The Locked Room (9 page)

There was a faint rattle in her throat as she breathed. Gradually her breathing became more calm, and she closed her eyes. He went on sitting there, holding her hand. A blackbird sang outside the window. Otherwise all was quiet

When he had sat there quite still, a long while, he gently let go of her hand and got up. He stroked her cheek. It was hot and dry. Just as he took a step towards the door, still looking down at her face, she opened her eyes and looked at him.

'Put your woollen cap on,' she whispered, 'it's cold out' And again she closed her eyes.

After a while Martin Beck bent down, kissed her on the fore¬head, and left.

Today Kenneth Kvastmo, one of the two policemen who had broken into Svärd's flat, had to give evidence again in the district court. Martin Beck looked in on him where he sat waiting in a corridor of City Hall and had time to get answers to two of his most important questions before Kvastmo was called into court.

Then Martin Beck left City Hall and walked the two blocks to the house where Svärd had lived. It was a short stretch, but as he walked down it, he passed the two large building sites on either side of the police building. Outside the south wing the new metro line to Järvafältet was being excavated, and further up the hill blasting and drilling operations were going on into the bedrock for the foundation of the new police building, where soon he would have his office. Right now he was grateful that his office was in the South Police Headquarters and not here. The noise of traffic from Södertäljevägen outside his window was no more than a quiet hum compared to this cacophony arising from excava¬tions, pneumatic drills, and lorries.

The front door to the first-floor flat had been replaced and sealed. Martin Beck broke the seal and walked in.

The window over the street was closed, and he perceived a slight but penetrating smell of putrefaction that had bitten its way into the room's walls and sparse furniture.

He went over to the window and examined it. It was an old-fashioned type, opening outwards and with a clasp whose ring-shaped swinging latch hung from a fixture in the window frame and fitted over a catch when the window was fastened. There were two latches, but the lower catch was missing. The paint had worn off, and the woodwork of the lower part of the window frame and sill had been damaged. Presumably both rain and wind entered through the crack.

Martin Beck pulled down the blind. Originally dark blue, it was old and faded. He went over to the door and looked into the room. This was how it had looked when the two officers had broken in, at least according to Kvastmo. He went back to the window, gave the cord a slight jerk, and with a tired creak the blind rolled up. Then he opened the window and looked out.

On his right was the noisy building site, and beyond it he could see among other things the windows of the CID in the Kungsholmsgatan building. To his left Bergsgatan went on a little further, then just above the fire station the street came to an end. A short stretch of road joined Bergsgatan and Hantverkargatan. Martin Beck reflected that that was the way he'd walk after finishing his inspection. He couldn't recall what the street was called or ever having walked along it.

Opposite the window was Kronoberg Park. Like most other Stockholm parks, it was laid out on a natural rise in the ground. In the days when he'd worked at Kristineberg, Martin Beck remembered often taking a short cut across it. It had been his habit to cross the park between the stone steps in the corner by Polhemsgatan and the old Jewish cemetery on the for side. Sometimes he'd stopped to smoke a cigarette on a bench beneath the linden trees at the top of the hill.

Feeling a craving for a cigarette, he felt in his pockets, knowing full well he had none on him. He gave a resigned sigh and reflected that he should start chewing gum or sucking cough drops instead. Or chewing toothpicks, like Månsson down in Malmö.

He went out into the kitchen. Its window was in an even worse state than the one in the room; but here the window cracks had been plugged with strips of tape.

Everything in the place seemed worn, not only the paint and wallpaper but also the furniture. Looking around the flat, Martin Beck felt a dull feeling of infinite sadness. He opened all the drawers and cupboards. There wasn't much there, only the basic household utensils.

Going out into the narrow hall, he opened the door to the toilet. There was no wash basin or shower. Then he examined the front door and found it was fitted with the various locks mentioned in the report. It seemed probable that they had all been locked when the door had finally been lifted out of the way, or 'forced' as it was called in police jargon.

It was all really most perplexing. Door and both windows had been locked. Kvastmo had said there was no weapon to be seen anywhere in the flat when he and Kristiansson had gone in. Moreover, he had said that the flat had been under constant guard and that for anyone to have been there and removed anything was out of the question.

