Murder at the Savoy. Arne Dahl

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СКАЧАТЬ had refused to have anything more to do with the case.

      When Martin Beck had finished reading, he laid the transcripts on the table in front of him and said, ‘It's obvious that we'll have to first concentrate on questioning the witnesses properly. This really hasn't been very productive. What do they mean, anyway, by this curious phrase?’

      He hunted out a piece of paper and read, ‘“The deviation from the correct time of various clocks existent on the scene of the crime at the moment of the commission of the crime …” Does that mean anything?’

      Månsson shrugged.

      ‘That's Backlund,’ he said. ‘You've met Backlund?’

      ‘Oh, him. I see,’ said Martin Beck.

      He had met Backlund. Once. Several years ago. That was enough.

      A car drove into the courtyard and stopped below the window. Then noises were heard, car doors being slammed shut, people running and loud voices shouting something in German.

      Månsson got up slowly and looked out.

      ‘They must have made a clean sweep on Gustav Adolf Square,’ be said, ‘or down by the wharves. We've stepped up surveillance there, but it's mostly teenagers who have a little hash for their own use who get picked up. We seldom get at the big shipments and the really dangerous dealers.’

      ‘Same thing with us.’

      Månsson shut the window and sat down.

      ‘How's Skacke doing?’ Martin Beck asked.

      ‘Fine,’ Månsson said. ‘He's an ambitious boy. Sits at home and studies every night. He does a good job, too, very careful and doesn't do anything rash. He really learned a lesson that time. He was very relieved, by the way, when he heard that you were coming, and not Kollberg.’

      Less than a year before, Benny Skacke had been more or less the direct cause of Kollberg's being stabbed in the stomach by a man that both of them were going to arrest at Arlanda airport.

      ‘Good reinforcement for the football team too, I hear,’ Månsson said.

      ‘Is that so?’ said Martin Beck disinterestedly. ‘What's he doing right now?’

      ‘He's trying to get hold of that man who was sitting alone several tables away from Palmgren's party. His name is Edvardsson, and he's a proofreader for Arbetet. He was too drunk to be questioned last Wednesday, and yesterday we couldn't get hold of him. He was probably at home with a hangover and refused to answer the door.’

      ‘If he was drunk when Palmgren was shot, maybe he's not worth much as a witness,’ Martin Beck said. ‘And when can we question Palmgren's wife?’

      Månsson took a swallow of beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

      ‘This afternoon, I hope. Or tomorrow. Do you want to deal with her?’

      ‘Maybe it'd be better if you did it yourself. You must know more about Palmgren than I do.’

      ‘I doubt it,’ Månsson said. ‘But okay, you're the one to decide. You can talk to Edvardsson, if Skacke gets hold of him. I have a feeling that he's the most important witness so far, despite everything. Would you like a beer? It's warm, I'm afraid.’

      Martin Beck shook his head. He was extremely thirsty, but warm beer didn't appeal to him.

      ‘Why don't we go up to the canteen and have some mineral water instead?’ he said.

      They each drank a bottle of mineral water standing at the bar and then returned to Månsson's room. Benny Skacke was sitting in the extra chair reading something from his notepad. He stood up quickly when they came in, and he and Martin Beck shook hands.

      ‘Well, did you get hold of Edvardsson?’ Månsson asked.

      ‘Yes, eventually. He's at the newspaper right now, but should be home about three o'clock,’ Skacke said.

      He looked at his notes.

      ‘Kamrergatan 2.’

      ‘Call and say that I'll come at three,’ Martin Beck said.

      The building on Kamrergatan seemed to be the first finished in a series of new structures; on the other side of the street were squat, old houses that had been vacated and would soon fall prey to bulldozers to make room for newer and larger blocks of flats.

      Edvardsson lived on the top floor and opened the door soon after Martin Beck had rung the bell. About fifty years old, he had an intelligent face with a prominent nose and deep furrows around his mouth. He squinted at Martin Beck before he threw open the door and said, ‘Superintendent Beck? Come in.’

      Martin Beck preceded him into the room, which was frugally furnished. The walls were covered with book shelves, and on the desk by the window was a typewriter with a half-typed sheet of paper in the platen.

      Edvardsson removed a stack of newspapers from the room's only armchair and said, ‘Please sit down and I'll get something to drink. I have cold beer in the fridge.’

      ‘Beer sounds good,’ Martin Beck said.

      The man went out into the kitchenette and returned with glasses and two bottles of beer.

      ‘Beck's Beer,’ he said. ‘Appropriate, eh?’

      When he had poured the beer into the glasses he sat down on the sofa with one arm over the back.

      Martin Beck took a big swallow of beer, which was cold and good in the oppressive heat. Then he said, ‘Well, you know what my visit is about.’

      Edvardsson nodded and lit a cigarette.

      ‘Yes, about Palmgren. I can't exactly say I regret his passing.’

      ‘Did you know him?’ Martin Beck asked.

      ‘Personally? No, not at all. But you couldn't help but run into him in every possible connection. The impression I had was of a domineering, arrogant man – well, I've never gotten along with that type of person.’

      ‘What does that mean? “That type”?’

      ‘People for whom money means everything and who don't hesitate to use any means to get it.’

      ‘I'd like to hear more about Palmgren later, if you'd like to clarify what you think of him, but first I want to know something else. Did you see the gunman?’

      Edvardsson ran a hand through his hair, which was a bit grizzled and lay in a wave over his forehead.

      ‘I'm afraid I can't be of too much help. I was sitting reading and didn't really react until the fellow was already halfway out of the window. At first I only noticed Palmgren, and then I saw the gunman – but just out of the corner of my eye. He took off very quickly, and when I got around to looking out of the window, he'd disappeared.’

      Martin Beck took a crumpled pack of Floridas from his pocket and lit one.

      ‘Have СКАЧАТЬ