The Laughing Policeman (16 page)

An hour later Kollberg entered his flat at Palandergatan. The time was five o'clock, but outside it had already been dark for a couple of hours.

His wife was busy painting the kitchen chairs in a pair of faded jeans and a checked flannel shirt It was his, and discarded long ago. She had rolled up the sleeves and tied it carelessly around her waist. She had paint on her hands and arms and feet, and even on her forehead.

'Strip,' he said.

She stood quite still with the brush raised. Gave him a searching look.

'Is it urgent?' she asked mischievously. 'Yes.'

She grew serious at once.

'Must you go again?'

'Yes, I have an interrogation.'

She nodded and put the brush in the paint can. Wiped her hands.

'Åsa,' he said. 'It's going to be tricky in every way.'

'Do you need a vaccination?'

'Yes.'

'Mind you don't get paint all over you,' she said, unbuttoning the shirt.

Outside a house on Klubbacken in Hägersten a snowy man stood looking thoughtfully at a scrap of paper. It was sopping wet and was coming apart; he had difficulty in making out the writing in the whirling snow and the dim light from the street lamps. However, it seemed as if he had at last found the right place. He shook himself like a wet dog and went up the steps. Stamped energetically on the porch and rang the doorbell. Knocked the wet white flakes off his hat and stood with it in his hand as he waited for something to happen.

The door was opened a few inches and a middle-aged woman peeped out She was wearing a cleaning smock and apron and had flour on her hands.

'Police,' he said raucously. Clearing his throat, he went on, 'Detective Inspector Nordin.'

The woman eyed him anxiously.

'Can you prove it?' she said at last 'I mean ...'

With a heavy sigh, he transferred his hat to his left hand and unbuttoned his overcoat and jacket Took out his wallet and showed his identification card.

The woman followed the procedure with alarm, as if expecting him to take out a bomb or a machine gun or a condom.

He kept hold of the card and she peered at it shortsightedly through the crack in the door.

'I thought detectives had badges,' she said doubtfully.

'Yes, madam, I have one,' he said gloomily.

He kept his badge in his hip pocket and wondered how he would get at it without laying down his hat or putting it on his head.

'Oh, I suppose this will do,' the woman said grudgingly. 'Sundsvall? Have you come all the way from the north to talk to me?'

'I did have some other business in town as well.' 'I'm sorry, but you see ... I mean...' she faltered. 'Yes, madam?'

'I mean you can't be too careful nowadays. You never know...'

Nordin wondered what on earth he was to do with his hat. The snow was lying thickly and the flakes were melting on his bald head. He could hardly go on standing with the identification card in one hand and his hat in the other. He might want to note something down. To replace the hat on his head seemed the most practical but might appear impolite. It would look silly putting it down on the steps. Perhaps he ought to ask if he might go inside. But then the woman would be faced with a decision. She would have to answer yes or no, and if he had judged her rightly, such a decision might take a long time.

Nordin came from a part of the country where it was customary to invite all strangers into the kitchen, offer them a cup of coffee and let them warm themselves by the stove. A nice, practical custom, he thought. Perhaps it wasn't suitable in big cities. Collecting his thoughts, he said, 'When you called you mentioned a man and a garage, didn't you?'

'I'm awfully sorry if I disturbed you ...'

'Oh, we couldn't be more grateful.'

She turned her head and looked in towards the flat, almost dosing the door as she did so. She was evidently worried about the ginger snaps in the oven.

'Delighted,' Nordin muttered to himself. 'Deliriously happy. It's almost unbearable.'

The woman opened the door again and said, 'What did you say?'

'Er, that garage -' 'It's over there.'

He followed her gaze and said, 'I don't see anything.' 'You can see it from upstairs,' the woman said. 'And this man?'

'Well, he seemed funny. And now I haven't seen him for a couple of weeks. A short, dark man.'

'Do you keep a constant watch on the garage?'

'Well, I can see it from the bedroom window.'

She flushed. What have I done wrong now, Nordin wondered.

'Some foreigner has it. All sorts of queer characters hang about there. And what I'd like to know is —'

It was impossible to know whether she broke off or went on talking in such a low voice that he couldn't catch the words.

'What was strange about this short, dark man?'

'Well... he laughed.'

'Laughed?'

‘Yes. Awfully loud.'

