The Fire Engine That Disappeared

P: Mr Malm, you’ve worked with cars quite a bit, haven’t you? You were a car sprayer, you said. Isn’t it strange that you didn’t notice what make of car your friend had? Wouldn’t you have noticed if he had changed his car?

M: No, I didn’t think about it. Anyhow, I never saw much of his car.

P: Mr Malm, wasn’t it in fact so that you were going to help Olofsson sell that car?

M: No.

P: But you knew that Olofsson traded in stolen cars, didn’t you?

M: No, I didn’t know that.

P: No more questions.

Martin Beck switched off the tape recorder.

‘Unusually polite prosecutor,’ said Kollberg, yawning.

‘Yes,’ said Rönn, ‘and ineffective.’

‘Yes,’ said Martin Beck. ‘So then they let Malm go and Gunvald undertook to watch him. They hoped to get at Olofsson through Malm. It’s very probable that Malm worked for Olofsson, but taking Malm’s standard of living into consideration, he can’t have got much for his pains.’

‘He was a car sprayer too,’ said Kollberg. ‘People like that are useful when you’re handling stolen cars.’

Martin Beck nodded.

‘This Olofsson,’ said Rönn. ‘Can’t we get hold of him?’

‘No, he’s still not been traced,’ said Martin Beck. ‘It’s highly possible that Malm was telling the truth during his interrogation when he said that Olofsson had gone abroad. He’ll appear, no doubt.’

Kollberg thumped his fist irritably on the arm of his chair.

‘I just don’t understand that Larsson fellow,’ he said, glancing sideways at Rönn. ‘I mean, how can he maintain he didn’t know why he was watching Malm?’

‘He didn’t need to know, did he?’ Rönn asked. ‘Don’t start knocking Gunvald again now.’

‘For Christ’s sake, he must have known that he had to keep his eyes open for Olofsson. Otherwise there wasn’t much point in tailing Malm.’

‘Yes,’ said Rönn tranquilly. ‘You’ll have to ask him when he’s better, won’t you?’

‘Huh,’ said Kollberg.

He stretched himself so that the seams of his jacket creaked.

‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘That car business is not our headache, at any rate. And thank God for that.’

7 (#ulink_cc095093-3b68-5764-9cfd-e4b7190e4882)

On Monday afternoon, it looked as if Benny Skacke, for the first time in his life in his capacity as a member of the Murder Squad, would have to solve a murder on his own.

Or at least a case of manslaughter.

He was sitting in his office at the South police station, busy with a task set for him by Kollberg before going to Kungsholms gatan. That is, he was listening for the telephone and was sorting reports into different files. This sorting process was slow, for he read carefully through every report before filing it. Benny Skacke was ambitious and painfully conscious of the fact that even if he had learned everything there was to learn about investigation into murder at the police training college, he had not really had any opportunity of putting his knowledge into practice. In expectation of a chance of showing his hidden talents in this field, he tried in every way to acquire a share in his older colleagues’ experiences. One of his methods was to listen in on their conversations as often as possible, something which was already driving Kollberg crazy. Another was to read old reports, which he was in the act of doing when the telephone rang.

It was a man on the reception desk in the same building.

‘I’ve a guy here who says he wants to report a crime,’ he said, somewhat nonplussed. ‘Shall I send him up, or—’

‘Yes, do that,’ said Assistant Inspector Skacke immediately.

He replaced the receiver and went out into the corridor to let in his visitor. Meanwhile he wondered what the man in reception had been about to say when he was interrupted. Or? Perhaps—‘or shall I tell him to go to the proper police?’ Skacke was a sensitive young man.

His visitor came slowly and unsteadily up the stairs. Benny Skacke opened the glass doors for him and involuntarily fell back a step at the acrid smell of sweat, urine and stale alcohol. He went ahead of the man into his office and offered him the chair in front of his desk. The man did not sit down at once, but remained standing until Skacke himself had sat down.

Skacke studied the man in the chair. He looked between fifty and fifty-five, was scarcely more than four feet five inches and very thin, weighing not more than about seven stone. He had thin, ash-blond hair and faded blue eyes. His cheeks and nose were covered with red veins. His hands were trembling and a muscle in his left eye was twitching. His brown suit was spotted and shiny and the machine-knitted vest under his jacket had been darned with wool of another colour. The man smelled of alcohol but did not appear to be drunk.

‘Well, you want to report something? What’s it about?’

The man looked down at his hands. He was nervously rolling a cigarette end between his fingers.

‘Do smoke if you want to,’ said Skacke, pushing a box of matches across the desk.

The man picked up the box, lit his dog-end, coughed drily and hoarsely and raised his eyes.

‘I’ve killed the missus,’ he said.

Benny Skacke stretched out his hand for his notepad and said in a voice which he considered calm and authoritative:

‘Oh, yes. Where?’

He wished that Martin Beck or Kollberg had been there.

‘On the head.’

‘No, I didn’t mean that. Where is she now?’

‘Oh. At home. Number 11 Dansbanevägen.’

‘What’s your name?’ asked Skacke.

‘Gottfridsson.’

Benny Skacke wrote the name down on the pad and leaned forward with his forearms resting on the desk.

‘Can you tell me how it happened, Mr Gottfridsson?’

The man called Gottfridsson chewed his lower lip.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Well, I went home and she began nagging and going on at me. I was tired and couldn’t be bothered to answer back so I told her to shut up, but she just went on and on. Then I saw red and took her by the throat and she began to kick and yell and so I bashed her over the head several times. Then she fell down and after a while I got scared and tried to bring her round but she just lay there on the floor.’