Читать книгу The Fire Engine That Disappeared - Colin Dexter, Simon Brett - Страница 11

The scene of the fire was now barricaded off to such an extent that no ordinary mortal could catch a glimpse of anything more than a cordon of uniformed police. The moment Martin Beck and Kollberg got out of the car, they were accosted by two of them.

‘Hey, you, where are you two off to?’ said one of them pompously.

‘Don’t you see you can’t park there like that,’ said the other.

Martin Beck was just about to show his identification card, but Kollberg warded him off and said:

‘Excuse me, officer, but would you mind giving me your name?’

‘What business is it of yours?’ said the first policeman.

‘Move along, then,’ said the other. ‘Otherwise there might be trouble.’

‘Of that I’m certain,’ said Kollberg. ‘It’s just a question of for whom.’

Kollberg’s bad temper was reflected very clearly in his appearance. His dark blue trench coat was flapping in the wind, he had not bothered to button up his collar, his tie hung out of his right-hand jacket pocket and his battered old hat was perched on the back of his head. The two policemen glanced at each other meaningfully. One of them took a step nearer. Both had rosy cheeks and round blue eyes. Martin Beck saw that they had decided that Kollberg was intoxicated and were just about to lay hands on him. He knew Kollberg was in a state to make mincemeat of them, both physically and mentally, in less than sixty seconds and that their chances of waking up next morning without a job were very great. He wished no one ill that day, so he swiftly drew out his identity card and thrust it under the nose of the more aggressive of the two policemen.

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ said Kollberg, angrily. Martin Beck looked at the two policemen and said placidly:

‘You’ve got a lot to learn. Come on, now, Lennart.’

The ruins of the fire looked melancholy. Superficially, all that was left of the house were the foundations, one chimney stack and a huge heap of charred boards, blackened bricks and fallen tiles. Over everything hung the acrid smell of smoke and burned matter. Half a dozen experts in grey overalls were crawling about, carefully poking in the ashes with sticks and short spades. Two great sieves had been set up in the back yard. Hoses still snaked their way along the ground, and down on the road there was a fire engine. In the front seat sat two firemen playing paper, scissors, stone.

Ten yards away stood a lone dismal figure, a pipe in his mouth and his hands thrust deep down in his coat pockets. This was Fredrik Melander of the Murder Squad in Stockholm and a veteran of hundreds of difficult investigations. He was generally known for his logical mind, his excellent memory and unshakeable calm. Within a smaller circle, he was most famous for his remarkable capacity for always being in the toilet when anyone wanted to get hold of him. His sense of humour was not nonexistent, but very modest; he was parsimonious and dull and never had brilliant ideas or sudden inspiration. Briefly, he was a first-class policeman.

‘Hi,’ he said, without taking his pipe out of his mouth.

‘How’s it going?’ said Martin Beck.

‘Slow.’

‘Any results?’

‘Not exactly. We’re being very careful. It’ll take time.’

‘Why?’ asked Kollberg.

‘By the time the fire engine got here, the house had collapsed and before the extinguishing work got going, it was almost burned out. They poured on gallons of water and put the fire out pretty quickly. Then it got colder later on in the night and it all froze together into one great slab.’

‘Sounds jolly cheerful,’ said Kollberg.

‘If I’ve got it right, then they have to sort of peel off that heap, layer by layer.’

Martin Beck coughed and said:

‘And the bodies? Have they found any yet?’

‘One,’ said Melander.

He took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed with the stem towards the right-hand part of the burned-out house.

‘Over there,’ he said. ‘The fourteen-year-old girl, I think. The one who slept in the attic.’

‘Kristina Modig?’

‘Yes, that’s her name. They’re leaving her there overnight. It’ll soon be dark and they don’t want to work except in daylight.’

Melander took out his tobacco pouch, carefully filled his pipe and lit it. Then he said:

‘How’re things going with you, then?’

‘Marvellously,’ said Kollberg.

‘Yes,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Especially for Lennart. First he almost had a fight with Rönn …’

‘Really,’ said Melander, raising his eyebrows slightly.

