Читать книгу The Locked Room - Майкл Коннелли, Майкл Коннелли - Страница 15

Police dogs apart, professional sleuths are rarely more than human. Even during the most important and serious investigations they can evince typically human reactions. The tension when some unique and conclusive item of evidence is to be studied, for example, can often become unbearable.

In all this, the special bank robbery squad was no exception. Like their eminent and self-invited guests, they were holding their breath. All eyes in the half-dark room were fixed on the rectangular screen where the bank's film of the Hornsgatan robbery was shortly to be shown. With their own eyes they were not only about to see an armed bank robbery and a murder, but also the person who had committed it and to whom the alert and inventive evening press had already attributed every peculiar trait, dubbing her ‘the sex-bomb murderer’ and ‘the blonde gunwoman in sunglasses’ – epithets which only revealed how journalists, lacking any imagination of their own, find inspiration elsewhere. The reality of the case – armed robbery and murder – was too banal for them.

The last sex queen to be caught robbing a bank had been a flat-footed, pimply lady of about forty-five. According to reliable sources, she had weighed almost fourteen stone and had more double chins than there are pages in a book. But not even the false teeth she lost in front of the court gave the lie, in the press's opinion, to its own lyrical description of her appearance. And a horde of uncritical readers were to remain convinced through all eternity that she was a winsome, starry-eyed creature who should have entered the Miss Universe contest.

Always it had been like this. When women draw attention to themselves by committing a flagrant crime, the evening papers always make them sound as if they've come straight out of Inger Malmroos's school for models.

The pictures of the robbery had only just become available. This was because the cassette, as usual, had been faulty, and the photo lab had had to take extreme care not to damage the exposed negative. In the end, however, they had managed to pry it loose from the spool and develop it without even fraying its edges. For once the exposure, at least, seemed to have been correct and the results were being predicted as technically perfect.

‘What's it to be?’ Gunvald Larsson quipped. ‘A Donald Duck?’

‘The Pink Panther's funnier,’ said Kollberg.

‘Some guys, of course,’ Gunvald Larsson said, ‘are hoping for the Nazi rallies at Nuremberg.’

They were both sitting in the front row and spoke in loud voices, but behind them prevailed only a deep silence. All the potentates present, notably the National Police Commissioner and Superintendent Malm from the National Police Board, held their tongues. Kollberg wondered what they were thinking.

Weighing up their chances, no doubt, of making life hell for refractory subordinates. Perhaps their thoughts were even harking back to the days when there'd really been some order in things, when Heydrich had been elected president of the International Police Association by acclamation. Or perhaps they were thinking how much better the situation had been only a year ago, even, before anyone had dared to doubt the wisdom of once again entrusting all police training to military reactionaries.

The only one who sniggered was Bulldozer Olsson.

Formerly Kollberg and Gunvald Larsson had had very little to do with each other. But in recent years certain common experiences had to some extent changed the situation. Not to the point where they could be called friends or where the notion of associating outside their work would ever have occurred to them; but ever more frequently they found they were on the same wavelength. And here, in the special squad, they unquestionably had to stick together.

The technical preparations were over. The room was vibrating with suppressed excitement.

‘Well, now we'll see,’ Bulldozer Olsson said enthusiastically. ‘If the pictures are as good as they say they are, we'll put them on television tonight, and that'll give us the whole gang in a little box.’

‘Longlegs is passable, too,’ Gunvald Larsson said.

‘Or Swedish Sex,’ said Kollberg. ‘Fancy – I've never seen a blue movie. You know, Louise, Seventeen, Strips, all that sort of stuff’

‘Quiet over there!’ snapped the National Police Commissioner.

The film began. The focus was perfect. None of those present had ever seen anything like such excellent results. Usually the thieves only resembled vague blobs or poached eggs; but this time the image was perfect.

The camera had been artfully placed to show the cashier's desk from behind, and thanks to a new type of hypersensitive film they could see with perfect clarity the person standing on the other side of the counter.

At first there was nobody there. But only half a minute later a person had come into the field of vision, then stopped and looked around – first to the right then to the left. Whereafter the person in question stared straight into the lens, as if purposely to give a full-face view.

Even the clothes showed up clearly; a suede jacket and a well-cut shirt with long, soft points to the collar.

The face itself was forceful and grim, the blonde hair was combed back, and the fair eyebrows were shaggy. The eyes wore an air of discontent. Then the figure raised a large hairy hand and, extracting a hair from one nostril, scrutinized it at length.

At once they all saw who it was.

Gunvald Larsson.

Then the lights went up.

The special squad sat speechless.

The National Police Commissioner was the first to speak.

‘Nothing of this must get out.’

Naturally. Nothing was ever allowed to get out.

Superintendent Malm said in a shrill voice: ‘Absolutely nothing of this must be allowed to come out.’

Kollberg let out a guffaw.

‘How can this have happened?’ Bulldozer Olsson asked. Even he seemed a trifle put out.

‘Well,’ the film expert said, ‘there could be a technical explanation. The trigger may have got jammed and the camera started up a bit later than it should have. These are sensitive gadgets, you know.’

‘If I see so much as a single word in the press,’ thundered the National Police Commissioner, ‘then …’

‘… then the Ministry'll have to order another new carpet for someone's office,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘Maybe there's a kind with a raspberry flavour.’

‘Fantastic get-up she was wearing,’ snorted Kollberg.

The National Police Commissioner dashed for the door. Superintendent Malm trotted out after him.

Kollberg gasped for air.

‘What's one to say about this?’ said Bulldozer Olsson.

‘Though I say so myself,’ Gunvald Larsson said modestly, ‘I think that film was really rather good.’