The Laughing Policeman (14 page)

Månsson kept looking at his watch. He had made up his mind not to wait a minute longer than half-past five.

At twenty-eight minutes past five Mrs Karlsson returned.

She placed Månsson in her best sofa, offered him a glass of port and burst into a jeremiad concerning her trials as a landlady.

'It's not at all nice, I can tell you, for a poor lone woman to have the house full of men,' she whined. 'And foreigners, what's more. But what is a poor hard-up widow to do?'

Månsson made a rough estimate. The hard-up widow raked in nearly 3,000 kronor a month in rent.

'That Mohammed,' she said, pursing her lips. 'He owed me a month's rent Perhaps you could arrange for me to get it? He had money in the bank all right'

To Månsson's question about her impression of Mohammed, she replied, 'Well, for an Arab he was quite nice, really. They're usually so dirty and unreliable, you know. But he was nice and quiet and seemed to behave himself all right - he didn't drink and I don't think he brought girls in. But as I said, he owes me a month's rent'

She appeared to be well informed about the private lives of her lodgers; sure enough, Ramón was going with a slut called Kerstin, but she could tell him little about Mohammed.

He had a married sister in Paris, who used to send him letters, but she couldn't read them because they were written in Arabic.

Mrs Karlsson fetched a bundle of letters and gave them to Månsson. The sister's name and address were written on the backs of the envelopes.

All Mohammed Boussie's worldly possessions had been packed into a canvas suitcase. Månsson took this with him as well.

Mrs Karlsson reminded him once more of the unpaid rent before shutting the door after him.

'My God, what an old bitch,' Månsson mumbled to himself as he went down the stairs to the street and his car.

Monday. Snow. Wind. Bitter cold. 'Fine track snow’ Rönn said.

He was standing by the window, looking dreamily out over the street and the rooftops, which were only just visible in the floating white haze.

Gunvald Larsson glared at him suspiciously and said, 'Is that meant to be a joke?'

'No. I was just thinking how it felt when I was a boy.'

'Extremely constructive. You wouldn't care to do something a little more worthwhile? To help the investigation along?'

'Sure,' Rönn said. 'But...'

'But what?'

'That's just what I was going to say. But what?'

'Nine people have been murdered,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'And here you stand not knowing what to do with yourself. You're a detective, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'Well then, detect, for Christ's sake.' 'Where?'

'I don't know. Do something.' 'What are you doing yourself?'

'Can't you see? I'm sitting here reading this psychological bilge that Melander and the doctors have concocted.' 'Why?'

'I don't know. How can I know everything?'

A week had passed since the bloodbath in the bus. The state of the investigation was unchanged and the lack of constructive ideas was making itself felt Even the spate of useless tips from the general public had begun to dry up.

The consumer society and its harassed citizens had other things to think about Although it was over a month to Christmas, the advertising orgy had begun and the buying hysteria spread as swiftly and ruthlessly as the Black Death along the festooned shopping streets. The epidemic swept all before it and there was no escape. It ate its way into houses and flats, poisoning and breaking down everything and everyone in its path. Children were already howling from exhaustion and fathers of families were plunged into debt until their next holiday. The gigantic legalized confidence trick claimed victims everywhere. The hospitals had a boom in cardiac infarctions, nervous breakdowns and burst stomach ulcers.

The police stations downtown had frequent visits from the outriders of the great family festival, in the shape of Santa Clauses who were dragged blind drunk out of doorways and public urinals. At Mariatorget two exhausted beat officers dropped a drunken Father Christmas in the gutter when they tried to get him into a taxi.

During the ensuing uproar the two policemen were hard pressed by bewildered, screaming children and furious, foul-mouthed boozers. One of the officers lost his temper when a lump of ice landed in his eye and he resorted to his truncheon. Hit out at random and struck an inquisitive old-age pensioner. It didn't look pretty and the police-haters were given grist for their mill.

'There's a latent hatred of police in all classes of society,' Melander said. 'And it needs only an impulse to trigger it off.'

'Oh,' Kollberg said, with complete lack of interest. 'And what is the reason for that?'