‘Yes. And then he almost got taken in for drunkenness by two policemen.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Melander tranquilly. ‘How’s Gunvald?’

‘In the hospital. Concussion.’

‘He did a good job last night,’ said Melander.

Kollberg regarded the remains of the house, shook himself and said:

‘Yes, I have to admit that. Damn, it’s cold.’

‘He didn’t have much time,’ said Melander.

‘No, exactly,’ said Martin Beck. ‘How could the house burn out at such a rate in such a short time?’

‘The fire department reckon it’s inexplicable.’

‘Mmm,’ said Kollberg.

He glanced over at the parked fire engine and picked up another train of thought.

‘Why are those guys still here? The only thing that could burn here now is the fire engine, isn’t it?’

‘Extinguishing the embers,’ said Melander. ‘Routine.’

‘When I was small, a funny thing happened once,’ said Kollberg. ‘The fire station caught fire and burned down and all the fire engines were destroyed inside, while the firemen all stood outside staring. I don’t remember where it was.’

‘Well, it wasn’t quite like that. It happened in Uddevalla,’ said Melander. ‘To be more exact on the tenth of—’

‘Oh, can’t one even have one’s childhood memories left in peace,’ said Kollberg irritably.

‘How do they explain the fire, then?’ Martin Beck asked.

‘They don’t explain it at all,’ said Melander. ‘Waiting for the results from the technical investigation. Just like us.’

Kollberg looked around despondently.

‘Damn, it’s cold,’ he said again. ‘And this place stinks like an open grave.’

‘It is an open grave,’ said Melander solemnly.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ said Kollberg to Martin Beck.

‘Where to?’

‘Home. What are we doing here, anyway?’

Five minutes later they were sitting in the car on their way south.

‘Didn’t that clod really know why he was tailing Malm?’ asked Kollberg, as they passed Skanstull Bridge.

‘Gunvald, d’you mean?’

‘Yes, who else?’

‘I don’t think he knew. But one can never be certain.’

‘Mr Larsson is not what you’d call a great brain, but…’

‘He’s a man of action,’ said Martin Beck. ‘That has its advantages, too.’

‘Yes, of course, but it’s a bit much to stomach that he had no idea what he was up to.’

‘He knew he was watching a man and perhaps that was enough for him.’

‘How did it come about?’

‘It’s quite simple. This Göran Malm had nothing to do with the Murder Squad. Someone else had caught him and had him up for something. They tried to get him remanded in custody and it didn’t work. So he was released, but they didn’t want him to vanish. As they were up to their necks with work, they asked Hammar for help. And he let Gunvald organize the surveillance, as an extra duty.’

‘Why just him?’

‘Since Stenström died, Gunvald has been considered the best at that sort of job. Anyhow, it turned out to be a stroke of genius.’

‘Insofar as?’

‘Insofar as it saved eight people’s lives. How many do you think Rönn would have got out of that death-trap? Or Melander?’

‘You’re right, of course,’ said Kollberg heavily. ‘Perhaps I ought to apologize to Rönn.’

‘I think you ought to.’

The lines of cars going south were moving very slowly. After a while, Kollberg said:

‘Who was it wanted him shadowed?’

‘Don’t know. Burglary division, I suppose. With three hundred thousand breaking-and-entering and theft cases a year, or whatever it is, those boys hardly have time to run downstairs to eat their lunch. We’ll have to find out all that on Monday. That’s easily done.’

Kollberg nodded and let the car creep forward another ten yards or so. Then they had to stop again.

‘I suppose Hammar’s right,’ he said. ‘It’s quite simply an ordinary fire.’

‘Well, it did begin to burn suspiciously quickly,’ said Martin Beck. ‘And Gunvald said that—’

‘Gunvald’s a fool,’ said Kollberg. ‘And he’s always imagining things. There are lots of natural explanations.’

‘Such as?’

‘Some sort of explosion. Some of those people were thieves and had a mass of high-explosives at home. Or jerry cans of petrol in the wardrobe. Or cylinders of gas. That Malm can’t have been any great shakes if they let him go. It seems insane that anyone should risk eleven people’s lives to get rid of him.’

