The Laughing Policeman (17 page)

The bell didn't seem to be working and, true to habit, he pounded with his fist on the door. Åsa Torell opened it at once. Stared at him and said, 'All right, all right, here I am. For God's sake don't kick the door down.'

'Sorry,' Kollberg mumbled.

It was dark in the flat He took his coat off and switched on the hall light. The old police cap was lying on the hat rack, just as before. The wire of the doorbell had been wrenched loose and was dangling from the jamb.

Åsa Torell followed his gaze and muttered, 'A horde of idiots kept intruding. Journalists and photographers and God knows who. The bell never stopped ringing.'

Kollberg said nothing. He went into the living room and sat down in one of the safari chairs.

'Can't you put the light on so that at least we can see one another?'

'I can see quite well enough. All right, if you like, if you like, sure, I’ll put it on.'

She switched on the light, but did not sit down. She paced restlessly to and fro, as though she were caged in and wanted to get out

The air in the flat was stale and stuffy. The ashtrays had not been emptied for several days. The whole room was untidy and didn't seem to have been cleaned at all, and through the open door he saw that the bedroom too was in a mess and that the bed had certainly not been made. From the hall he had also glanced into the kitchen, where dirty plates and saucepans lay piled up in the sink.

Then he looked at the young woman. She walked up to the window, swung round and walked back towards the bedroom. Stood for a few seconds staring at the bed, turned again and went back to the window. Over and over again.

He had to keep moving his head from side to side to follow her with his eyes. It was almost like watching a tennis match.

Åsa Torell had changed during the nineteen days that had passed since he saw her last She had the same thick grey skiing socks on her feet, or at any rate similar ones, and the same black slacks. But this time they were spotted with cigarette ash and her hair was uncombed and matted. Her gaze was unsteady and she had dark rings under her eyes; the skin on her lips was dry and cracked. She could not keep her hands still and the insides of the forefinger and middle finger of her left hand were stained a virulent yellow with nicotine. On the table lay five opened cigarette packets. She smoked a Danish brand - Cecil. Åke Stenström had not smoked at all.

'What do you want?' she asked gruffly.

She walked up to the table, shook a cigarette out of one of the packets, lit it with trembling hands and dropped the burnt match on the floor. Then she said, 'Nothing, of course. Just like that idiot Rönn, who sat here mumbling and rolling his head for two hours.'

Kollberg didn't answer.

'I'll have the phone turned off,' she announced abruptly. 'Aren't you working?' ‘I’m on sick leave.' Kollberg nodded.

'Stupidly,' she said. The firm has its own doctor. He said I was to rest for a month in the country or preferably go abroad. Then he drove me home.'

She drew deeply at her cigarette and tapped off the ash; most of it fell beside the ashtray.

'That was three weeks ago,' she said. 'It would have been much better if I could have gone on working as usual'

She swung round and went over to the window, looked down into the street and plucked at the curtain.

'As usual,' she said to herself.

Kollberg squirmed in his chair, ill at ease. This was going to be worse than he'd expected.

‘What do you want,' she asked again, without turning her head. 'Answer me, for God's sake. Say something.'

Somehow he must break the isolation. But how?

He got up and went over to the big carved bookcase. Looked at the books and took one out It was rather an old one, Manual ofCrime Investigation by Otto Wendel and Arne Svensson, printed in 1949. He turned over the title page and read:

Thisis a numbered and limited edition. This copy, No. 2080, is for Detective Lennart Kollberg. The book is intended as a guide for policemen in their often difficult and responsible work on the scene of the crime. The contents are of a confidential nature, and the authors therefore request everyone to see that the book does not fall into the wrong hands.

He himself had written in the words 'Detective Lennart Kollberg long ago. It was a good book and it had been very useful to him in the old days.

'This is my old book,' he said.

'Take it then,' she replied.

'No. I gave it to Åke a couple of years ago.'

'Oh. Then he hasn't stolen it at any rate.'

He dipped into it as he considered what ought to be said or done. Here and there he had underlined certain passages. In two places he noticed a stroke in the margin made with a ball-point pen. Both were under the chapter heading

 Sex Murders.

