a television set and a chest of drawers. All the furniture looked as if it had been bought at the same time and recently. The room was not very clean. A creased bedspread lay over the unmade bed. On the table was an empty but unwashed ashtray. The library seemed to consist of an apparently unread paperback copy of Raff and Rififi by Jerry Cotton. There were no pictures, but a number of magazine photographs of cars and women in various stages of nudity were fastened to the wall with Scotch tape.
In the kitchen there were some glasses, plates and cups lying upside-down on the drainboard, which was spotted with dishwater long since dried. The refrigerator was on and contained half a pound of margarine, two small beers, a withered lemon and a stone-hard piece of cheese. In the cupboards, there were a few household supplies, a box of crackers, a bag of granulated sugar and an empty can of coffee. The cleaning cupboard was empty, but under the sink there was a dustpan and brush and also a paper bag containing garbage. One of the drawers was full of empty matchboxes.
Martin Beck went out into the hall and opened the door into the bathroom. There was an unpleasant smell from the toilet, which had probably never been cleaned. Lines of grime around the tub and basin also indicated that they had not been subjected to much cleaning fervor either. In the bathroom cabinet there was a worn toothbrush, a razor, a tube of toothpaste squeezed flat, a broken comb, grease, dust and tufts of hair. The towel on the hook by the basin was stiff with grime.
Martin Beck had had enough and went to examine the wardrobe.
On the floor were two pairs of shoes, uncleaned, with a thick layer of dust both inside and out, and a canvas bag of stinking dirty linen. There was also a rod of wire hangers. On these hung two grimy shirts, three even grimier sweaters, two pairs of Dacron trousers, a tweed jacket, a pale gray summer suit and a dark blue poplin coat.
Martin Beck was just about to feel through the pockets when Kollberg called to him from the kitchen.
Kollberg had tipped the contents of the garbage bab onto the drainboard and he was holding up a thin crumpled plastic bag.
“Look at this,” he said.
In one corner of the bag were a few greenish grains. Kollberg took a pinch of them and rubbed them between his thumb and forefinger.
“Hash,” he said.
Martin Beck nodded.
“That explains why he collected empty matchboxes,” he said. “If that bag was full, it would have been enough to fill at least thirty.”
The remaining examination of the apartment yielded poor results. A few souvenirs indicated that Bertil Olofsson had spent his holidays in the Canary Isles and in Poland. Four old bills in the pockets of his tweed jacket were dated in December and stemmed from the Ambassador Restaurant. In the drawer of the bedside table were two contraceptives and an amateur photograph of a plump dark woman in a bikini on a beach. On the back of the photograph someone had written “Berra with love, Kay” with a ballpoint.
There were no other personal possessions in the apartment and most of all, nothing which gave any indication of where the man was at present.
Martin Beck rang the doorbell of the neighboring apartment. A woman opened the door. They asked a few questions.
“Well, you know what it’s like in this kind of building,” she said. “You don’t think about who lives in the other apartments. I think I’ve seen him a few times, but I don’t think he’s lived here all that long.”
“Can you remember when you last saw him?” asked Kollberg.
The woman shook her head.
“I’ve no idea,” she said. “But it’s certainly a long time ago. At Christmas, or about then. But I don’t really know.”
In the other two apartments on the same floor there was no one at home. At least, no one answered the bell. There did not seem to be a superintendent; a notice in the entrance told tenants to contact a mechanic at a completely different address about the apartments.
When they came out through the front entrance, Kollberg went and sat in the car while Martin Beck crossed over the street to the grocery store on the other side. He spoke to the manager and showed him the leaflet advertising special offers.
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“I can’t tell you exactly when we sent that out,” the man said. “We usually distribute lists like that on Fridays. Wait a moment.”
He vanished into the inner regions of the store and returned a moment later.
“Friday, the ninth of February,” he said.
Martin Beck nodded and went back to Kollberg.
“He hasn’t been home since the ninth of February anyhow,” said Martin Beck.
