The Man Who Went Up in Smoke

‘Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about? Hangovers?’

‘About Alf Matsson,’ said Martin Beck. ‘You're good friends, aren't you?’

It still didn't sound quite right and he tried to improve on it by saying, ‘Buddies, aren't you?’

‘Of course. What's up with him? Does he owe you money?’

Molin looked suspiciously and haughtily at Martin Beck.

‘Well then, I'd first like to point out that I'm not any kind of collection agency.’

Clearly, he would have to watch his tongue. Moreover, the man was a journalist.

‘No, nothing like that at all,’ said Martin Beck.

‘Then what do you want Alfie for?’

‘Alfie and I've known each other for a long time. We worked on the same … well, we were on the same job together a number of years ago. I met him quite by chance a few weeks ago and he promised to do a job for me, and then I never heard another word from him. He talked about you quite a bit, so I thought perhaps you'd know where he was.’

Somewhat exhausted by this strenuous oratorical effort, Martin Beck took a deep gulp of his beer. The other man followed suit.

‘Oh, hell. You're an old pal of Alfie's, are you? The fact is that I've been wondering where he was too. But I suppose he's stayed on in Hungary. He's not in town, anyhow. Or we'd have seen him here.’

‘In Hungary? What's he doing there?’

‘On some trip for that gossip sheet he works for. But he should really be home by now. When he left, he said he was only going to be away for two or three days.’

‘Did you see him before he left?’

‘Yes indeed. The night before. We were here in the daytime and then went to a couple of other places in the evening.’

‘You and him?’

‘Yes, and some of the others. I don't really remember who. Per Kronkvist and Stig Lund were there, I think. We got really stoned. Yes, Åke and Pia were there too. Don't you know Åke, by the way?’

Martin Beck thought. It seemed somewhat pointless.

‘Åke? I don't know. Which Åke?’

‘Åke Gunnarsson,’ said Molin, turning around towards the table where he had been sitting before. Two of the men had left during their conversation. The two remaining were sitting silently over their beers.

‘He's sitting over there,’ said Molin. ‘The guy with the beard.’

One of the beards had gone, so there was no doubt which of them was Gunnarsson. The man looked quite pleasant.

‘No,’ said Martin Beck. ‘I don't think I know him. Where does he work?’

Molin gave the name of a publication that Martin Beck had never heard of, but it sounded like some kind of auto magazine.

‘Åke's all right. He got pretty high that night too, if I remember rightly. Otherwise, he doesn't get really drunk very often. No matter how much he pours into himself’

‘Haven't you seen Alfie since then?’

‘That's a hell of a lot of questions you're asking. Aren't you going to ask me how I am too?’

‘Of course. How are you?’

‘Absolutely god-damned awful. Hangover. Damned bad one, too.’

Molin's fat face grew gloomy. As if to obliterate the last shreds of the pleasures of living, he drank the remains of his beer in one huge gulp. He took out his handkerchief, and with a brooding look in his eyes, mopped his foamy moustache.

‘They ought to serve beer in moustache cups,’ he said. ‘There isn't much service left these days.’

After a brief pause he said, ‘No, I haven't seen Alfie since he left. The last I saw of him was when he was pouring his drink over some gal in the Opera House bar. Then he went to Budapest the next morning. Poor devil, having to sit up flying right across half of Europe with a hangover like that. Hope he didn't fly Scandinavian Airlines anyhow.’

‘And you've not heard anything from him since then?’

‘We don't usually write letters when we're on overseas trips,’ said Molin haughtily. ‘What the hell kind of a rag do you work for, anyhow? The Kiddy Krib? Well, what about another round?’

Half an hour and two more rounds later, Martin Beck managed to escape from Mr Molin, after having first lent him ten kronor. As he left, he heard the man's voice behind him, ‘Fia, old thing, get me a round, will you?’

7 (#ulink_14e4741a-8931-5d8f-b700-da140cb79b77)

The plane was an Ilyushin 18 turboprop from Czechoslovak Airlines. It rose in a steep arc over Copenhagen and Saltholm, and an Öresund that glittered in the sun.

Martin Beck sat by the window and looked down at Ven Island below, with Backafall Cliffs, the church and the little harbour. He had just had time to see a tugboat rounding the harbour pier before the plane turned south.

He liked travelling, but this time disappointment over his spoiled holiday overshadowed most of his pleasure. Moreover, his wife had not seemed to understand at all that his own choice in the matter had not been very great. He had called the evening before and tried to explain, but had not been particularly successful.

‘You don't care a bit about me or the children,’ she had said.

And a moment later:

‘There must be other policemen besides you. Do you have to take on every assignment?’

He had tried to convince her that he would in fact have preferred to go out to the island, but she had gone on being unreasonable. In addition, she had demonstrated varied evidence of faulty logic.

‘So you're going to Budapest to enjoy yourself while the children and I are stuck by ourselves out on this island.’

‘I am not going for fun.’

‘Hmm-mph.’

In the end she had put down the receiver in the middle of a sentence. He knew she would calm down eventually, but he had not attempted to call again.

Now, at an altitude of 16,000 feet, he tipped his seat back, lit a cigarette and let his thoughts of the island and his family sink into the back of his mind.

During their stopover at Schönefeld airport in East Berlin, he drank a beer in the transit lounge. He noted that the beer was called Radeberger. It was excellent beer, but he didn't think he would have cause to remember the name. The waiter entertained him in Berlin German. He did not understand very much of it and wondered gloomily how he was going to manage in the future.