by Per Wahlöö
The tall one tried to pull open the car door. He couldn’t. He made another impatient gesture and started to say something. Jensen pointed to the other side of the car, reached out a hand and pressed a button. The side window opened about ten centimetres. The men from the ambulance went round the car.
‘Are you sick or healthy?’ demanded the tall one.
‘Healthy.’
‘We need to take a closer look at you. Get out.’
Jensen didn’t reply. The man gave him a severe look.
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get out.’
The man whose eyes were looking the wrong way plucked at his colleague’s coat sleeve, pointed vaguely and said something. His voice was so quiet and indistinct that Jensen could not make out the words. The tall one listened, and nodded gravely.
‘Why are you driving around in a police car?’
‘Because I’m a policeman.’
Jensen showed his badge.
‘Then you must be sick,’ the tall man said categorically.
‘We’ll take care of you,’ whispered the other one, not looking at Jensen. ‘It could be serious.’
‘Yes, it could be serious,’ the tall one reiterated firmly.
‘I’m healthy,’ said Jensen. ‘Who are you?’
‘Doctors.’
‘Can you show me your ID?’
The two men moved as though synchronised. They produced two laminated plastic cards and held them up. Jensen nodded. Their ID appeared to be genuine.
‘You’re breaking the curfew,’ said the tall man. ‘We must take you in hand.’
‘We must take you in hand,’ whispered his colleague.
‘I hardly think so,’ said Jensen. ‘I’m a police officer.’
‘What’s your rank?’
‘Inspector.’
‘The police have no authority. And in any case, you’re sick.’
‘Who is in charge, then?’ asked Jensen.
‘The medical authorities.’
‘Who is your immediate superior?’
‘The chief medical officer.’
‘The chief medical officer?’
The man with the smile and the cowed look whispered something else indistinguishable.
‘Quite right,’ said the tall one. ‘We don’t need to answer your questions. There’s a state of emergency in force. You’ve broken the current regulations; you’re a hazard to public safety.’
Jensen said nothing.
‘You’re seriously ill and we are going to take care of you. Don’t be afraid.’
‘Don’t be afraid,’ the other one repeated in a low voice. He fished in the pocket of his white coat and brought out a syringe. Fingered it and said in a pondering tone, as if directing the question to himself:
‘What’s his blood group?’
‘What’s your blood group?’ asked the tall one, sterner than ever.
‘Rhesus negative,’ said Jensen.
The man with the syringe appeared to brighten up for a moment.
‘Excellent,’ he said to himself. ‘Excellent. Now make him get out.’
‘Get out,’ said the tall one.
Jensen sat there in silence.
‘We have extraordinary authority. The epidemic must be stopped. I’m sure you understand that. Do as we say. Obey.’
‘Where are you going to take me?’
‘To the main hospital,’ said the tall one.
‘Section C,’ mumbled his colleague.
‘I can find my own way there.’
‘Come on out now. We haven’t got time for all this.’
‘Rhesus negative,’ mumbled the little one, fingering the syringe.
‘We’ve got more important things to do,’ said the tall one.
‘Fine,’ said Jensen. ‘Goodbye.’
He reached over and pressed the button.
The window slid upwards and closed. The man with the syringe jumped, and then started to wrench wildly at the door handle. His colleague with the severe look took him by the arm to calm him down, and began to walk towards the ambulance. The little one looked back over his shoulder with a crafty expression.
The two doctors got into the front seat without shutting the doors and started doing something. A moment later, Jensen saw the bearded man holding a microphone up to his mouth, moving his lips.
He immediately flicked a switch on the dashboard to activate the frequency finder. Within fifteen seconds, he had located the right wavelength. It was apparently less time than the man in the ambulance had taken to get through.
‘Main hospital, over. Main hospital, over … Damn, they’re not answering. No wait, here we go.’
There was a sudden blare from the radio. A male voice said in a distant croak:
‘Main hospital here. Over.’
‘Vehicle 300 here.’
‘Yes? Where are you?’
‘South motorway, at …’
Loud crackling. Jensen lost contact. He retuned. It took about thirty seconds, but then he could make out their voices again.
‘A police car?’
‘Yes.’
‘A police inspector?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bring him straight here.’
‘He refuses to come.’
‘Are you armed?’
‘Yes. We’ve got a pistol. But …’
‘Yes? But what?’
‘We don’t know how to use it.’
‘Idiots.’
There was a brief pause. Then the voice said irritably:
‘Okay. We’ll send a sanitary patrol. Keep him there.’
Jensen started his engine and backed rapidly away from the ambulance.
‘He’s clearing off,’ the ambulance man said in dismay.
Jensen was already passing them. In the rearview mirror he saw the white van start to move.
‘He’s getting away.’
‘Which way’s he heading?’
‘North.’
‘No problem. Follow him. He’ll have to stop at the entrance to the communication tunnel. He won’t get any further.’
