by Per Wahlöö
There wasn’t a sound in the entire building.
He switched on the torch and looked round. Everything seemed untouched.
On the floor just inside the door lay four messages, obviously posted through the letterbox. Two of them were printed, the others run off on a duplicating machine.
The moment he bent down to pick them up, the torch went out. He shook it several times, to no avail. He didn’t have another one, nor any alternative way of getting light.
He looked at the luminous hands on his watch. It was five past midnight. His mission was already entering its second day.
It was pitch dark in the flat. He felt his way over to the bed, took off his hat, coat, jacket, tie and shirt.
Jensen was extremely tired. He had been travelling for many hours.
The raw, damp cold in the room indicated that the heating was not working either.
He lay on his back in the bed and wrapped himself in the blanket. Turned on his side and pulled up his knees.
In the far distance he could hear sirens.
He wondered if the couple in the ambulance had fitted in their quickie.
CHAPTER 11
Jensen was wide awake the moment he opened his eyes. Grey dawn light was filtering into the room. His first thoughts were that he had ruined his best overcoat and that he wanted a wash. He got up and went to the bathroom. There was no water in the taps. The toilet did work, however. Once.
He stroked the stubble on his chin with the tips of his fingers. Since he only had an electric razor, there wasn’t much he could do.
Jensen went back to the bedroom, took the rest of his clothes off, took out some clean socks and underwear. Plus a new white shirt. He dressed quickly but carefully, and combed his hair in front of the mirror.
He was hungry and cold and went out to the kitchen, but the refrigerator was empty. He had emptied it three months earlier and set it to defrost. In the wardrobe he had two bottles of spirits hidden behind his police caps on the top shelf but he did not feel like drinking alcohol. He went through the kitchen cupboards systematically and found a jar of honey. It was all he had to eat, and since the alcohol was all he had to drink, he fetched one of the bottles from the wardrobe and poured about ten centilitres into a tumbler. He drank it in gulps, accompanied by about a third of the jar of honey.
Then he went into the bedroom and got his binoculars out of the chest of drawers. Took up position by the window and started scanning the area. The rain had eased off but it was misty and hard to see much. He trained the binoculars on the apartment block opposite, adjusted the focus and ran his eyes along the rows of windows. Everything looked completely normal, but there were no lights on anywhere and it took him a long time to detect any signs of activity. Finally he saw a curtain move at a window on the seventh floor, and just after that, he saw a face. It was a woman. Almost immediately a man also came into view behind the windowpane. Their faces looked pale and strange. Perhaps it was because of the distance or the poor visibility. They looked out for only a couple of seconds, then vanished. No further movement was to be seen in the flat. Jensen measured the position of the window with his eye and calculated the position of the room in relation to the front entrance door. Staircase C, seventh floor, first door on the left.
He continued his inspection, and gradually noticed a few other details to indicate that the block was lived in. Blurred little movements, the twitch of a curtain, reflections in the windows. At a guess, there were people in maybe a third of the flats.
He heard a faint engine sound and when he pointed the binoculars the other way he saw a bus being driven along the motorway. It was coming from the direction of the city. As far as he could see, there were no passengers aboard, but the mist made it very hard to be certain. Right after the bus, he glimpsed two other vehicles going by. Presumably ambulances with their sirens and emergency lights turned off.
Jensen put the binoculars down on the window ledge, went through to the bedroom and got his overcoat. Studied the rip, which was a good twenty centimetres long, folded up the garment and put it on the hall table. He selected a different coat from the wardrobe and hung it in the hall. Then he picked up the sheets of duplicated paper from the hall carpet and put them on his bedside table along with the logbook of the patrol car.
Then he sat down and started to read. First the logbook. He skipped forward to the day he had left the country and then went quickly through, glancing at every page. To begin with he found nothing unusual or startling. The six policemen who used the car had worked in pairs in three shifts, and signed the notes with their service numbers. These were the same numbers as were embossed on their police badges, which they were obliged to wear on the left-hand side of their uniform jackets, where they would be fully visible. This rule applied to all uniformed officers with the exception of those in positions of command. The six constables’ numbers were: 80, 315, 104, 405, 103 and 601. As was customary, they were divided up so that a younger officer, with a higher service number, was paired with an older and more experienced colleague. There were basically only three types of entry in the log. The arrest of drunks, traffic accidents, and suicides or attempted suicides.
Jensen found the first alarming entry on the page dated 30 September. Number eighty who had been keeping the log between 4 p.m. and midnight had noted the following:
16.46 ordr km 9 s mwy dem 2 arr tkn 9 dist 19.05 pce rstrd rtn stn
So at fourteen minutes to five that day, the patrol car had been ordered to kilometre marker number nine on the southern motorway to police a demonstration. Two people had been arrested and taken to the Ninth District police station. It had taken until 19.05, that is to say over two hours from the time the order was given, for peace to be restored and the car to return to its base.