'The reason is that the police are a necessary evil’ Melander said. 'Everybody knows, even professional criminals, that they may suddenly find themselves in a situation in which only the police can help them. When the burglar wakes up at night and hears a rattling in his cellar, what does he do? Calls the police, of course. But so long as such situations don't crop up, most people react with either fear or contempt when the police, in one way or other, interfere in their existence or disturb their peace of mind.'

'Well, that's the last straw, if we have to regard ourselves as a necessary evil,' Kollberg muttered despondently.

'The crux of the problem is, of course,' Melander went on, quite unconcerned, 'the paradox that the police profession in itself calls for the highest intelligence and exceptional mental, physical and moral qualities in its practicians but has nothing to attract individuals who possess them.'

‘You're horrible,' Kollberg said.

Martin Beck had heard the arguments many times before and was not amused.

'Can't you carry on your sociological discussions somewhere else?' he said grumpily. 'I'm trying to think.'

'Of what?' Kollberg said.

And the telephone rang.

'Hello. Beck.'

'Hjelm here. How's it going?'

'Between ourselves, badly.'

'Have you identified that guy with no face yet?'

Martin Beck had known Hjelm for many years and had great confidence in him. He was not the only one; Hjelm was considered by many to be one of the cleverest forensic technicians in the world. If he were handled in the right way.

'No,' Martin Beck said. 'Nobody seems to miss him. And the door-knockers have drawn a blank.'

He drew a deep breath and went on.

‘You don't mean to say you've produced something new?'

Hjelm must be flattered - that was a well-known fact

'Yes,' he said smugly. 'We've given him an extra going-over. Tried to build up a more detailed picture. That gives some idea of the living person. I think we've managed to give him a certain character.'

Can I say: ‘You don't mean it?' thought Martin Beck.

'You don't mean it,' he said.

Yes, I do,' Hjelm said delightedly. 'The result's better than we expected.'

What should he pile on now? 'Fantastic'? 'Splendid'? Just plain: 'Fine'? or 'Terrific'? Must go into training at Inga's coffee klatsch, he thought

'Great’ he said.

'Thanks,' Hjelm replied enthusiastically.

'Don't mention it I suppose you can't tell me -

'Oh, sure. That's why I called up. We took a look at his teeth first. Not easy. They're in bad shape. But the fillings we have found are carelessly done. I don't think they can be the work of a Swedish dentist. I won't say any more on that point'

'That in itself is a good deal.'

'Then there's his clothes. We've traced his suit to one of the Hollywood shops here in Stockholm. There are three, as you may know. One on Vasagatan, one on Götgatan and one at St Eriksplan.'

'Good,' Martin Beck said laconically.

He couldn't play the hypocrite any more.

‘Yes,' Hjelm said sourly, 'that’s what I think. Further, the suit was dirty. It has certainly never been dry-cleaned, and I should think he's worn it day in day out for a long time.'

'How long?'

'A year, at a guess.'

'Have you anything more?'

There was a pause. Hjelm had kept the best till last. This was only a rhetorical pause.

'Yes,' he said at length. 'In the breast pocket of the jacket we found crumbs of hashish, and some grains in the right trouser pocket derived from crushed Preludin tablets. The analyses of certain tests from the autopsy confirm that the man was a junkie.'

New pause. Martin Beck said nothing.

'In addition, he had gonorrhea. In an advanced stage.'

Martin Beck finished making his notes, said thank you and put down the phone.

'Reeks of the underworld,' Kollberg declared.

He had been standing behind the chair eavesdropping.

'Yes,' Martin Beck said. 'But his fingerprints are not in our files.'

'Perhaps he was a foreigner.'

'Quite possibly,' Martin Beck agreed. 'But what shall we do with this information? We can hardly let it out to the press.'

'No,' Melander said. 'But we can let it circulate by word of mouth among snouts and known addicts. Via the drug squad and the community relations workers in the various police districts.'

'Mmm,' Martin Beck murmured. 'Do that then.'

Not much use, he thought. But what else was to be done? During the last few days the police had made two spectacular raids on the so-called underworld. The result was exactly what they expected. Meagre. The raids had been foreseen by all except those who were most broken-down and destitute. The majority of those who had been picked up by the police - about one hundred and fifty - had been in need of immediate care and had been passed on to various institutions.