Jensen stepped on the gas and the ambulance disappeared into the drizzle. At the next exit he turned right and left the motorway.
A quarter of an hour later, he heard another exchange on the radio.
‘That policeman …’
‘Yes?’
‘He’s vanished.’
The voice was graver than ever, but seemed to have lost some of its severity. This time it was a woman who answered.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘He can’t get into the restricted zone, whatever happens.’
‘We need to get back now.’
‘You do that. Don’t sound so worried.’
CHAPTER 13
Inspector Jensen avoided residential areas and the main through roads. He crossed extensive industrial areas and scrubby expanses of undeveloped land that the speculators had not yet been able to exploit. All the factories and workshops looked deserted, and the only living creatures he saw were birds. The route he had chosen took him past, and at one point through, the central refuse tip, and the closer he got, the more birds there were. Mainly black and white ones. He was a policeman, not an ornithologist, and could not work out precisely what species they might be. There was nothing out of the ordinary, however, about their presence there.
Despite the rain, fires were burning here and there among the piles of refuse as usual, and the stench was disgusting. As soon as he had passed through the areas, the number of birds decreased.
The radio was still on, but he had heard nothing more. It was possible that the ambulances and the hospital communicated on a number of frequencies.
Jensen drove through a stretch of woodland littered with sparse, stunted conifers. A large number of the trees were dead, and only the tops of those that were still alive were a dull, dusty green. The road was narrow and potholed. It was rarely used these days, and nobody b
othered to maintain it. He slowed down, and when he reached the edge of the wood he braked to a stop.
Jensen knew exactly where he was. In the Twenty-First police district, just on the city boundary. If the city centre really was shut off, this would be the critical bit of the journey. The road led uphill, to an elevated stretch. Beyond it lay a standard housing area consisting of six blocks of flats, a bus stop, a little supermarket and several kiosks. The buildings were lined up along one side of a wide street. Along the opposite side ran a high railway embankment, with tracks leading to the refuse tip. Officially, this was a dead end, but it had a link through to the road Jensen was on. Everyone who lived in the district knew about it. Everyone with any pretensions to knowing the layout of the city ought to be aware of it, too.
Jensen got out of the car and locked it. He left the road and walked uphill. On the brow of the hill there were a few straggly bushes. He stopped behind them and looked out over the area. The six sterile tower blocks stood mutely in the drizzle. The supermarket windows had been smashed, and there was an abandoned bus parked at the terminal stop. He could not detect any signs of life, either in the apartment blocks or in the short, wide street, whose whole length he was able to see. There was no roadblock there, at any rate, and he knew it was practically impossible to block all the roads leading to the centre beyond that point.
Jensen was just turning to go back to the car when he thought he saw a movement inside the supermarket. He stopped, stood still and waited. A few seconds later he saw it again, and shortly afterwards a figure climbed out through the hole smashed in the window.
The individual in question was a child. A small child, clad in a bright yellow mackintosh, blue trousers and red wellingtons. The distance was too great for him to make out whether it was a boy or a girl. The child had something in its hand, and zigzagged at a run towards the tower block nearest the rise and the edge of the wood.
Jensen moved swiftly down to the windowless end of the block, arriving while the child was still between the car park and the building. He peered round the corner and saw a little boy trotting along the footpath. The item in his hand was a cellophane bag of brightly coloured sweets. The boy was pigeon-toed, and far too busy gazing at his sweets to concentrate on walking properly. A couple of times he appeared almost to trip over his own feet.
The boy looked about four years old, five at most. He went into the last block, only five metres from the corner. He was so small that he had to lean all his weight against the heavy front door to get it open.
Jensen moved rapidly along the wall and went in after him. He could hear the child’s footsteps on the stairs above him.
CHAPTER 14
For a few seconds, Inspector Jensen stood motionless outside the door to the flat. Not a sound was to be heard from inside. But he knew the boy with the bag of sweets had entered a minute or so before. He also knew that someone had been standing at the door, which had presumably been just slightly open, and had pulled the boy into the hall. That someone had whispered several reprimands. The voice had sounded hoarse and tense.
Jensen had been half a flight of stairs below. He had moved with care and presumed he had not been seen or heard.
He tapped lightly on the panel of the door with the knuckles of his right hand. The reaction was instantaneous. Short, quick steps thudded across the floor. Then the letterbox was opened from the inside. Through the slit, about three centimetres wide, Jensen could see a pair of surprised, greeny-blue eyes shaded by thick eyelashes, long and blond. The little boy was kneeling on the other side of the door, peeping out at him through the flap of the letterbox.
‘It’s a man,’ the boy said in a clear voice.
‘Get away from that door, now. This minute.’
It was a woman’s voice.
‘It’s a man,’ the boy said again. ‘He’s standing out there.’
‘Come here. Come here, for God’s sake,’ the woman said desperately.
Jensen knocked once more, considerably harder this time. The letterbox flap fell shut with a bang. Someone dragged the child away from the door.
