Читать книгу Murder at the Savoy - Arne Dahl - Страница 9

A similar expression was used in the main police station on Kungsholmsgatan in Stockholm.

‘Well, they blew it,’ said Einar Rönn, sticking his sweaty red face through a crack in the door to Gunvald Larsson's room.

‘Which one?’ Gunvald Larsson asked absentmindedly.

He was thinking about something completely different, specifically three unusually brutal robberies in the metro the night before. Two rapes. Sixteen fights. This was Stockholm, quite a different place. Even though there were no murders last night, not even a homicide. Thank God. How many burglaries or thefts had been committed, he didn't know. Or how many addicts, sexual offenders, bootleggers and alcoholics the police had taken into custody. Or how many policemen had worked over presumably innocent people in patrol cars and local stations. Probably too many to count. He minded his own business.

Gunvald Larsson was a first assistant detective on the Assault and Battery Squad. Six foot three, strong as an ox, blond, blue-eyed, he was very snobbish for a policeman. This morning, for example, he was dressed in a pale grey, lightweight suit with matching tie, shoes and socks. He was an odd character; not many people liked him.

‘You know, that bus to Haga air terminal,’ Rönn said.

‘Well, what about it? They blew it?’

‘The uniforms who were supposed to check the passengers didn't get there soon enough. When they arrived the passengers had all got out and disappeared, and the bus had driven off.’

Finally switching his thoughts to the subject at hand, Gunvald Larsson glared at Rönn with his blue eyes and said, ‘What? But that's impossible.’

‘Unfortunately not,’ said Rönn. ‘They just didn't get there on time.’

‘Have you gone mad?’

‘I'm not the one who is in charge of this,’ Rönn said. ‘I wasn't the one.’

He was calm and good-natured, originally from Arjeplog in the north of Sweden. Although he had lived in Stockholm for a long time, he still used some dialect.

Gunvald Larsson had received Skacke's call quite by chance and considered checking this bus as a simple routine measure. He scowled angrily and said, ‘But damnit, I called Solna promptly. The man on duty there said they had a patrol car on Karolinskavägen. It takes three minutes at most to drive to the air terminal from there. They had at least twenty minutes. What happened?’

‘The guys in the car seem to have been detained on the way.’

‘Detained?’

‘Yes, they had to issue a warning. And when they got there the bus had already left.’

‘A warning?’

Putting on his glasses, Rönn looked at the piece of paper he was holding in his hand. ‘Right. The bus's name is Beata. Usually it comes from Bromma.’

‘Beata? What kind of asshole has started giving names to buses?’

‘Well, it's not my fault,’ Rönn said sedately.

‘Do the geniuses in the patrol car have names, too?’

‘Very likely. But I don't know what they are.’

‘Find out. For Christ's sake, if buses have names, constables must have them too. Although really they should only have numbers.’

‘Or symbols.’

‘Symbols?’

‘You know, like kids at nursery school. Like boats, cars, birds, mushrooms, insects or dogs.’

‘I've never been in a nursery school,’ Gunvald Larsson said scornfully. ‘Now find out. That guy Månsson in Malmö is going to die laughing if there's no reasonable explanation.’

Rönn left.

‘Insects or dogs,’ Gunvald Larsson said to himself. And added, ‘Everybody's mad.’

Then he went back to the robberies in the metro, picking his teeth with the letter-opener.

After ten minutes Rönn came back, glasses on his red nose, paper in hand. ‘I've got it now,’ he said. ‘Car three from the Solna police station. Constables Karl Kristiansson and Kurt Kvant.’

Gunvald Larsson jerked forward suddenly, nearly committing suicide with the letter-opener. ‘Christ, I should have known. I'm hounded by those two idiots. They're from Skåne, too. Get them over here on the double. We've got to straighten this thing out.’

Kristiansson and Kvant had a lot of explaining to do. Their story was complicated and not at all easy. Besides, they were scared to death of Gunvald Larsson and managed to postpone their visit to the police station on Kungsholmsgatan for nearly two hours. That was a mistake, for in the meantime Gunvald Larsson made a few inquiries of his own.

Finally they were standing there anyway, uniformed, proper, caps in hand. They were six foot one, blond and broad-shouldered, and looked woodenly at Gunvald Larsson with dull blue eyes. They were wondering to themselves why Gunvald Larsson would be the one to break the unwritten but golden rule that police officers aren't supposed to criticize the actions of other policemen or to testify against each other.

‘Good morning,’ said Gunvald Larsson in a friendly manner. ‘Nice that you could make it.’

‘Good morning,’ said Kristiansson hesitantly.

‘Hi,’ said Kvant insolently.

