The Locked Room

‘He had shot himself through the heart. The bullet was still lodged in the thorax.’

‘Had the bullet hit the heart?’

‘Come very close, anyway. The main injury was to the aorta.’ She paused briefly, then added a trifle acidly: ‘Do I express myself comprehensibly?’

‘Sure.’ Martin Beck formulated his next question carefully. ‘Have you an extensive experience of bullet wounds?’

‘Enough, I reckon. Anyway this case presents hardly any complications.’ How many autopsies might she have carried out on victims of bullet wounds in her life? Three? Two? Or maybe only one?

The doctor, intuiting perhaps his unvoiced doubts, explained: ‘I worked in Jordan during the civil war, two years ago. No shortage of bullet wounds there.’

‘But presumably not so many suicides.’

‘No, not quite.’

‘Well, it just so happens,’ Martin Beck said, ‘that few suicide cases aim at their hearts. Most shoot themselves through the mouth, some through the temple.’

‘That may be. But this guy was far from being my first. When I was doing psychology I was taught that suicides – especially the romantics among them – have a deep-rooted instinct to aim at their hearts. Apparently it's a widespread tendency.’

‘How long do you think Svärd could have survived with this bullet wound?’

‘Not long. One minute, maybe two or three. The internal haemorrhage was extensive. At a guess, I'd say a minute. But the margins are still very small. Does it matter?’

‘Maybe not. But there's something else that interests me. You examined the remains on twentieth June?’

‘Yes, that's correct.’

‘How long do you think the man had been dead by then?’

‘Mmm …’

‘On this point your report is vague.’

‘As a matter of fact it's not easy to say. Maybe a more experienced pathologist than myself could have given you a more exact answer.’

‘But what do you think?’

‘At least two months, but …’

‘But?’

‘But it depends what things were like at the scene of death. Warmth and damp air make a big difference. It could be less, for example, if the body was exposed to great heat. On the other hand, if disintegration was extensive, I mean …’

‘And the actual entrance wound?’

‘This business of the disintegration of the tissues makes that a difficult question, too.’

‘Was the gun fired in contact with the body?’

‘Not in my view. But I could be wrong, I must stress that.’

‘What is your view, then?’

‘That he shot himself the other way. After all, there are two classic ways, aren't there?’

‘Indeed,’ said Martin Beck. ‘That's correct.’

‘Either one presses the barrel against one's body and fires, or else one holds one's arm with the pistol or whatever it is stretched right out, with the weapon reversed. In which case I suppose one has to pull the trigger with one's thumb.’

‘Precisely And so that's what you think happened?’

‘Yes. But with every reservation imaginable. It's really very hard to be sure a gun was pressed against a body which had changed so.’

‘I get you.’

‘Then it's only me who doesn't understand a thing,’ the girl said lightly. ‘Why are you asking all these questions? Is it so important which way he shot himself?’

‘Yes, it seems so. Svärd was found dead at home in his flat, with all the windows and doors closed from inside. He was lying beside an electric radiator.’

‘That could explain the advanced putrefaction,’ she said. ‘In that case a month could be enough.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. And that could also explain why it's hard to find any powder burns from a point-blank shot.’

‘I see,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Oh, that's nothing. If there's anything else I can explain, please call back.’

‘Good-bye.’ He put down the receiver. She was an old hand at explanations. Soon there'd only be one thing left to explain. But that was still more bewildering. Svärd could not possibly have committed suicide. To shoot yourself without a gun – that's not easy.

And in the flat on Bergsgatan there'd been no weapon.

7 (#ulink_8b191435-1a8e-5bc7-b00d-30d06567d711)

Martin Beck went on with his phoning. He tried to get hold of the original radio patrol that had been summoned to Bergsgatan, but neither of the two officers, it seemed, were on duty. After some calling around it transpired that one was on holiday and the other absent from duty to give evidence in a district court case. Gunvald Larsson was busy with meetings, and Einar Rönn had gone out on a call.

It was a long while before Martin Beck succeeded in contacting the detective sergeant who had finally sent the case on to Homicide. This hadn't happened till Monday the 26th, and Martin Beck found it imperative to ask him a question: ‘Is it true the autopsy report came in as early as that Wednesday?’

The man's voice wavered noticeably as he answered: ‘I can't really say for sure. Anyhow I didn't read it personally until that Friday.’

Martin Beck said nothing. He waited for some kind of explanation. It came:

‘In this precinct we're hardly up to half strength. There wasn't a chance of clearing up any but the most urgent matters. The papers just pile up on us. It's getting worse every day.’

‘So – no one had looked at the autopsy report before that?’

‘Yes, our commissioner here. And on Friday morning he asked me who'd taken care of the gun.’