‘Open up,’ said Jensen.
After a long silence, the woman spoke again.
‘Who is it?’
‘Police. Open up.’
Another silence. Finally the woman said:
‘What do you want?’
‘I saw the child stealing goods from the shop. Open up.’
Jensen knocked on the door one last time. Nobody answered.
‘If you don’t open the door voluntarily I shall come in anyway.’
He heard the people inside changing position and moving away, as fast and soundlessly as they could.
Jensen got out his keys. The lock was of standard construction and he selected one of the skeleton keys without hesitation, inserted it in the lock and turned it. A faint metallic click announced that the door was no longer locked. He gave it a gentle push and it swung inwards with a faint squeak of the hinges. The curtains were closed, but still let in enough light to allow him to make out the essential details. The flat was the same as his own and equipped with roughly the same standard furniture. The woman was standing in the middle of the floor, almost as if paralysed. The boy was beside her. She was holding him firmly by the hand. The child stared at Jensen but appeared largely untroubled.
Jensen stood motionless, looking into the flat. Through the patter of the rain outside he could make out the sound of someone holding their breath, just to his right.
‘You there,’ he said. ‘Step away from the door and go over to the others.’
The woman looked even more terrified. Her grip on the boy’s hand tightened. Jensen took out his ID badge.
‘Step away from the door and go and stand with the others,’ he said. ‘That’s an order and I won’t say it again.’
Almost immediately there was a deep sigh of resignation and a man who had been pressed to the wall beside the door stepped out into the room. He went to the other side of the boy, turned round and regarded Jensen dejectedly. The man was short in stature. He was in his stockinged feet, and dressed in trousers and an unbuttoned shirt. He had a hammer in his hand.
Jensen held up his ID badge.
‘Inspector Jensen,’ he said, ‘Sixteenth District. I’m engaged in an investigation and want to talk to you.’
‘Police,’ the man said mistrustfully. ‘Investigation?’
‘He doesn’t understand,’ the woman said quickly, on a rising note of despair. ‘He’s so little. Only four. He doesn’t understand.’
‘Put the hammer down,’ said Jensen.
Without taking his eyes off Jensen, the man bent down and laid the tool on the floor very carefully, as if not wanting to make any undue noise. His look was one more of apathy and fear than of resolution or hatred.
‘He can get dressed by himself and he’s learnt how to open the door,’ the woman said. ‘He’s used to running out to play whenever he likes. Today he slipped out while I was in the kitchen, and we didn’t have time to stop him.’
She stopped and looked at Jensen in alarm.
‘He’s only little,’ she repeated.
‘Are you his parents?’
‘Yes.’
‘Parents are responsible for supervising young children.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Why didn’t you go after the child and bring him back?’
The man looked at Jensen in astonishment.
‘We didn’t dare.’
Jensen stepped over the threshold and closed the door after him.
‘He’s alone,’ the man said to himself under his breath. ‘I should’ve killed him.’
The flat stank of urine, refuse and excrement. The people inside did not seem to be aware of it.
‘The air’s very bad in here,’ Jensen remarked.
‘Well nothing works, does it?’ said the woman. ‘No water, no light, no way of flushing the toilet. And we daren’t open the windows, of course.’
Jense
n got out his pen and notepad.
‘Why not?’
‘How can you ask that,’ said the man. ‘Don’t you know what’s happened?’ Jensen did not reply.
‘The sickness. Haven’t you heard about it?’
‘Have you or anyone in your family gone down with this sickness?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know anyone who has caught it?’
‘Yes. Some people who lived round here. Not that we knew them.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘They went to hospital, of course. Well, one of them died before the ambulance got here. He was a policeman, as a matter of fact.’
‘And it’s the risk of infection that means you daren’t go out?’
The man looked uncertainly at Jensen.
‘I think so,’ said the woman.
‘You think so?’
‘We’re not allowed to go out,’ she said. ‘It’s not permitted.’
‘But people aren’t prohibited from opening their doors?’
‘No,’ the man said hesitantly. But …’
‘But what?’
‘I didn’t think you were from the police. I …’
He stopped. The little boy piped up instead:
‘Are you a Mister Policeman?’
‘Yes,’ said Jensen gravely. ‘I’m a policeman.’
‘We haven’t seen any police for weeks,’ said the woman. ‘We didn’t think there were any left.’
Jensen turned back to the man.
‘Where do you work?’
‘The public cleansing department. At the central refuse tip. Until all this started.’
‘What?’
‘First it was a load of rumours about this awful disease. Then there was an announcement that the risk of infection was too serious for people to carry on going to work, except for the vital services. Why are you asking me all this?’
‘Because I don’t know,’ said Jensen. ‘I’ve been away.’
‘Oh, I see,’ the man said sceptically.
‘How did you get the announcements?’
‘On a printed leaflet that everyone got through their door. It was on TV, too. The TV was still working then, at least ours was. That was the fifteenth of last month.’
