The Abominable Man (19 page)

Kurt Kvant fell at right angles on top of his partner. He didn’t make a sound. Kristiansson had had time to see the exit wound made by the first bullet as it emerged neatly halfway between Kvant’s Adam’s apple and his collar. Then he felt the weight of Kvant’s body across his own hips, and then he passed out, from pain, and fear, and loss of blood. They lay in a cross on the spruce branches, one of them unconscious and the other one dead.

“God damn,” said Gunvald Larsson. “God damn it to hell!”

Kollberg was seized by a strong sense of unreality.

He had been waiting for something to happen. Now something was happening, but it was as if it were taking place in another dimension from the one where he himself still lived and moved.

Something else happened. Someone moved, walked into the magic flagstone square. A little boy with a moss-green quilted jacket, blotchy jeans in various shades of blue, and green galoshes with reflecting tape. Blond curly hair. He couldn’t have been more than five. The boy walked slowly and hesitantly toward the fountain.

Kollberg felt the quivering in his body, the automatic physical preparation for rushing out of the doorway and picking up the child in his arms. Gunvald Larsson noticed it too, and without taking his eyes from the macabre scene before them, he put his large bloody hand on Kollberg’s chest.

“Wait,” he said.

The boy stood by the edge of the basin and stared
down at the crossed bodies. Then he stuck his left thumb in his mouth, put his right hand to his left ear, and burst into tears.

Stood for a moment with the tears trickling down his plump cheeks, his head on one side. Turned suddenly and ran back the way he’d come. Across the sidewalk and the street. Out of the flagstone quadrangle. Back to the land of the living.

No one shot at him.

Gunvald Larsson looked at his watch.

Twelve twelve and twenty-seven.

“Two minutes and twenty-seven seconds,” he said to himself.

And Kollberg thought, by association but a little oddly: Two minutes and twenty-seven seconds, not generally thought to be a very long time. But in certain contexts it could mean a lot. A good Swedish sprinter, Björn Malmroos for example, could theoretically run the hundred meters fourteen times. That’s a lot.

Two patrolmen shot, one of them already dead for sure. In all probability the other one too.

Gunvald Larsson a quarter of an inch from death. Two inches himself.

And then the little boy in the moss-green jacket.

That’s also a lot.

Lennart Kollberg looked at his own watch. It already said twenty past.

In certain other respects he was a perfectionist, but in some circumstances he simply didn’t make it.

On the other hand, it was an Exakta, a Russian watch, and he’d bought it for sixty-three crowns. It had been running nicely for over three years, and if you set it and wound it at regular intervals it even told the time.

Gunvald Larsson’s chronometer had cost 1,500 crowns.

Kollberg lifted his hands, looked at them, and cupped them around his mouth.

“Hello! Hello!” he roared. “Anyone who can hear me! The area is dangerous! Take cover!”

He took a deep breath and started again.

“Attention! This is the police! The area is dangerous! Take cover!”

Gunvald Larsson turned his head and looked at him. The expression in his china-blue eyes was peculiar.

Then Gunvald Larsson looked at the door leading into the Institute. It would of course be locked on a Saturday. The entire big stone building was undoubtedly empty. He eased closer to the door and kicked it in with superhuman strength.

It should have been impossible, but he did it. Kollberg followed him into the building. The next door was unlocked and made of glass, but he kicked in that one too. Splinters flew.

They came to a telephone.

Gunvald Larsson picked up the receiver, dialed 90-000 and asked for emergency.

“This is Gunvald Larsson. There’s a madman in the building at Dalagatan thirty-four. He’s shooting from the roof or the top floor with an automatic weapon. There are two dead patrolmen lying in the fountain in front of the Eastman Institute. Alert all the central precincts. Block off Dalagatan and Västmannagatan from Norra Bantorget to Karlbergsvägen, and Odengatan from Odenplan to St. Eriksplan. And all the cross streets in the area west of Västmannagatan and south of Karlbergsvägen. Have you got that? What? Notify command? Yes, notify everybody. But wait a minute. Don’t send any patrol cars to that address. And no one in uniform. We’ll assemble at …”

He lowered the receiver and frowned.