Kilometre marker nine was very close to the city centre. It was extremely surprising for a police car to be sent there all the way from the airport.
Jensen began scrutinising the log more carefully and with greater interest. Over the week that followed there were two similar entries, and after that the frequency increased sharply, while entries about the arrest of drunks became fewer and fewer. They clearly hadn’t had any spare time for dealing with alcoholics.
Suicide cases, which at the start of the log had featured at a rate of two or three a week, appeared only sporadically.
As the patrol’s duties became more sensational in nature, the officers had abandoned the usual cryptic abbreviations in their reports and went over to short entries in more or less standard prose. The log entries started getting more slapdash and less precise. Words like disturbances, scuffles and riots appeared on every page. They had clearly been summoned to the city centre and its environs on a daily basis. On the page for 2 November there was an entry of just six words:
Serious disturbances. Shots fired. Military assistance.
Exactly three weeks before, the phrase patient transport, later shortened to pt trs, was used for the first time. That meant the regular ambulance service could no longer cope with serious cases of illness and had had to ask the police to step in. After that, there were several patient transports every day.
Then the phrase suddenly disappeared. Others appeared in its place. The centre, the district hospital, the main hospital. Time after time. From the twenty-fifth onwards, officer 405 had kept the log single-handed. Jensen studied the remaining pages. The twenty-fifth had been a Monday.
Monday. Central Unit. Main hosp. Nos. 104 and 405 did not report for work.
Tuesday: No. 80 died in car. Drove him to unit.
Wednesday: State of emergency. Ordered to stay at airport.
Thursday: Sent to assist blockading of runway.
Friday: Police radio not functioning. 81st district unmanned.
Saturday: Sent to main hosp. section C. Bus.
That was the last entry in the car’s logbook. It was five days old. Jensen went back and read the entries for the previous month through again. Then he shut the log and laid it
aside.
There was the distant wail of a siren. The sound came nearer. He went over to the window, put the binoculars to his eyes and trained them on the motorway. The visibility was as poor as ever; the rain seemed to be getting heavier again. About thirty seconds elapsed and then an ambulance loomed out of the mist. It was not going particularly fast, but its flashing light was on. Fifty metres behind it came a grey bus, presumably the one he had seen earlier. And after that came another ambulance.
It looked as though the bus was crammed with people. The convoy was heading north, towards the city.
He turned the binoculars rapidly to the windows in the apartment block next door, where he had seen the two faces a short while before. Detected a slight movement in a curtain, as if someone had pulled it a few centimetres to one side to view the road.
He went back to his bedside table, read the four notes that had come through the door and arranged them in chronological order.
The first read:
A serious epidemic has broken out in the city. All gatherings are therefore banned. Meetings of more than three people are not permitted. All citizens except those who work in the state administration are to remain in their homes. Schools and all private workplaces with more than three employees will close immediately. Make sure you have supplies of food. There is no need to panic. Medical assistance has been summoned and is on its way. Observe the highest standards of hygiene. Communications, radio, TV and telephone will not function fully. Avoid jamming the phone lines with unnecessary calls. The first symptoms of the epidemic are as follows: tiredness, dizziness, a severe headache, reddish flickering before the eyes. If you believe you or any member of your family to be infected, go immediately to the nearest help station. The nearest help station will be at the district school in the area where you live. It is strictly forbidden to leave the city. PLEASE NOTE! Panic will only help to spread the infection!
The announcement was dated the fifteenth of November and signed by the Minister for Public Health.
The next announcement was from the same authority and had been sent a week later, on the twenty-first of November. It read:
The current epidemic has been contained, but the situation remains grave. Continue to follow earlier instructions. Further announcements will be made via loudspeaker vans. Electricity and water supplies can only be maintained on a limited basis. Fill bathtubs and other containers with drinking water. Save electric power. Healthy individuals licensed to give blood are urged to go to their local help station or the main hospital, Section C. PLEASE NOTE! Avoid any form of panic!
The other two communications differed in significant ways from the Public Health Ministry’s exhortations. The paper was of a different kind and size. They were not printed but had been run off on a duplicating machine. Their tone was also different. Neither was dated, but by cross-referring to the entries in the patrol car logbook Jensen thought he could establish that the first had been sent on the previous Wednesday, i.e. the twenty-seventh of November. The text was brief and blunt:
State of emergency in force from midnight tonight. Total curfew to be imposed with the exception of two groups: the sick and blood donors. The sick are to go to their district help station or directly to the Central Detoxification Unit, km marker 6 on motorway 2. Blood donors are to attend the district help station or go to the main hospital. For further details apply to the block security official.
The announcement was clearly local. It was signed by someone who contented himself with just a title: Head District Consultant.
Jensen heard vehicle engines, went to the window and snatched up the binoculars. Three military trucks were moving north on the motorway. They appeared to be heavily laden. The backs were covered in tarpaulin.