Once again Martin Beck stood in the doorway looking into the room. Along the inner wall was a bed, and beside it a shelf. Above the shelf was a lamp with a crinkled yellow cloth shade, a broken green glass ashtray, and a large box of matches. On the shelf lay a pair of much-thumbed magazines and three books. By the right-hand wall stood a chair upholstered in green and white striped material with spots on its seat, and against the far wall were a brown table and a straight wooden chair. On the floor stood an electric heater with a black cord coiling away to a wall socket. The plug had been pulled out There had been a carpet too, but it had been sent to the lab, where, among innumerable other stains and particles of dirt, they'd found three bloodstains of Svärd's blood type.

A closet adjoined the room. On its floor were a dirty flannel shirt of uncertain colour, three dirty socks, and an empty worn brown canvas bag. On a hanger hung a fairly new poplin coat, and on hooks on the wall were a pair of flannel trousers with empty pockets, a knitted green jumper, and a grey vest with full-length sleeves. That was all.

That Svärd could have been shot somewhere else, then come into his flat, locked and bolted the door behind him, and then lain down to die, was - according to the pathologist - something that could not wholly be ruled out. Martin Beck, admittedly, was only a layman; but he'd had enough experience to see she was right

But how had it all happened, then? How could Svärd have been shot if no one had been in the flat and he hadn't done it himself?

When Martin Beck had first discovered how carelessly the whole matter had been handled he'd been convinced that even this mystery could be explained in terms of someone's carelessness; but now he was beginning to feel sure there'd never been a weapon in the room, that Svärd had locked the door behind him, and that consequently his death appeared utterly inexplicable.

Once again Martin Beck went through the flat with meticulous care; but there was nothing there to explain what had happened. Finally he left, intending to find out whether the other tenants had anything to tell him.

Three-quarters of an hour later, none the wiser, he came out into the street. Obviously the sixty-two-year-old ex-warehouseman, Karl Edvin Svärd, had been a very solitary person. He had lived in the flat for three months, and only a few of the other tenants had even been aware of his existence. Those who had seen him come and go had never seen him with anyone else. None of them had ever exchanged a word with him. He had never been seen drunk, nor had they heard any disturbing sounds or noises coming from his flat.

Martin Beck remained standing outside the main entrance. He looked at the park, which rose up green and leafy, on the other side of the street. He had a mind to go over there and sit a while beneath the linden trees; but then he recalled his decision to examine the little street on the hillside.

'Olof Gjödingsgatan.' He read the name on the street sign and recalled that many years ago he had found out that Olof Gjoding had been a teacher in the Kungsholmen School back in the eigh¬teenth century. He wondered whether the school had stood on the same site as the high school down on Hantverkargatan.

On the slope down to Polhemsgatan was a tobacconist. He went in and bought a pack of filter cigarettes. On his way to Kungsholmsgatan he lit one and thought it tasted bad. He thought about Karl Edvin Svärd. He felt none too well and rather confused.

When the midday flight from Amsterdam landed at Arlanda that Tuesday there were two plainclothes policemen stationed in the arrival lounge to meet the plane's purser. They had orders to behave discreetly and take no unnecessary measures; and when, finally, the purser came walking across the tarmac in the company of a stewardess they decided to bide their time and stand aside.

Werner Roos, however, spotted them at once. Either he recog¬nized them from some earlier occasion, or simply sensed them to be police, instantly comprehending that their presence there had something to do with him. He stopped, said a few words to the stewardess, and then walked into the arrival lounge through the glass doors.

With firm steps Werner Roos went up to the two policemen. Tall, broad-shouldered, suntanned, he was wearing his dark blue uniform. In one hand he held his cap, in the other a black leather bag with broad straps. He had blond hair with long sideburns and a tousled fringe, and his bushy eyebrows frowned threat¬eningly. Thrusting forward his chin he gave them a cold, blue look. 'Well, and what kind of reception committee is this?' he asked.

'District Attorney Olsson would like to have a little talk with you, if you'd be so kind as to accompany us to Kungsholmsgatan...' one of the policemen said.

