The Man Who Went Up in Smoke. Val McDermid

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СКАЧАТЬ hands. Martin Beck could not yet see the pattern. He massaged the bridge of his nose thoughtfully.

      ‘I'm afraid I don't really understand,’ he said. ‘Why didn't the editors report the matter in the ordinary way?’

      ‘You'll see why in a moment. The editor in chief and responsible publisher of the magazine – the same person, in fact – did not want to report the matter to the police or demand an official investigation because then the case would become known at once and would get into the rest of the press. Matsson is the magazine's own correspondent, and he has disappeared on a reporting trip abroad, so – rightly or wrongly – the magazine regards this as its own news. The editor in chief did seem rather worried about Matsson, but on the other hand, he made no bones about the fact that he smelled a scoop, as they say, news of the calibre that increases a publication's circulation by perhaps a hundred thousand copies just like that. If you know anything about the general line this magazine takes, then you ought to know … Well, anyhow, one of its correspondents has disappeared and the fact that he's done it in Hungary, of all places, doesn't make it any worse news.’

      ‘Behind the Iron Curtain,’ said the red-haired man gravely.

      ‘We don't use expressions like that,’ said the other man. ‘Well, I hope you realize what all this means. If the case is reported and gets into the papers, that's bad enough – even if the story retained some kind of reasonable proportions and did get a relatively factual treatment. But if the magazine keeps everything to itself and uses it for its own, opinion-leading purpose, then heaven only knows what… Well, anyhow it would damage important relations, which both we and other people have spent a long time and a good deal of effort building up. The magazine's editor had a copy of a completed article with him when he was here on Monday. We had the dubious pleasure of reading it. If it's published, it would mean absolute disaster in some respects. And they were actually intending to publish it in this week's issue. We had to use all our powers of persuasion and appeal to every conceivable ethical standard to put a stop to its publication. The whole thing ended with the editor in chief delivering an ultimatum. If Matsson has not made his presence known of his own accord or if we haven't found him before the end of next week … well, then sparks are going to fly.’

      Martin Beck massaged the roots of his hair.

      ‘I suppose the magazine is making its own investigations,’ he said.

      The official looked absently at his superior, who was now puffing away furiously on his pipe.

      ‘I got the impression that the magazine's efforts in that direction were somewhat modest. That their activities in this particular respect had been put on ice until further notice. For that matter, they haven't the slightest idea as to where Matsson is.’

      ‘The man does undoubtedly seem to have disappeared,’ said Martin Beck.

      ‘Yes, exactly. It's very worrying.’

      ‘But he can't have just gone up in smoke,’ said the red-haired man.

      Martin Beck rested one elbow on the edge of the table, clenched his fist and pressed his knuckles against the bridge of his nose. The steamer and the island and the jetty became more and more distant and diffuse in his mind.

      ‘Where do I come into the picture?’ he said.

      ‘That was our idea, but naturally we didn't know it would be you personally. We can't investigate all this, least of all in ten days. Whatever's happened, if the man for some reason is keeping under cover, if he's committed suicide, if he's had an accident or … something else, then it's a police matter. I mean, insofar as the job can be done only by a professional. So, quite unofficially, we contacted the police at top level. Someone seems to have recommended you. Now it's largely a matter of whether you will take on the case. The fact that you've come here at all indicates that you can be released from your other duties, I suppose.’

      Martin Beck suppressed a laugh. Both officials looked at him sternly. Presumably they found his behaviour inappropriate.

      ‘Yes, I can probably be released,’ he said, thinking about his nets and the rowing boat. ‘But exactly what do you think I'd be able to do?’

      The official shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘Go down there, I suppose. Find him. You can go tomorrow morning if you like. Everything is arranged, by way of our channels. You'll be temporarily transferred to our payroll, but you've no official assignment. Naturally we'll help you in every possible way. For example, if you want to you can make contact with the police down there – or otherwise not. And as I said, you can leave tomorrow.’

      Martin Beck thought about it.

      ‘The day after tomorrow, in that case.’

      ‘That's all right too.’

      ‘I'll let you know this afternoon.’

      ‘Don't think about it too long, though.’

      ‘I'll phone in about an hour. Good-bye.’

      The red-haired man rushed up and round his desk. He thumped Martin Beck on the back with his left hand and shook hands with his right.

      ‘Well, good-bye then. Good-bye, Martin. And do what you can. This is important.’

      ‘It really is,’ said the other man.

      ‘Yes,’ said the redhead, ‘we might have another Wallenberg affair on our hands.’

      ‘That was the word we were told not to mention,’ said the other man in weary despair.

      Martin Beck nodded and left.

       4

      ‘Are you going out there?’ said Hammar.

      ‘Don't know yet. I don't even know the language.’

      ‘Neither does anyone else on the force. You can be quite sure we checked. Anyhow, they say you can get by with German and English.’

      ‘Odd story.’

      ‘Stupid story,’ said Hammar. ‘But I know something that those people at the FO don't know. We've got a dossier on him.’

      ‘Alf Matsson?’

      ‘Yes. The Third Section had it. In the secret files.’

      ‘Counter-Espionage?’

      ‘Exactly. The Security Division. An investigation was made on this guy three months ago.’

      There was a deafening thumping on the door and Kollberg thrust his head in. He stared at Martin Beck in astonishment.

      ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘Having my holiday.’

      ‘What's all this hush-hush you're up to? Shall I go away? As quietly as I came, without anybody noticing?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Hammar. ‘No, don't. I'm tired of hush-hush. Come in and shut the door.’

      He СКАЧАТЬ