He looked at the clock. One minute to eight. Went back to read the other duplicated announcement.
Epidemic now under control. State of emergency still in force. From today, total, round-the-clock curfew to be observed. This applies also to the sick and to blood donors, who are to remain at home and await further instructions. Infringements of the curfew are a risk to public health and offenders will be strictly prosecuted.
This communication was also undated, and signed by the Head District Consultant.
Jensen unpacked his case.
He put the two handguns next to each other on the bed and stood contemplating them.
The service pistol that he had taken from the police car was the better weapon, a 9 millimetre modified Parabellum. The Beretta, on the other hand, was lighter and less bulky.
He left both guns lying there, put a ballpoint pen and a new notebook in his pocket instead, donned his coat and hat and went out of the flat. On his way downstairs, he threw his torn overcoat down the rubbish chute.
CHAPTER 12
Inspector Jensen walked with measured steps, cutting across the car park and children’s play area. The playhouses looked like transparent plastic igloos. The only problem with them was that there were hardly any children in the area, even under normal circumstances.
The front entrance door and the narrow stairwell were identical to those in the block where he lived. The lighting was not working. Nor was the lift. He set off up the cramped, winding stairs. Stopped halfway to get his breath back. Listened. He knew there were people in a few of the flats, at the very least, and that the block was as shoddily built as his own, with very thin walls. Even so, he could not pick up a single sound to indicate human life.
On the seventh floor he stopped, looked all round and tapped very lightly on one of the doors. No reaction.
Jensen waited for a while, then knocked again. Harder this time. There was still nothing to be heard.
Jensen thumped the door heavily with his fist and said:
‘Police. Open up.’
This time he thought he could make out a sound from inside the flat. It sounded like a stifled sob. Or perhaps just a short, gasping intake of breath.
Jensen looked at the door. He could probably get it open. Under the alcohol law now in force, the police had formal authority to enter private property. On his key ring he had a number of universal tools with which he ought to be able to open conventional locks to standard housing and places of work. The law had a whole series of supplementary paragraphs, exceptions and special provisions, all formulated in the vaguest of terms. It also outlawed the fitting of bolts and special locks to apartment doors. This applied under normal circumstances. Where the dividing line ran between normal and other circumstances was never clearly stated, but there was a very simple rule of thumb to help in the decision-making process. This was a normal residential area and a normal door and he was very probably capable of opening it. But before he could do so, he had to suspect that a crime had been committed.
There were sudden sounds of activity from the flat. Large, heavy objects were dragged across the floor and thumped against the door from the inside. The people who lived in the flat were barricading the entrance.
Jensen turned and went back down the stairs. Even three floors below, he could still hear something, presumably furniture, being shifted and piled up.
The door opened inwards. He was convinced he could have forced it anyway.
The rain was still drumming outside, peaceful and soothing. The mistiness persisted and the cloud height seemed no more than two hundred feet.
Inspector Jensen paused briefly and looked about him. The patrol car was where he had left it the night before.
The patrol car was intended for police use only, and built for the purpose. It was bulletproof with unpuncturable tyres. It could be locked from the inside and had two sets of radio equipment, a built-in tape player and a specially tuned engine. Jensen was very familiar with its construction. He went up to it, unlocked the door and sat behind the steering wheel. Tried out the tape player. It was working, but there was nothing recorded on the tape. He fiddled with the radio equipment for a while. That worked, too, to the extent that he could hear a faint buzzing in the ether on the
police frequency. That was all. He switched off the set, started the car, drove up on to the motorway and carried on northwards towards the city centre.
Although he had the highway to himself, he did not hurry.
When he had been on the road for about twenty minutes, he heard the blare of a horn. A white ambulance came into view in the rearview mirror about fifty metres behind him. Jensen did not accelerate and the other vehicle approached at speed and continued sounding its horn. When it drew level with him he could see two men in white coats in the front seats. The one at the wheel signalled to him with impatient gestures, but Jensen ignored him. The ambulance did not overtake but started forcing him over to the side of the road. The manoeuvre was not executed with much skill, and it was a good two minutes before he was obliged to brake and stop to avoid a collision. The other vehicle stopped, too, at an angle across his path. Jensen turned off the ignition, but remained in his seat. He saw now that this was no regular ambulance, but a delivery van that had been painted white, with crude red crosses on the sides and the rear doors. The two men got out and walked towards the patrol car.
They were wearing blue armbands, but were otherwise dressed entirely in white. White coats, white trousers and white clogs.
One was tall, with his hair brushed back and a short, neat, dark beard. Grey-blue eyes and black horn-rimmed glasses. His expression was solemn and his look was earnest.
The other one was small and weedy, with a thin face and straight hair combed over to one side. A stray strand of dark hair had fallen down over his forehead. His full lips were stretched in an unsure, artificial-looking smile. The look in his brown eyes was distant and seemed fixed on something, presumably the other man’s shoes or a point on the ground.