Thesex murderer (the sadist) is often impotent and his violent crime is in that case an abnormal act for the attainment of sexual satisfaction.

Someone - Stenström, without a doubt - had underlined this sentence. Beside it he had drawn an exclamation mark and written the words 'or the reverse'.

In the paragraph a little farther down the same page that began with the words Incases of sex murder the victim can have been killed, he had underlined two points: 4) afterthe sex act in order to prevent accusation and 5) becauseof the effect of shock.

In the margin he had made the following comment 6) to get rid of the victim, but is it then a sex murder?

'Åsa,' Kollberg said.

'Yes, what is it?'

'Do you know when Åke wrote this?' She came up to him, glanced swiftly at the book and said, 'No idea.'

'Åsa,' he said again.

She plunged her half-smoked cigarette into the overflowing ashtray and remained standing beside the table with her hands loosely clasped over her stomach.

'Yes, what the dickens is it?' she asked irritably.

Kollberg looked at her searchingly. She looked small and wretched. Today she was wearing a shortsleeved blue blouse instead of the knitted sweater. She had goosepimples on her arms and although the blouse hung like a loosely draped cloth over her thin body, her large nipples showed as distinct protrusions under the material.

'Sit down,' he commanded.

She shrugged, took a new cigarette and walked over to the bedroom door while she fumbled with the lighter. 'Sit down!' Kollberg roared.

She jumped, and looked at him. Her brown eyes almost glittered with hatred. Nevertheless, she went to the armchair and sat down opposite him. Stiff as a poker, with her hands on her thighs. In her right hand she held the lighter, in her left the still unlit cigarette.

'We have to put our cards on the table,' Kollberg said, stealing an embarrassed glance at the brown envelope.

'Splendid,' she said in an icy, clear voice. 'It's just that I haven't any cards to put'

'But I have.'

'Oh?'

‘When we were here last we weren't altogether frank with you.' She frowned. 'In what way?'

'In several ways. First let me ask you: Do you know what Åke was doing on that bus?'

'No, no, no and again no. I - do - not - know.' 'Nor do we,' said Kollberg.

He paused. Then, drawing a deep breath, he went on. 'Åke lied to you.'

Her reaction was violent. Her eyes flashed. She clenched her fists. The cigarette was crushed between her fingers and flakes of tobacco were strewn over her slacks.

'How dare you say that to me!'

'Because it's true. Åke was not on duty - either on the Monday when he was killed or on the previous Saturday. He had had an unusual amount of time off during the whole of October and the first two weeks of November.'

She stared at him without saying anything.

"That is a fact,' Kollberg went on. 'Another thing I would like to know: was he in the habit of carrying his pistol when he was not on duty?'

It was some time before she answered.

'Go to hell and stop tormenting me with your interrogation tactics. Why doesn't the Great Interrogator himself come? Martin Beck?'

Kollberg bit his lower lip. 'Have you cried a lot?' he asked. 'No. I'm not made that way.'

‘Well then, answer for Christ's sake. We must help each other.' ‘what with?'

'With getting hold of the man who killed him. And the others.' ‘Why?'

She sat quiet for a while. Then she said, so softly that he could hardly hear it: 'Revenge. Of course. To be revenged.' 'Did he usually carry his pistol?' 'Yes. Often at any rate.' 'Why?'

‘Why not? As it turned out, he needed it. Didn't he?' He made no reply. 'Though a lot of help it was.' Kollberg still said nothing. 'I loved Åke,' she said.

The voice was dear and matter-of-fact Her eyes were fixed on a point behind Kollberg. 'Åsa?' 'Yes?'

'He was away a lot, then. You don't know what he was up to and we don't know either. Do you think he might have been together with someone else? Some other woman, that is?'

'No:

‘You don't think so?'

'I don't think anything. I know.'

'How can you know?'

'That's my business. And I know.'

She looked him suddenly in the eye and said in astonishment, 'Did you get it into your heads that he had a mistress?' ‘Yes. We still haven't ruled out that possibility.' 'Then you can do so. It's completely out of the question.' 'Why?'

'I've said it's none of your business.' Kollberg drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. 'But you know for sure?' 'Yes, I know for sure.'

He took another deep breath, as though plucking up his courage.