Gunvald Larsson stared at him, sighed and said, ‘You were the ones who were supposed to check the passengers on that bus in Haga, weren't you?’

‘Yes,’ said Kristiansson.

He reflected. Then he added, ‘But we got there late.’

‘We couldn't make it on time,’ Kvant improved.

‘I've gathered that,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘I've also gathered that you were parked on Karolinskavägen when you got the call. Driving to the air terminal from there takes about two minutes, three at most. What make of car do you have?’

‘A Plymouth,’ Kristiansson said, squirming.

‘A perch does a mile and a half an hour,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘It's the slowest fish there is. But still it could've easily covered that stretch in a shorter time than you did.’

He paused. Then roared, ‘Why the hell couldn't you get there on time?’

‘We had to caution somebody on the way,’ said Kvant stiffly.

‘A perch probably could have come up with a better explanation,’ Gunvald Larsson said with resignation. ‘Well, what was this caution about?’

‘We … were called names,’ Kristiansson said feebly.

‘Abuse of an officer of the law,’ said Kvant emphatically.

‘And how did that happen?’

‘A man riding by on a bicycle shouted insults at us.’

Kvant was still acting the part while Kristiansson was standing saying nothing, but looking more and more uneasy.

‘And that prevented you from carrying out the orders you'd just received?’

Kvant had the answer ready. ‘In an official statement, the National Chief of Police himself said that a complaint should definitely be brought against anyone who abuses an officer, especially an officer in uniform. A policeman can't be made a laughing stock.’

‘Is that so?’ said Gunvald Larsson.

The two constables glared at him unsympathetically.

He shrugged and went on: ‘Now I grant you that the potentate you mention is famous for his official statements, but I doubt that even he could have said anything so utterly stupid, for Christ's sake. Well, how did those insults go?’

‘“Pig!”’ Kvant said.

‘And you think you didn't deserve that?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Kvant said.

Gunvald Larsson looked searchingly at Kristiansson, who shifted his weight and mumbled, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Yeah,’ Kvant said. ‘And even if Siv would say …’

‘What is Siv?’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘Is that a bus, too?’

‘My wife,’ said Kvant.

Gunvald Larsson disentangled his fingers and put his enormous hairy hands on the desk top, palms down. ‘Here's how it happened,’ he said. ‘You were parked on Karolinskavägen. You had just gotten the alert. Then a man rode by on his bicycle and shouted “Pig!” at you. You were obliged to caution him. And that's why you didn't make it to the air terminal on time.’

‘That's right,’ said Kvant.

‘Yeeaah,’ said Kristiansson.

Gunvald Larsson watched them for a long time. Finally he said in a low voice, ‘Is that true?’

No one answered. Kvant began to look apprehensive. Kristiansson nervously fingered his pistol holster with one hand, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his cap.

Gunvald Larsson remained quiet for a long time, letting the silence deepen. Suddenly he raised his arms and slammed his palms down on the table, with a smack that made the whole room shake.

‘It's a lie,’ he shouted. ‘Every single word is a lie; and you know it, too. You'd stopped at a drive-in. One of you was standing outside the car eating a hot dog. As you said, a man rode by on a bicycle and someone shouted something at you. But it wasn't the man who shouted, it was his son who was sitting in the kiddie carrier on the back of the bike. And he didn't yell “Pig!” but “Daddy, this little pig …” He is only three years old. He plays with his toes, for Christ's sake.’

Gunvald Larsson broke off abruptly.

By now Kristiansson and Kvant were as red as beets.

At long last Kristiansson mumbled indistinctly, ‘How on earth did you know?’

Gunvald Larsson looked piercingly from one to the other. ‘All right, who was eating the hot dog?’ he asked.

‘Not me,’ said Kristiansson.

‘You son of a bitch,’ Kvant whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Well, let me answer the question for you,’ Gunvald Larsson said tiredly. ‘The man on the bicycle simply wouldn't let two idiots in uniform bawl him out for more than fifteen minutes for something a three-year-old happened to say. So he called here to complain and had every right to do so. Especially since there were witnesses.’

Kristiansson nodded glumly.

Kvant tried to make a final defence: ‘It's easy to hear the wrong thing when you've got your mouth full of …’

Gunvald Larsson cut him off by raising his right hand.

He pulled over his notepad, took a pencil out of his inside pocket and printed in large letters, ‘GO TO HELL!’ He tore off the page and shoved it across the desk. Kristiansson took the sheet, glanced at it, turned a deeper shade of red and gave it to Kvant.

‘I can't bear to say it one more time,’ Gunvald Larsson said.

Kristiansson and Kvant took the message and left.