The investigation had so tar produced nothing, and the detectives who handled the contacts with the dregs of society said they were convinced the snouts really didn't know anything.

Everything seemed to bear this out No one could reasonably gain anything by shielding this criminal.

'Except himself,' said Gunvald Larsson, who had a fondness for unnecessary remarks.

The only thing they could do was to work on the material they already had. Try to trace the weapon and go on interrogating all who had had any connection with the victims. These interviews were now carried out by the reinforcements - Månsson from Malmö and a detective inspector from Sundsvall by the name of Nordin. Gunnar Ahlberg could not be spared from his ordinary work. It didn't really matter; everyone was pretty sure that these interrogations would lead nowhere.

The hours dragged past and nothing happened. Day was added to day. The days formed a week, and then another week. Once again it was Monday. The date was 4 December and the nameday was Barbro. The weather was cold and windy and the Christmas rush grew more and more hectic. The reinforcements got the blues and began to feel homesick, Månsson for the mild climate of southern Sweden and Nordin for the clear, bright cold of the northern winter. Neither of them was used to a big city and they both felt miserable in Stockholm. A lot of things got on their nerves, mainly the rush and tear, the jostling crowds and the unfriendly people. And as policemen they were irritated by the rowdyism and the petty crimes that were rife everywhere.

'It beats me how you guys stand it in this town,' Nordin said.

He was a stocky, bald man with bushy eyebrows and screwed-up brown eyes.

'We were born here,' Kollberg said. ‘We've never known anything else.'

'I just came in on the underground,' Nordin said. 'Just between Alvik and Fridhemsplan I saw at least fifteen individuals the police would have nabbed on the spot if it had been at home in Sundsvall.'

'We're short of people,' Martin Beck said.

‘Yes, I know, but...'

'But what?'

'Have you ever thought of something? People are scared here. Ordinary decent people. If you ask for directions or ask them for a light, they practically turn and run. They're simply afraid. Feel insecure.'

'Who doesn't?' Kbllberg said.

'I don't,' Nordin replied. 'At least not as a rule. But I expect I’ll be the same before long. Have you anything for me just now?'

‘We have a weird sort of tip here,' Melander said. ‘What about?'

'The unidentified man on the bus. A woman in Hägersten. She called up and said she lives next door to a garage where a lot of foreigners collect.'

Uh-hunh.And?'

'It's usually pretty rowdy there, though she didn't put it like that "Noisy" is what she said. One of the noisiest was a small, dark man of about thirty-five. His clothes were not unlike the description in the papers, she said, and now there hasn't been any sign of him.'

"There are tens of thousands of people with clothes like that’ Nordin said sceptically.

'Yes,' Melander agreed, 'there are. And with ninety-nine per cent certainty this tip is useless. The information is so vague that there's really nothing to check. Moreover, she didn't seem at all sure. But if you've nothing else to do ...'

He left the sentence in midair, scribbled down the woman's name and address on his notepad and tore off the sheet The telephone rang and he lifted the receiver as he handed the paper to Nordin.

'Here you are,' he said.

'I can't read it,' Nordin muttered.

Melander's handwriting was cramped and almost illegible, at least to outsiders. Kollberg took the slip of paper and looked at it

'Hieroglyphics,' he said. 'Or maybe ancient Hebrew. It was probably Fredrik who wrote the Dead Sea Scrolls. Though he doesn't have that much of a sense of humour. I'm his chief interpreter, however.'

He copied out the name and address and said, 'Here it is in plain writing.'

'OK,' Nordin said. 'I can take a run out there. Is there a car?' 'Yes. But with the traffic as it is, and the state of the roads, you'd better stick to the underground. Take a number 13 or 23 southbound and get off at Axelsberg.' 'So long,' Nordin said and went out.

'He didn't seem particularly inspired today,' Kollberg remarked. 'Can you blame him?' Martin Beck replied, blowing his nose. 'Hardly,' Kollberg said with a sigh. 'Why don't we let these guys go home?'

'Because it's not our business,' said Martin Beck. "They're here to take part in the most intensive manhunt ever known in this country.'