Читать книгу The Fire Engine That Disappeared - Colin Dexter, Simon Brett - Страница 10

On the afternoon of Friday, the eighth of March, Gunvald Larsson was sitting in a room at the police station in Kungsholmsgatan. He was wearing a white polo sweater and a pale grey suit with slanting pockets. Both hands were bandaged and the bandage around his head reminded him very strongly of the popular picture of General von Döbeln during the battle of Jutas in Finland. He also had two bandage patches on his face and neck. Some of his brushed-back fair hair had been singed away, as had his eyebrows, but his clear blue eyes looked just as blank and discontented as ever.

There were several other people in the room.

For instance, Martin Beck and Kollberg, who had been called there from the Murder Squad in Västberga, and Evald Hammar who was their superintendent and until further notice considered responsible for the investigation. Hammar was a large, heavily built man and his thick mane of hair had by now turned almost white in the course of duty. He had already begun to count the days until he retired, and regarded every serious crime of violence as persecution of himself personally.

‘Where are the others?’ asked Martin Beck.

As usual, he was standing to one side, fairly near the door, leaning with his right elbow against a filing cabinet.

‘What others?’ asked Hammar, well aware of the fact that the composition of the investigation team was entirely his affair. He had sufficient influence to be able to second any individual member of the force he wanted and was used to working with.

‘Rönn and Melander,’ said Martin Beck stoically.

‘Rönn is at South Hospital and Melander at the scene of the fire,’ said Hammar shortly.

The evening papers lay spread out over the desk in front of Gunvald Larsson and he was rustling angrily among them with his bandaged hands.

‘Damned hacks,’ he said, shoving one of the papers over towards Martin Beck. ‘Just look at that picture.’

The picture took up three columns and portrayed a young man in a trench coat and a narrow-brimmed hat, a troubled look on his face, standing poking with a stick in the still-smoking ruins of the house in Sköldgatan. Diagonally behind him, in the left-hand corner of the picture, stood Gunvald Larsson, staring foolishly into the camera.

‘You perhaps don’t come out to your best advantage,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Who’s the guy with the walking stick?’

‘His name is Zachrisson. A rookie from the Second District. Absolute idiot. Read the caption.’

Martin Beck read the caption.

The hero of the day, Inspector Gunwald Larsson (r) made a heroic contribution during last night’s fire by saving several people’s lives. Here he can be seen examining the remains of the house, which was totally destroyed.

‘Not only do the blasted bunglers not even know the difference between right and left,’ mumbled Gunvald Larsson, ‘but they…’

He did not say anything more, but Martin Beck knew what he meant, and nodded thoughtfully to himself. The name was spelled wrong too. Gunvald Larsson looked at the picture with distaste and pushed the paper away with his arm.

‘And I look moronic too,’ he said.

‘There are drawbacks to being famous,’ said Martin Beck.

Against his will, Kollberg, who detested Gunvald Larsson, squinted down at the scattered newspapers. All the pictures were equally misleading and every front page was decorated with Gunvald Larsson’s staring eyes underneath glaring headlines.

Heroic deeds and heroes and God knows what else, thought Kollberg, sighing dejectedly. He was sitting hunched up in a chair, fat and flabby, his elbows on the desk.

‘So we find ourselves in the strange position of not knowing what happened?’ said Hammar severely.

‘Not all that strange,’ said Kollberg. ‘I personally hardly ever know what’s happened.’

Hammar looked critically at him and said:

‘I mean we don’t know whether the fire was arson or not.’

‘Why should it be arson?’ asked Kollberg.

‘Optimist,’ said Martin Beck.

‘’Course it was bloody well arson,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘The house blew up practically right in front of my nose.’

‘And are you certain the fire began in this man Malm’s room?’

‘Yes. As good as.’

‘How long had you had the house under observation?’

‘About half an hour. Personally. And before that, that fathead Zachrisson was there. Hell of a lot of questions, by the way.’

Martin Beck massaged the bridge of his nose between his right-hand thumb and forefinger. Then he said:

‘And are you certain no one went in or out during that time?’

‘Yes, I’m damned sure of that. What happened before I went there, I don’t know. Zachrisson said that three people had gone in and no one had come out.’

‘Can one rely on that?’

‘Don’t think so. He seems unusually dumb.’

‘You don’t mean that, do you?’

Gunvald Larsson looked angrily at him and said:

‘What the hell’s all this about anyway? I’m standing there and the miserable house catches fire. Eleven people were trapped inside and I got eight of them out.’

‘Yes, I’ve noticed that,’ said Kollberg, glancing sideways at the newspapers.

‘Is it quite certain that it is a question of only three people killed in the fire?’ Hammar asked.

Martin Beck took some papers out of his inside pocket and studied them. Then he said:

‘It seems so. That man Malm, another called Kenneth Roth who lived above Malm, and then Kristina Modig, who had a room in the attic. She was only fourteen.’

‘Why did she live in the attic?’ asked Hammar.

‘Don’t know,’ said Martin Beck. ‘We’ll have to find that out.’

‘There’s a hell of a lot more we’ve got to find out,’ said Kollberg. ‘We don’t even know that it was just those three who were killed. And also, all that about eleven people is just a supposition, isn’t it, Mr Larsson?’

‘Who were the people who got themselves out, then?’ said Hammar.

‘First of all, they didn’t get themselves out,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘I was the one who got them out. If I hadn’t happened to have been standing there, not a damned one of them would have got clear. And second, I didn’t write down their names. I had other things to do at the time.’