“Odenplan,” said Kollberg.

“Right,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Odenplan’ll be fine. What? I’m inside the Eastman Institute. In a few minutes I’ll go over and try to take him.”

He banged down the receiver and went into the nearest washroom. Wet a towel and wiped the blood off his face. Took another and tied it around his head. Spots of blood appeared immediately on the provisional bandage.

Then he unbuttoned his kid jacket and his coat. And drew his pistol, which he carried clipped to his belt. He examined it grimly, then looked at Kollberg.

“What kind of a weapon you got?”

Kollberg shook his head.

“Oh that’s right,” said Gunvald Larsson. “You’re some sort of a pacifist.”

His pistol, like all his possessions, was not like other people’s. A Smith & Wesson 38 Master, which he’d bought because he didn’t like the standard Swedish police model, the 7.65 mm Walther.

“You know what?” said Gunvald Larsson. “I’ve always thought you were a fucking idiot.”

Kollberg nodded.

“How did you figure we’d get across the street?” he said.

The house in Segeltorp could hardly be called imposing—a little wooden building which, to judge from the architecture, had been built as a summer house at least fifty years before. The original paint was worn clear through to gray wood in places, but it was still apparent
that the house had once been bright yellow with white trim. The fence around the yard, which seemed large in proportion to the house, had been painted Falun red not so very many years ago. As had the handrail on the steps, the outer door and the latticework around a small verandah.

It stood quite some distance above the highway, and since the gate was open Rönn drove up the steep drive all the way to the back of the house.

Martin Beck got out immediately and took several deep breaths while he looked around. He felt a little ill, as he often did when he rode in a car.

The yard was neglected and full of weeds. A partially overgrown path led to an old rusted sundial that looked pathetic and out of place on its cement pedestal surrounded by scrubby bushes.

Rönn slammed the door to the car.

“I’m starting to get a little hungry,” he said. “Think we’ve got time for a quick bite when we’re through here?”

Martin Beck looked at his watch. Rönn was used to eating lunch at this time of day, it was already ten minutes after twelve. Martin Beck was careless about meals himself. He didn’t really like to eat while he was working and preferred having his dinner in the evening.

“Sure,” he said. “Come on, let’s go in.”

They walked around the corner of the house, up the steps and knocked at the door. It was opened immediately by a man in his seventies.

“Come in,” he said.

He stood silently by and looked at them inquiringly as they hung up their coats in the crowded front hall.

“Come in,” he said again, and stood to one side so they could pass.

There were two doors at the other end of the front
hall. One of them led through a short hall to the kitchen. From this second hall, a stairway led up to the second floor or attic. The other door led into the living room. The air inside was damp and stale, and rather dim because of the tall fernlike potted plants that stood in the windowsills and kept out most of the daylight.

“Please sit down,” said the man. “My wife will be right here. With some coffee.”

The room was dominated by a set of peasant-style furniture—a straight-backed pine sofa and four chairs with striped upholstered seats around a large table topped by a massive slab of beautifully veined fir. Martin Beck and Rönn sat down at opposite ends of the sofa. A door stood ajar at the far end of the room, and through it they could see the cracked end of a mahogany bedstead and a wardrobe with oval mirrors on its doors. The man walked over and closed the door before sitting down in one of the chairs on the other side of the table.

He was thin and bent, and the skin on his face and bald head was gray and covered with light brown liver spots. He was wearing a thick handknit sweater over a gray-and-black checked flannel shirt.

“I was just saying to my wife when we heard the car that you gentlemen made very good time. I wasn’t sure my directions were so good on the phone.”

“It wasn’t hard to find,” Rönn said.

“No, that’s right, you’re policemen, so you know your way around—in town and out. Åke got to know the city awfully well from being a policeman.”

He took out a flattened pack of John Silvers and held it out. Martin Beck and Rönn both shook their heads.

“Well, it was to talk about Åke you gentlemen came,” said the man. “Like I told you on the phone, I really don’t know what time he left. Mother and I thought he might stay the night, but he must have gone home instead.
He often stays overnight. It’s his birthday today, so we thought he’d stay and have breakfast in bed.”