'Do you know if there's anyone in the garage now?' 'There was a light on not long ago. When I went up and had a look.'

Nordin sighed and put on his hat

'Well, I'll go and make inquiries,' he said. 'Thank you, madam.' ‘Won't you ... come in?' 'No thanks.'

She opened the door another few inches, gave him a quick glance and said graspingly, 'Is there any reward?' 'For what?' 'Er ... I don't know.' 'Good-bye.'

He trudged off in the direction she had indicated. It felt as if someone had put a poultice on his head. The woman had shut the door at once and had now presumably taken up her post at the bedroom window.

The garage, a small building standing by itself, had fibrous cement walls and a corrugated-iron roof. There was room for two cars at the most. Above the doors was an electric light

He opened one half of the double doors and went in.

The car standing inside was a green Skoda Octavia, 1959 model. It might fetch 400 kronor if the engine wasn't too worn out, thought Nordin, who had spent a great deal of his time as a policeman on stolen vehicles and shady car deals. It was propped up on low trestles and the bonnet was open. A man lay on his back under the chassis, quite still. All that could be seen of him was a pair of legs in blue overalls.

Dead, thought Nordin, going up to the car and poking the man with his right foot

The figure under the car started as though at an electric shock, crawled out and got to his feet. Stood with the hand lamp in his right hand staring in amazement at the visitor.

"The police,' Nordin said.

'My papers are in order,' the man said quickly.

'I don't doubt it,' Nordin retorted.

The garage owner was about thirty, a slender man with brown eyes, wavy dark hair and well-combed sideburns.

'Are you Italian?' Nordin asked. He was not much of an expert at foreign accents except Finnish.

'Swiss. From German Switzerland. The canton of Graubtinden.'

'You speak good Swedish.'

'I've lived here for six years. What is it you want?'

"We're trying to get in touch with a mate of yours.'

‘Who?'

'We don't know his name.'

Eyeing the man in the dungarees Nordin said, 'He's not quite as tall as you but a bit fatter. Dark hair, rather long, and brown eyes. About thirty-five.’ The other shook his head.

'I've no mate that looks like that. I don't meet much people.' 'Many people,' Nordin corrected amiably. 'Yes, of course. "Many people".'

'But I've heard there are usually a lot of people out here at the garage.'

'Guys come with cars. They want me to fix when there is something wrong.'

He thought hard, then said by way of information:

'I am a mechanic. Work at a garage in Ringweg... Ringvägen. Now only in the mornings. All these Germans and Austrians know that I have this garage. So they come out and want repair free. Many I do not know at all. There are many in Stockholm.'

'Well,' Nordin said, 'this man we want to get hold of might have been dressed in a black nylon coat and a beige suit'

'That tells me nothing. I do not remember anyone like that That’s certain.'

'Who are your chums?'

'Friends? A few Germans and Austrians.'

'Have any of them been here today?'

'No. They know all I am busy. I work day and night on this.'

He pointed to the car with an oily thumb and said, 'I get it fixed up by Christmas, so I can drive home and see my parents.'

'To Switzerland?'

'Yes’

'Some drive.'

'Yes. I pay only one hundred kronor for this car. But I get it ready. I good mechanic' ‘What's your name?' 'Horst Horst Dieke.' 'Mine's Ulf. Ulf Nordin.'

The Swiss smiled, showing perfect white teeth. He seemed a pleasant, steady-going young man.

'Well, Horst, so you don't know who I mean?' Dieke shook his head. 'No. I'm sorry.'

Nordin was in no way disappointed. He had simply drawn the blank that everyone expected. If there hadn't been such a scarcity of dues, this tip would never have been followed up at all. But he was not prepared to give in yet, and besides he didn't fancy the underground with its horde of unfriendly people in damp clothes. The Swiss was evidently trying to be helpful. He said, "There is nothing else? About that guy, I mean?'

Nordin considered. At last he said, 'He laughed. Loud.'

The man's face brightened at once.

'Ah, I think I know. He laughs like this.'

Dieke opened his mouth and emitted a bleating sound, shrill and harsh as the cry of a snipe.

It came as an utter surprise and about ten seconds passed before Nordin could say, 'Yes, perhaps.'

'Yes, yes,' Dieke said. 'I know now who you mean. Little dark guy.'