Kollberg shrugged his shoulders listlessly.
They drove along Sockenvägen and Nynäsvägen, through Hammarby industrial area and came out onto the Värmdö road. When they got to Gustavsberg, they went into the police station and talked to one of the two patrolmen who had discovered the stolen cars in Olofsson’s yard. He told them the way to the cottage.
It took them a quarter of an hour to get there.
The cottage lay well protected from observation. The drive up to it was uneven and twisting, scarcely more than a forest path. The grounds around the cottage had once been well kept, with lawns, rock gardens and sand paths, but only barely visible traces of them remained now. The snow had almost completely gone from the graveled area near the house, but in the woods, which lay very close to the cottage, there were still grayish drifts. Just at the edge of the woods at the farthest part of the garden was a fairly recently built garage. It was empty and the three cars, which judging by the tire marks had been lined up on the gravel, had also gone.
“Stupid to move the cars,” said Kollberg. “If he comes back, he’ll know at once the police have been here.”
Martin Beck studied the door of the cottage. It was locked with both a safety lock and a large brass padlock. The only person who could give them the keys was Olofsson, so it was clearly a matter of manual labor. They got screwdrivers and several other gadgets out of the glove compartment and did a few minutes’ manual labor, and then all they had to do was to open the door.
The cottage contained a large room, furnished in rustic style, with two beds built into the wall, a kitchen and a washroom. The air inside was raw and damp and it smelled musty with mold and kerosene. In the large room there was an open fireplace and in the kitchen a wood-burning stove, but otherwise the heating arrangements were confined to a kerosene stove in one of the sleeping cabins. Sand and dried lumps of mud covered the floors, and the furniture in the main room was dirty and shabby. In the kitchen, the table, benches and shelves were covered with rubbish, empty bottles, greasy plates, cups containing coffee dregs, and dirty glasses. One of the bunks was made up with dirty sheets and a torn grubby quilt.
There were no human beings in the house.
In the small hall there was a door and behind this a cupboard with shelves laden with stolen goods, probably articles taken from stolen cars. There were transistor radios, cameras, binoculars, flashlights, tools, a couple of fishing rods, a hunting rifle and a portable typewriter. Martin Beck got up onto a stool and looked on the top shelf. There lay an old croquet set, a faded Swedish flag and a framed photograph. He took the photograph with him into the main room and showed it to Kollberg.
It was of a fair-haired young woman and a small boy in short trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. The woman was pretty and both she and the boy were laughing at the camera. The woman’s dress and hair style indicated the late thirties and in the background was the cottage in which Martin Beck and Kollberg were now standing.
“One or two years before the father died, I should think,” said Martin Beck. “The place looked a bit different then.”
“Nice-looking mother he’s got,” said Kollberg. “Wonder how things have gone for Rönn.”
Einar Rönn had wandered round Segeltorp in his car for quite a while before finding the house where Bertil Olofsson’s mother lived. Her surname was Lundberg now and Rönn had found out that her husband was head of a department in a large store.
The woman who opened the door was quite white-haired, and yet did not look older than fifty-five. She was thin and sunburned, although the spring had hardly started. The fine wrinkles around her lovely gray eyes shone white against her tan when she raised her eyebrows inquiringly.
“Yes?” she said. “Can I help you?”
Rönn transferred his hat to his other hand and got out his identification card.
“It’s Mrs. Lundberg, is it?” he said.
She nodded and a trace of anxiety came into her eyes as she waited for him to go on.
“It’s about your son,” said Rönn. “Bertil Olofsson. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”
She frowned.
“What’s he been up to now?” she said.
“Nothing, I hope,” said Rönn. “May I come in for a moment?”
The woman hesitantly removed her hand from the door handle.
“Ye-es,” she said slowly. “Please come in.”
Rönn hung up his coat, placed his hat on the hall table and followed her into the living room, which was pleasant and well furnished without exaggerated elegance. The lady of the house pointed to an armchair by the open fire and herself sat down on the sofa.
