Murder at the Savoy. Arne Dahl

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СКАЧАТЬ had this person tried to remain on deck for as long as possible?

      Perhaps to throw something into the water.

      In that case, what?

      The weapon.

      If, in fact, the same person was involved. If, in which case, he wanted to get rid of the weapon.

      If, in fact, the man in question hadn't been afraid of becoming seasick and had therefore preferred the fresh air.

      ‘If, if, if,’ Månsson mumbled to himself and broke his last toothpick between his teeth.

      It was an abominable day. In the first place, the heat, which was next to unbearable when you were forced to sit indoors. Moreover, inside the windows, you were completely unprotected from the blazing afternoon sun. In the second place, this passive waiting. Waiting for information, waiting for witnesses who had to exist but didn't get in touch.

      The examination of the scene of the crime was going badly. Hundreds of fingerprints had been found, but there was no reason to assume that any of them belonged to the man who had shot Viktor Palmgren. They'd placed their greatest hopes on the window, but the few prints on the glass were much too blurred to be identified.

      Backlund was most irritated by not being able to find the empty shell.

      He called several times about that.

      ‘I don't understand where it could have gone,’ he said with annoyance.

      Månsson thought that the answer to that question was so simple that even Backlund should have been able to work it out. So he said with mild irony, ‘Let me know if you have a theory.’

      They couldn't find any footprints, either. Quite naturally, since so many people had tramped around in the dining room, and also because it's next to impossible to find any usable impressions on wall-to-wall carpeting. Outside the window the man had stepped into a window box before hopping down on to the pavement. To the great detriment of the flowers, but offering scarcely any information to the forensic technicians.

      ‘This dinner,’ Skacke said.

      ‘Yes, what about it?’

      ‘It seems to have been some sort of business meeting rather than a private gathering.’

      ‘Maybe so,’ Månsson said. ‘Do you have the list of the people who were seated at the table?’

      ‘It's right here.’

      They studied it together.

       Viktor Palmgren, executive, Malmö, 56 Charlotte Palmgren, housewife, Malmö, 32 Hampus Broberg, district manager, Stockholm, 43 Helena Hansson, executive secretary, Stockholm, 26 Ole Hoff-Jensen, district manager, Copenhagen, 48 Birthe Hoff-Jensen, housewife, Copenhagen, 43 Mats Linder, vice-president, Malmö, 30

      ‘All of them must work for Palmgren's companies,’ said Månsson.

      ‘It looks like it,’ said Skacke. ‘They'll have to be questioned thoroughly once more, of course.’

      Månsson sighed and thought about the geographical distribution. The Jensen couple had already returned to Denmark the previous evening. Hampus Broberg and Helena Hansson had taken the morning flight to Stockholm, and Charlotte Palmgren was at her husband's bedside at the clinic in Lund. Only Mats Linder was still in Malmö. And they couldn't even be really sure of that. As Palmgren's second in command, he travelled a lot.

      Thus the day's misfortunes seemed to culminate in the news of death, which reached them at a quarter to eight and which at once transformed the case into murder.

      But it was to get worse.

      It was ten-thirty and they sat drinking coffee, hollow-eyed and weary. The telephone rang and Månsson answered.

      ‘Yes, this is Detective Inspector Månsson.’

      And immediately afterwards:

      ‘I see.’

      He repeated the phrase three times before he said goodbye and hung up.

      He looked at Skacke and said, ‘This isn't our case any more. They're sending a man down from the National Murder Squad.’

      ‘Not Kollberg,’ Skacke said anxiously.

      ‘No, it'll be the one and only Beck. He's coming tomorrow morning.’

      ‘What'll we do now?’

      ‘Go home to bed,’ said Månsson and stood up.

       6

      When the plane from Stockholm landed at Bulltofta, Martin Beck didn't feel very well.

      He'd always had a distinct aversion to flying, and inasmuch as this Friday morning he was also suffering from the effects of the party the night before, the trip had been particularly unpleasant.

      The hot, heavy air struck him when he came out of the relatively cool cabin, and he began to sweat even before he'd finished walking down the steps. The tarmac felt soft under his shoe soles as he walked towards the domestic arrivals building.

      The air in the taxi was sweltering despite the open window, and the imitation leather covering on the back seat felt red-hot through the thin cloth of his shirt.

      He knew that Månsson was waiting for him at the police station, but he decided to go to the hotel first to shower and change. This time he had reserved a room not at the St Jörgen's, as he usually did, but at the Savoy.

      The doorman greeted him so exuberantly that for an instant Martin Beck suspected that he was being confused with a long-lost guest of great importance.

      The room was airy and cool, facing north. From the window he could see the canal and the railway station and beyond the harbour and Kockum's wharf, a white hydrofoil, which was just disappearing into the pale blue haze on its way over the Sound to Copenhagen.

      Martin Beck undressed and walked around the room naked while he unpacked his suitcase. Then he went into the bathroom and took a long, cold shower.

      He put on clean underclothes and a fresh shirt, and when he had finished dressing he noticed that the time on the clock at the train station was twelve exactly. He took a cab to the main police station and walked directly up to Månsson's room.

      Månsson had the windows wide open on to the courtyard, which lay in shadow at this time of day. He was in shirt sleeves, drinking beer while he leafed through a bundle of papers.

      After they had greeted each other, and Martin Beck had taken off his jacket, settled down in the extra armchair and lit a Florida, Månsson handed him the bundle of papers.

      ‘For a start you can take a look at this report. As you'll see, the whole thing was handled badly from the very beginning.’

      Martin Beck read through the papers carefully and now and then put questions to Månsson, СКАЧАТЬ