Martin Beck looked thoughtfully at the big man in bandages. Gunvald Larsson often behaved badly, but to be offensive to Hammar must be due to either megalomania or a stroke. Hammar frowned.

Martin Beck shuffled through his papers and said as a diversion:

‘I’ve at least got the names here. Agnes and Herman Söderberg. They are married, sixty-eight and sixty-seven years old. Anna-Kajsa Modig and her two children, Kent and Clary. The mother is thirty, the boy five and the girl seven months. Then two women, Clara Berggren and Madeleine Olsen, sixteen and twenty-four, and a guy called Max Karlsson. How old he is, I don’t know. The last three didn’t live in the house, but were there as guests. Probably at Kenneth Roth’s, the one who was killed in the fire.’

‘None of those names means anything to me,’ said Hammar.

‘Nor me,’ said Martin Beck.

Kollberg shrugged his shoulders.

‘Roth was a thief,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘And Söderberg a drunk and Anna-Kajsa Modig a whore. If that makes you any happier.’

A telephone rang and Kollberg answered. He pulled a notepad towards him and took a ballpoint pen out of his pocket.

‘Oh, yes, it’s you is it? Yes, get going.’

The others watched him in silence. Kollberg put down the receiver and said:

‘That was Rönn. This is the position: Madeleine Olsen probably won’t survive. She’s got eighty per cent burns plus concussion and a multiple fracture of the femur.’

‘She was red-haired all over,’ said Gunvald Larsson.

Kollberg looked sharply at him and went on:

‘Old man Söderberg and his wife are suffering smoke poisoning, but their chances are passable. Max Karlsson has thirty per cent burns and will live. Carla Berggren and Anna-Kajsa Modig are physically uninjured, but both are suffering from severe shock, as is Karlsson. None of them is fit to be interrogated. Only the two kids are perfectly all right.’

‘So it might be an ordinary fire, then,’ said Hammar.

‘Balls,’ said Gunvald Larsson.

‘Shouldn’t you go home to bed?’ said Martin Beck.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, eh?’

Ten minutes later, Rönn himself appeared. He goggled at Larsson in astonishment and said:

‘What in the world are you doing here?’

‘You may well ask,’ said Gunvald Larsson.

Rönn looked reproachfully at the others.

‘Have you lost your minds?’ he said. ‘Come on, Gunvald, let’s go.’

Gunvald rose obediently and walked over to the door.

‘One moment,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Just one question. Why were you shadowing Göran Malm?’

‘Haven’t the slightest idea,’ said Gunvald Larsson, and left.

An astonished silence reigned.

A few minutes later, Hammar grunted something incomprehensible and left the room. Martin Beck sat down, picked up a newspaper and began reading it. Thirty seconds later, Kollberg followed his example. They sat like this, in sullen silence, until Rönn returned.

‘What did you do with him?’ said Kollberg. ‘Take him to the zoo?’

‘What d’you mean,’ said Rönn, ‘do with him? Who?’

‘Mr Larsson,’ said Kollberg.

‘If you mean Gunvald, he’s in South Hospital with concussion. He is not allowed to speak or read for several days. And whose fault is that?’

‘Well, not mine,’ said Kollberg.

‘Yes, that’s just what it is. I’ve a damned good mind to punch you.’

‘Don’t stand there yelling at me,’ said Kollberg.

‘I can do better than that,’ said Rönn. ‘You’ve always behaved like a clod to Gunvald. But this just takes the biscuit.’

Einar Rönn was from Norrland, a calm, good-natured man, who never normally lost his temper. During their fifteen-year acquaintanceship, Martin Beck had never before seen him angry.

‘Oh, well, then, it’s just as well he’s got one mate, anyhow,’ said Kollberg, sarcastically.

Rönn took a step towards him, clenching his fists. Martin Beck rose swiftly and stood between them, turning to Kollberg and saying:

‘Stop it now, Lennart. Don’t make things any worse.’

‘You’re not much better yourself,’ said Rönn to Martin Beck. ‘You’re both a couple of shits.’

‘Hey, now, what the hell…’ said Kollberg, straightening up.

‘Calm down, Einar,’ said Martin Beck to Rönn. ‘You’re quite right, we should have seen that there was something wrong with him.’

‘I’ll say you should,’ said Rönn.

‘I didn’t notice much difference,’ said Kollberg nonchalantly. ‘Presumably one has to be at the same high intellectual level to…’

The door opened and Hammar came in.

‘You all look very peculiar,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing,’ said Martin Beck.

‘Nothing? Einar looks like a boiled lobster. Are you thinking of having a fight? No police brutality, please.’

The telephone rang and Kollberg snatched up the receiver like a drowning man grasping the proverbial straw.

Slowly, Rönn’s face resumed its normal colour. Only his nose remained red, but it was usually red anyway.

Martin Beck sneezed.

‘How the hell should I know that?’ said Kollberg into the telephone. ‘What corpses anyway?’

He flung down the receiver, sighed and said:

‘Some idiot at the medical labs who wanted to know when the bodies can be moved. Are there any bodies, for that matter?’

‘Have any of you gentlemen been to the scene of the fire, may I ask?’ said Hammar acidly.

No one replied.

‘Perhaps a visit for study purposes would do no harm,’ said Hammar.

‘I’ve got a bit of desk work to do,’ said Rönn, vaguely.

Martin Beck walked towards the door. Kollberg shrugged his shoulders, rose and followed him.

‘It must simply be an ordinary fire,’ said Hammar stubbornly, and to himself.