Roos said: 'Is he mad? I was there only two weeks ago, and I've nothing more to add today to what I said then.'

'Okay, okay,' said the older of the two. 'You'll have to talk to him about that, we're only following instructions.'

Roos shrugged his shoulders in annoyance and started walking towards the exit. When they got to the car he said: 'And you'll damn well have to drive me home to Märsta first, so I can change my clothes. You know the address.' Then he sat down in the back seat with a grim look on his face and his arms crossed over his chest

The younger policeman, who was driving, protested at being ordered about like a cab driver; but his colleague calmed him down and gave him the Märsta address.

Following Roos up to his flat, they waited in the hall while he changed into light grey trousers, a turtleneck sweater, and a suede jacket. Then they drove back to Stockholm and the police station on Kungsholmsgatan, where they escorted him to the room in which Bulldozer Olsson was waiting.

As the door opened Bulldozer sprang up from his chair, dismissed the two plaindothesmen with a wave of his hand, and drew up a chair for Werner Roos. Then, settling down behind the desk, he said cheerfully: 'Well, Mr Roos, and who would have thought we'd meet again so soon!'

'You, I suppose,' said Roos. 'Really it's not my fault I'd like to know what reason you may have for arresting me this time.'

'Oh, don't let's take it all so seriously, Mr Roos. We could say I want a little information from you. At least to start with.'

'I also regard it as unnecessary to send out your henchmen to bring me from my place of work. Besides which I might very well at this moment have had a flight, and I've really no desire to lose my job just because it suddenly amuses you to sit there talking nonsense to me.'

'Don't take it so hard I know you're off duty for forty-eight hours, Mr Roos. Isn't that so? So we've plenty of time, and there's no harm done,' Bulldozer said amiably.

'You can't keep me here for more than six hours,' said Werner Roos, glancing at his watch.

'Twelve, Mr Roos. Even longer, if circumstances demand it'

'In that case would you be so kind, Mr District Attorney, as to tell me what I'm suspected of,' Werner Roos said arrogantly.

Bulldozer extended a pack of Prince cigarettes to Roos, who scornfully shook his head and took a pack of Benson & Hedges out of his pocket He lit his cigarette with a gold-plated Dunhill lighter and waited while Bulldozer Olsson struck a match and lit his own filter cigarette.

'As yet I haven't said I suspect you of anything, Mr Roos,' he said, pushing forward the ashtray. 'It was merely my intention we should have a little talk about this job of last Friday.'

'Job? What job?' said Werner Roos, pretending to look mysti¬fied.

'At that bank on Hornsgatan. A successful job, in so far as ninety thousand is a tidy sum, but less successful at least for the bank customer who unfortunately got shot,' said Bulldozer Olsson dryly.

Werner Roos stared at him in amazement. Slowly he shook his head. 'Now you're really out on a limb,' he said. 'Last Friday, did you say?'

'Exactly,' said Bulldozer. 'At which time you, Mr Roos, were of course on your travels. Flying, I should say. Where were we last Friday, then?' Bulldozer Olsson leaned back in his chair and looked at Werner Roos in amusement

'Where you were last Friday, Mr Olsson, I do not know. For my part I was in Lisbon. You're welcome to check with the airline. We landed in Lisbon at 14.45 hours, after being delayed ten minutes. At 9.10 on Saturday morning we took off and arrived at Arlanda at 15.30. Last Friday I had dinner and slept at the Hotel Tivoli, another fact you're welcome to check up on.' Werner Roos, too, sat back in his chair and looked triumphantly at Bulldozer, who was beaming with delight.

'Pretty!' he said. 'A very pretty alibi indeed, Mr Roos.' Leaning forward, he stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and went on mali¬ciously: 'But surely Messrs. Malmström and Mohrén weren't in Lisbon, were they?'

'What the hell should they be in Lisbon for? Anyway, it isn't my business to keep track of what Malmström and Mohrén may be up to.'

'Isn't it, Mr Roos?'

'No, as I've told you many times before. And as far as this job of last Friday is concerned, I haven't even had time to read the Swedish newspapers these last few days, so I know nothing what¬ever about any bank robbery.'