'Was Åke interested in photography?'

‘Yes. It was about his only hobby after he stopped playing football. He has three cameras. And there's one of those enlarging gadgets in the loo. He used the bathroom as a darkroom.'

She looked at Kollberg in surprise.

'Why do you ask that?'

He pushed the envelope across to her side of the table. She put down the cigarette lighter and took out the pictures with trembling hands. Looked at the one on top and went scarlet.

'Where ... where did you get hold of these?'

'They were in his desk out at Västberga.'

'What! In his desk?’

She blinked hard and asked unexpectedly, 'How many have seen them? The entire police force?' 'Only three people.' 'Who?’

'Martin, myself and my wife.' 'Gun?'

‘Yes’

‘Why did you show them to her?'

'Because I was coming here. I wanted her to know what you ' looked like.'

'What I look like? And what we look like? Åke and -

'Åke is dead’ Kollberg said tonelessly.

Her face was still fiery red. So were her neck and arms. Tiny glistening beads of sweat had broken out on her forehead, just below her hairline.

"The pictures were taken in here?' he asked.

She nodded.

'When?'

Åsa Torell bit her lower lip nervously.

'About three months ago.'

'I presume he took them himself?'

'Naturally. He has ... had all sorts of photography gadgets. Self-timer and tripod and whatever they're called.' 'Why did he take them?'

She was still flushed and perspiring but her voice was steadier.

'Because we thought it was fun.'

'And why did he have them in his desk?'

Kollberg paused briefly.

'You see, he didn't have a single personal thing in his office,' he said, explaining. 'Apart from these photographs.'

A long silence. At last she shook her head slowly and said, 'No. I don't know.'

Time to change the subject, Kollberg thought Aloud he said, 'Did he always go about with a gun?' 'Nearly always.' 'Why?'

'He liked to. Lately. He was interested in firearms.'

She seemed to be thinking something over. Then she got up suddenly and walked quickly out of the room. Through the short passage he saw her go into the bedroom and up to the bed. Sticking her hand under one of the crumpled pillows, she said hesitantly, 'I've a thing here ... a pistol...'

Kollberg's relative obesity and phlegmatic appearance had deceived many in various situations. He was in extremely good trim and his responses were amazingly quick.

Åsa Torell was still bending over the bed when he stood beside her and wrenched the weapon from her hand.

'This is no pistol,' he said. 'It's an American revolver. A Colt .45 with a long barrel. Peacemaker it's called, absurdly enough. Besides which, it is loaded. And cocked.'

'As if I didn't know that,' she mumbled.

He opened the chamber and took out the cartridges.

'With cross-filed bullets, what's more,' he said. 'Forbidden even in America. The most dangerous small firearm imaginable. You can kill an elephant with it. If you shoot a human being at a range of five yards, the bullet makes a wound as big as a soup plate and hurls the body ten yards backward. Where the hell did you get it from?'

She shrugged bewilderedly. 'Åke. He's always had it' 'In bed?'

With a shake of her head she said quietly, 'No, no. It was I who ... now...'

Slipping the bullets into his trouser pocket he pointed the revolver at the floor and pulled the trigger. The click echoed in the silent flat.

'Moreover, the trigger has been filed,' he said. 'To make it quicker and more sensitive. Horribly dangerous. You'd only have had to turn over in your sleep to –‘

He fell silent.

'I haven't slept much lately,' she said.

'Hm,' Kollberg muttered to himself. 'He must have smuggled this away when he was confiscating weapons at some time. Swiped it in fact.'

He looked at the big, heavy revolver and weighed it in his hand Then he glanced at the girl's right wrist It was as slender as a child's.

'Well, I can understand him,' he mumbled. 'If you're fascinated by firearms ...'

Suddenly he raised his voice.

'But I'm not fascinated,' he shouted. 'I hate this sort of thing. Do you get that? This is a foul thing that shouldn't be allowed to exist No firearms should exist. The fact that they are still made and that all sorts of people have them lying about in drawers or carry them around in the street just shows that the whole system is perverted and crazy. Some bastard makes a fat profit by making and selling arms, just the way other people make a fat profit on factories that make narcotics and deadly pills. Do you get it?'