“Oh, well,” she said laconically. “Please go ahead. I’m fairly hardened when it comes to Bertil, so you might as well tell me the truth at once. What has he done?”
“We’re looking for him because we hope he will be able to help us clear up a case,” said Rönn. “I really only want to ask you if you know where he is, Mrs. Lundberg.”
“Isn’t he at home then?” she asked. “In Årsta?”
“No, he doesn’t seem to have been there for quite a while.”
“At the cottage then? We’ve got … he has a cottage on Värmdö. Bertil’s father, my first husband, built it and now it’s Bertil’s. Perhaps he’s there?”
Rönn shook his head.
“Did he say nothing to you about his going away somewhere?”
Bertil Olofsson’s mother threw out her hands.
“No. But we so seldom talk to each other nowadays. I never have the slightest idea what he’s up to or where he is. He hasn’t been here, for instance, for over a year, and then he only came to try to borrow some money.”
“He hasn’t phoned you lately then?”
“No. Of course, we’ve just been to Spain for three weeks, but even so, I don’t think he would have called. We’ve nothing to do with each other any longer.”
She sighed.
“My husband and I gave up hope for Bertil a long time ago. Now it sounds as if he’s no better.”
Rönn sat silent for a moment, looking at the woman. She had bitter lines around her mouth now.
“Do you know anyone who might possibly know where he is?” he said. “A steady girl, or a friend, or someone like that?”
She laughed, hard and briefly, and falsely.
“I can tell you one thing,” she said. “He was actually a very nice boy once. But he got into bad company and was easily led and he opposed me and my husband and his brother, well, practically everyone. Then he went to a reformatory and that didn’t make things any better. There he just learned to hate society even more. He also learned to become a real professional there and how to use drugs.”
She looked fiercely at Rönn.
“But I suppose it’s an accepted fact now that our reform schools and institutions act as a sort of introduction to drug-taking and crime. What you call treatment isn’t worth a cent.”
By and large, Rönn agreed with her, and did not really know what to say.
“Well,” he said finally. “Perhaps that’s what it looks like.”
Then he pulled himself together and said:
“I didn’t mean to come here and upset you. May I just ask you one more question?”
She nodded.
“What’s the relationship between your two sons? Do they meet or keep contact in any other way?”
“Not any longer,” she said. “Gert is a qualified dentist now, and he’s got his own practice in Göteborg. But when he was still at dentistry college here, he did act
ually manage to persuade Bertil to go to him and get his teeth done. Gert is such a nice kind boy. They were really good friends for a while. But then something happened, I don’t really know what, and they stopped meeting. So I don’t think it’s much use asking Gert, because he knows nothing about Bertil nowadays. That’s certain.”
“Don’t you know what it was that caused them to stop meeting?” asked Rönn.
“No,” she said, turning away. “Not at all. Something happened. Something’s always happening to Bertil. Isn’t that right?”
She looked straight at Rönn, who cleared his throat uneasily.
Perhaps the time to end the conversation had come?
Rönn got to his feet and held out his hand.
“Thank you very much for your help, Mrs. Lundberg,” he said.
She shook his hand but said nothing. He took out his card and put it down on the table.
“If you hear anything from him, perhaps you’d be kind enough to call me?”
She remained silent, but went with him out of the room and opened the door.
“Goodbye, then,” said Rönn.
When he was halfway to the gate, he turned around and saw her standing upright and immobile in the doorway, watching him. She looked considerably older now than when he had arrived.
17
The picture of Bertil Olofsson had clarified somewhat, but not really very much. It was known that he dealt in stolen cars. He either resprayed them or changed the number before selling them. It was also presumed that he sold drugs. He was probably not a big trader, but in all likelihood belonged to the category of pushers who sold the stuff to pay for their own needs.
None of these discoveries was particularly sensational. As Olofsson had been known to the police for a number of years, it was known at least to some extent what he had been up to. What Malm might have eventually revealed must have been of a much more serious nature, as Olofsson had felt it necessary to take great risks in order to silence him.