“Does he have a car?” Rönn asked.

“Oh yes, he’s got a Volks. Here’s Mother with the coffee.”

He stood up when his wife came in from the kitchen. She was carrying a tray and put it down on the table. Then she dried her hands on her skirt and shook hands with the two guests.

“Mrs. Eriksson,” she said when they stood up and said their names.

She served the coffee and put the tray on the floor, then sat down next to her husband and folded her hands in her lap. She looked to be about the same age as he. Her hair was silver gray, severely permed into small stiff curls, but her round face was almost completely wrinkle-free and the red color in her cheeks didn’t look like makeup. She stared down at her hands, and when she suddenly threw a timid glance at Martin Beck he wondered if she were afraid or simply shy with strangers.

“There are a few questions we’d like to ask you about your son, Mrs. Eriksson,” he said. “If I understood your husband correctly, he was here last night. Do you know what time he left?”

She looked at her husband as if hoping he would answer for her, but he stirred his coffee and said nothing.

“No,” she said hesitantly. “I don’t know. I guess he left after we’d gone to bed.”

“And when was that?”

She looked at her husband again.

“Yes, what time was that, Otto?”

“Ten thirty. Eleven maybe. We usually go to bed earlier, but since Åke was here … I guess it was probably closer to ten thirty.”

“So you didn’t hear him go?”

“No,” the man said. “But why do you want to know? Has anything happened to him?”

“No,” said Martin Beck. “Not as far as we know. This is just routine. Tell me, what’s your son doing these days?”

The woman had gone back to staring at her hands, and her husband answered.

“He’s still repairing elevators. It’s a year now since he started that.”

“And before that?”

“Oh, he did a little of everything. He was with a plumbing firm for a while, and then he used to drive a taxi, and he’s been a night watchman, and just before he went to work for this elevator company he drove a truck. That was while he was training for this new thing, this elevator thing.”

“When he was here last night,” said Martin Beck, “did he seem himself? What did he talk about?”

The man didn’t answer right away, and the woman took a cookie and started breaking it into small pieces on her plate.

“I guess he was pretty much like always,” said the man finally. “He didn’t say much, but he never does any more. I guess he was worried about the rent, and then this business with Malin.”

“Malin?” said Rönn.

“Yes, his little girl. They took his little girl away. And now he’s going to lose his apartment too.”

“Excuse me,” said Martin Beck. “I don’t quite understand. Who took his daughter away from him? I assume it’s his daughter you mean?”

“Yes, Malin,” said the man, and patted his wife on the arm. “She was named after my mother. I thought you knew that. That the Child Welfare Board took Malin away from Åke.”

“Why?” asked Martin Beck.

“Why did the police murder his wife?”

“Please answer the question,” said Martin Beck. “Why did they take the child away from him?”

“Oh they’ve tried before, and now they finally managed to get some sort of paper that says he can’t take care of her. We offered to take her here, of course, but we’re too old they said. And this house isn’t good enough.”

The woman looked at Martin Beck, but when he met her glance she looked quickly down into her coffee cup. And then she spoke up, quietly but indignantly.

“As if it was better for her to live with strangers. And anyway this is better than in the city.”

“You’ve taken care of your granddaughter before, haven’t you?”

“Yes, many times,” the woman said. “There’s a room in the attic where she can stay when she’s here. Åke’s old room.”

“The kinds of jobs Åke’s had, he couldn’t always take care of her,” the man said. “They thought he was unstable, whatever that means. That he couldn’t hold a job, I think that’s what they meant. That’s not so easy these days. Unemployment just gets worse and worse all the time. But he’s always been so good to Malin.”

“When did all this happen?” asked Martin Beck.

“With Malin? They came and got her the day before yesterday.”

“Was he very upset about it last night?” Rönn asked.

“Yes, I guess he was, though he didn’t say much about it. Then there was this thing about the rent too, but there’s no way we can help him with our little pension.”

“Couldn’t he pay his rent?”

“No. And now they’re about to evict him, he said.
With rents so high it’s a wonder people can afford to live anyplace.”