‘If it turns out to be arson, then there’s nothing to show that it was Malm they were after,’ said Martin Beck.

‘No. That’s true,’ said Kollberg. ‘This is not one of my best days, is it?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Martin Beck.

‘Oh, well, we’ll see on Monday.’

At that, conversation ceased.

At Skärmarbrink, Martin Beck got out and took the metro. He did not know which he loathed more, the overcrowded underground or crawling along in traffic. But going by metro had one advantage. It was quicker. Not that he had anything to hurry home for.

But Lennart Kollberg had. He lived in Palandergatan and had a fine wife called Gun, and a daughter who was just six months old. His wife was lying on her stomach on the rug in the living room, studying a correspondence course of some kind. She had a yellow pencil in her mouth and alongside the open papers lay a red eraser. She was wearing an old pyjama top and was idly moving her long naked legs. She looked at him with her large brown eyes and said:

‘Jee-sus, you look gloomy.’

He took off his jacket and threw it into a chair.

‘Is Bodil asleep?’

She nodded.

‘It’s been a damned awful day,’ said Kollberg. ‘And everyone keeps jumping on me. First Rönn, of all people, and then two imbecile cops in Maria.’

Her eyes glittered.

‘And it wasn’t your fault at all?’

‘Anyhow, now I’m off duty until Monday.’

‘I’m not going to beat you,’ she said. ‘What d’you want to do?’

‘I want to go out and eat something hellish good and have five doubles.’

‘Can we afford that?’

‘Yes. Hell, it’s only the eighth: Can we fix a sitter?’

‘I expect Åsa will come.’

Åsa Torell was a policeman’s widow, although she was only twenty-five. She had lived with a colleague of Kollberg’s called Åke Stenström, who had been shot dead on a bus only four months earlier.

The woman on the floor drew down her strong dark eyebrows and rubbed energetically at her papers.

‘There’s an alternative,’ she said. ‘We can go to bed. It’s cheaper and more fun.’

‘Lobster Vanderbilt’s fun too,’ said Kollberg.

‘You think more about food than love,’ she complained. ‘Even though we’ve only been married two years.’

‘Not at all. Anyway, I’ve an even better idea,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and eat first and have five doubles and then go to bed. Call Åsa up now.’

The telephone had a twenty-foot extension cable and was already on the rug. She stretched out her hand and pulled it towards her, dialled a number and got a reply.

As she talked, she turned over on her back, drew up her knees and placed the soles of her feet on the floor. The pyjama top slid up a bit.

Kollberg looked at his wife, thoughtfully regarding the broad patch of thick raven-black hair which spread over the lower half of her abdomen and reluctantly thinned out between her legs. She was looking up at the ceiling as she listened. After a while she drew up her left leg and scratched her ankle.

‘Okay,’ she said, putting down the receiver. ‘She’s coming. It’ll take her an hour to get here, won’t it? Have you heard the latest, by the way?’

‘No, what?’

‘Åsa’s going to train to be a policewoman.’

‘Christ,’ he said absently. ‘Gun?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve thought of yet another solution, even better than the last one. First we go to bed and then we go and eat and have five doubles and then we go to bed again.’

‘But that’s almost brilliant,’ she said. ‘Here on the rug?’

‘Yes, call up Operakällaren and order a table.’

‘Look up the number, then.’

Kollberg riffled through the telephone directory as he unbuttoned his shirt and undid his belt; he found the number and heard her dialling it.

Then she sat up, pulled the pyjama top over her head and flung it away across the floor.

‘What are you after? My vanished chastity?’

‘Exactly.’

‘From behind?’

‘However you like.’

She giggled and began to turn, slowly and pliably, kneeling on all fours with her legs wide apart and her dark head down, her forehead pressed against her forearms.

Three hours later, over the ginger sherbet, she reminded Kollberg about something he had not thought about since he had seen Martin Beck disappearing in the direction of the metro station.

‘That awful fire,’ she said. ‘Do you think it was deliberate?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe that. There must be some limit.’

He had been a policeman for more than twenty years and should have known better.