Читать книгу Murder at the Savoy - Arne Dahl - Страница 11

Viktor Palmgren died at seven thirty-three on Thursday evening. As recently as half an hour before the official declaration of death, the doctors involved in his case had said that his constitution was stable and the much-discussed general condition not so serious.

On the whole, the only thing wrong with him was that he had a bullet in his head.

Present at the instant of death were his wife, two brain surgeons, two nurses and a first assistant detective from the police in Lund.

There had been general consensus that an operation would have been much too risky, which seemed fairly sensible, even to a layman. For the fact remained that Palmgren had been conscious from time to time and on one occasion in such good shape that they could communicate with him.

The detective, who felt more dead than alive by this time, had asked him a couple of questions: ‘Did you get a good look at the man who shot you?’ And, ‘Did you recognize him?’

The answers had been unambiguous, positive to the first question and negative to the second. Palmgren had seen the would-be killer, but for the first and last time in his life.

That didn't exactly make it any more comprehensible. In Malmö, Månsson's face was creased with heavy lines of misgiving, and he yearned for his bed, or at least for a clean shirt.

It was an unbearably hot day, and the main police station was by no means air-conditioned.

The only small lead he'd had to go on had been bungled.

Those Stockholmers, Månsson thought.

But he didn't say it, out of consideration for Skacke, who was sensitive.

Furthermore, how much had that lead been worth?

He didn't know.

Maybe nothing.

But still. The Danish police had questioned the staff of the hydrofoil Springeren, and one of the hostesses on board during the nine o'clock trip from Malmö to Copenhagen had noticed a man, primarily because he had insisted on standing on the after-deck during the first part of the thirty-five-minute journey. His appearance, meaning mostly his clothing, corresponded somewhat to the scanty description.

Something actually seemed to fit together.

The fact is, you don't stand up on the deck of these hydrofoils, which in most respects resemble airplanes more than boats. It's even doubtful whether you would be permitted to stand out in the fresh air during the passage. Eventually the man had wandered down and sat in one of the armchairs. He hadn't purchased tax-free chocolate, alcohol or cigarettes on board and thus hadn't left any written notes behind him. To buy anything, you have to fill out a printed order form.

Why had this person tried to remain on deck for as long as possible?

Perhaps to throw something into the water.

In that case, what?

The weapon.

If, in fact, the same person was involved. If, in which case, he wanted to get rid of the weapon.

If, in fact, the man in question hadn't been afraid of becoming seasick and had therefore preferred the fresh air.

‘If, if, if,’ Månsson mumbled to himself and broke his last toothpick between his teeth.

It was an abominable day. In the first place, the heat, which was next to unbearable when you were forced to sit indoors. Moreover, inside the windows, you were completely unprotected from the blazing afternoon sun. In the second place, this passive waiting. Waiting for information, waiting for witnesses who had to exist but didn't get in touch.

The examination of the scene of the crime was going badly. Hundreds of fingerprints had been found, but there was no reason to assume that any of them belonged to the man who had shot Viktor Palmgren. They'd placed their greatest hopes on the window, but the few prints on the glass were much too blurred to be identified.

Backlund was most irritated by not being able to find the empty shell.

He called several times about that.

‘I don't understand where it could have gone,’ he said with annoyance.

Månsson thought that the answer to that question was so simple that even Backlund should have been able to work it out. So he said with mild irony, ‘Let me know if you have a theory.’

They couldn't find any footprints, either. Quite naturally, since so many people had tramped around in the dining room, and also because it's next to impossible to find any usable impressions on wall-to-wall carpeting. Outside the window the man had stepped into a window box before hopping down on to the pavement. To the great detriment of the flowers, but offering scarcely any information to the forensic technicians.

‘This dinner,’ Skacke said.

‘Yes, what about it?’

‘It seems to have been some sort of business meeting rather than a private gathering.’

‘Maybe so,’ Månsson said. ‘Do you have the list of the people who were seated at the table?’

‘It's right here.’

They studied it together.

Viktor Palmgren, executive, Malmö, 56 Charlotte Palmgren, housewife, Malmö, 32 Hampus Broberg, district manager, Stockholm, 43 Helena Hansson, executive secretary, Stockholm, 26 Ole Hoff-Jensen, district manager, Copenhagen, 48 Birthe Hoff-Jensen, housewife, Copenhagen, 43 Mats Linder, vice-president, Malmö, 30

‘All of them must work for Palmgren's companies,’ said Månsson.

‘It looks like it,’ said Skacke. ‘They'll have to be questioned thoroughly once more, of course.’

Månsson sighed and thought about the geographical distribution. The Jensen couple had already returned to Denmark the previous evening. Hampus Broberg and Helena Hansson had taken the morning flight to Stockholm, and Charlotte Palmgren was at her husband's bedside at the clinic in Lund. Only Mats Linder was still in Malmö. And they couldn't even be really sure of that. As Palmgren's second in command, he travelled a lot.

Thus the day's misfortunes seemed to culminate in the news of death, which reached them at a quarter to eight and which at once transformed the case into murder.

But it was to get worse.

It was ten-thirty and they sat drinking coffee, hollow-eyed and weary. The telephone rang and Månsson answered.

‘Yes, this is Detective Inspector Månsson.’

And immediately afterwards:

‘I see.’

He repeated the phrase three times before he said goodbye and hung up.

He looked at Skacke and said, ‘This isn't our case any more. They're sending a man down from the National Murder Squad.’

‘Not Kollberg,’ Skacke said anxiously.

‘No, it'll be the one and only Beck. He's coming tomorrow morning.’

‘What'll we do now?’

‘Go home to bed,’ said Månsson and stood up.