Nordin waited expectantly.

'He has been here four or five times. Maybe more. But his name, I do not know it. He came with a Spaniard who wanted to sell me spare parts. He came several times. But I did not buy.'

‘Why not?'

'Cheap. I think stolen.'

'What was this Spaniard's name?'

Dieke shrugged.

'Don't know. Paco. Pablo. Paquito. Something like that.' 'What sort of car did he have?' 'Good car. Volvo Amazon. White.' 'And this man who laughed?'

'Don't know at all. He was just in the car. He'd had a few drinks, I think. But of course he didn't drive.' 'Was he Spanish too?'

'I think not. I think Swedish. But I don't know.' 'How long ago he came here?'

That didn't sound right. Nordin pulled himself together. 'How long since he was here last?' 'Three weeks ago. Perhaps two. Exactly I do not know.' 'Have you seen this Spaniard since then? Paco or whatever his name is?'

'No. I think he was going back to Spain. Needed money, that why he wanted to sell. So he said anyway.' Nordin paused to consider.

'You said he seemed a bit drunk, this guy. Do you think he might have had a fix?' A shrug.

'Don't know. I think he had been drinking. But - dope? Well, why not? Nearly everybody here gets high. Lie in their junkie dens when they're not out stealing. No?'

'You've no idea what his name is or what they call him?'

'No. But a couple of times a girl was in the car. With him, I think. A big girl. Long fair hair.'

‘What's her name?'

'I don't know. But they call her -'

"Yes? What?'

'Blonde Malin, I think.'

'How do you know?'

'I have seen her before. In town.'

‘Whereabouts in town?'

'At a café on Tegnérgatan. Near Sveavägen. Where all foreigners go. She is Swedish.' 'Blonde Malin?' 'Yes.'

Nordin couldn't think of anything more to ask. He looked doubtfully at the green car and said, 'I hope you get home all right.’

Dieke gave his infectious smile. 'Oh yes.'

'When are you coming back?'

'Never.'

'Never?'

'No. Sweden bad country. Stockholm bad city. Only violence, narcotics, thieves, alcohol.'

Nordin said nothing. With the last he was inclined to agree.

'Misery,' the Swiss said, slimming up. 'But easy to earn money for foreigner. Everything else hopeless. I live in a room with three others. Pay four hundred kronor a month. How do you say - extortion? Dirty trick. Just because there is a housing shortage. Only rich men and criminals can afford to go to restaurants. I have saved money. I'm going home, I get my own little garage and marry.'

'Haven't you met any girls here?'

'Swedish girls are not worth having. Maybe students and the like can meet nice girls. Ordinary workmen meet only one sort. Like this Blonde Malin.'

'What sort?'

'Whores.' He pronounced the 'w'.

'You mean you don't want to pay for girls?'

Horst Dieke pouted.

'Many cost nothing. Whores all the same. Free whores.'

Nordin shook his head.

'You've only seen Stockholm, Horst. Pity.'

'Is the rest any better?'

Nordin nodded emphatically. Then he said, 'And you don't remember anything more about this guy?' 'No. Only that he laughed. Like this.'

Dieke opened his mouth and again emitted the shrill, bleating cry.

Nordin nodded good-bye and left.

Under the nearest lamp post he stopped and took out his notebook.

'Blonde Malin,' he murmured. 'Junkie dens. Free whores. What a profession to have chosen.'

It's not my fault, he thought The old man forced me into it.

A man approached along the pavement Nordin raised his Tyrolean hat which was already covered with snow, and said, 'Excuse me, can you -'

With a swift, suspicious glance at him the man hunched his shoulders and hurried on.

'... tell me where the underground station is?' Nordin murmured to the whirling blobs of wet snow.

Shaking his head, he scribbled a few words on the open page. Pablo or Paco. White Amazon. Café Tegnérgatan-Sveavägen. Laughter. Blonde Malin, free whore.

Then, putting pen and paper in his pocket, he sighed and trudged away out of the circle of light.

Kollberg stood outside the door of Åsa Torell’s flat in Tjärhovsgatan. The time was already eight o'clock in the evening and in spite of everything he felt worried and absent-minded. In his right hand he held the envelope they had found in the drawer out at Västberga.

The white card with Stenström's name was still on the door above the brass plate.