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‘He had shot himself through the heart. The bullet was still lodged in the thorax.’
‘Had the bullet hit the heart?’
‘Come very close, anyway. The main injury was to the aorta.’ She paused briefly, then added a trifle acidly: ‘Do I express myself comprehensibly?’
‘Sure.’ Martin Beck formulated his next question carefully. ‘Have you an extensive experience of bullet wounds?’
‘Enough, I reckon. Anyway this case presents hardly any complications.’ How many autopsies might she have carried out on victims of bullet wounds in her life? Three? Two? Or maybe only one?
The doctor, intuiting perhaps his unvoiced doubts, explained: ‘I worked in Jordan during the civil war, two years ago. No shortage of bullet wounds there.’
‘But presumably not so many suicides.’
‘No, not quite.’
‘Well, it just so happens,’ Martin Beck said, ‘that few suicide cases aim at their hearts. Most shoot themselves through the mouth, some through the temple.’
‘That may be. But this guy was far from being my first. When I was doing psychology I was taught that suicides – especially the romantics among them – have a deep-rooted instinct to aim at their hearts. Apparently it's a widespread tendency.’
‘How long do you think Svärd could have survived with this bullet wound?’
‘Not long. One minute, maybe two or three. The internal haemorrhage was extensive. At a guess, I'd say a minute. But the margins are still very small. Does it matter?’
‘Maybe not. But there's something else that interests me. You examined the remains on twentieth June?’
‘Yes, that's correct.’
‘How long do you think the man had been dead by then?’
‘Mmm …’
‘On this point your report is vague.’
‘As a matter of fact it's not easy to say. Maybe a more experienced pathologist than myself could have given you a more exact answer.’
‘But what do you think?’
‘At least two months, but …’
‘But?’
‘But it depends what things were like at the scene of death. Warmth and damp air make a big difference. It could be less, for example, if the body was exposed to great heat. On the other hand, if disintegration was extensive, I mean …’
‘And the actual entrance wound?’
‘This business of the disintegration of the tissues makes that a difficult question, too.’
‘Was the gun fired in contact with the body?’
‘Not in my view. But I could be wrong, I must stress that.’
‘What is your view, then?’
‘That he shot himself the other way. After all, there are two classic ways, aren't there?’
‘Indeed,’ said Martin Beck. ‘That's correct.’
‘Either one presses the barrel against one's body and fires, or else one holds one's arm with the pistol or whatever it is stretched right out, with the weapon reversed. In which case I suppose one has to pull the trigger with one's thumb.’
‘Precisely And so that's what you think happened?’
‘Yes. But with every reservation imaginable. It's really very hard to be sure a gun was pressed against a body which had changed so.’
‘I get you.’
‘Then it's only me who doesn't understand a thing,’ the girl said lightly. ‘Why are you asking all these questions? Is it so important which way he shot himself?’
‘Yes, it seems so. Svärd was found dead at home in his flat, with all the windows and doors closed from inside. He was lying beside an electric radiator.’
‘That could explain the advanced putrefaction,’ she said. ‘In that case a month could be enough.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. And that could also explain why it's hard to find any powder burns from a point-blank shot.’
‘I see,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Oh, that's nothing. If there's anything else I can explain, please call back.’
‘Good-bye.’ He put down the receiver. She was an old hand at explanations. Soon there'd only be one thing left to explain. But that was still more bewildering. Svärd could not possibly have committed suicide. To shoot yourself without a gun – that's not easy.
And in the flat on Bergsgatan there'd been no weapon.
7 (#ulink_8b191435-1a8e-5bc7-b00d-30d06567d711)
Martin Beck went on with his phoning. He tried to get hold of the original radio patrol that had been summoned to Bergsgatan, but neither of the two officers, it seemed, were on duty. After some calling around it transpired that one was on holiday and the other absent from duty to give evidence in a district court case. Gunvald Larsson was busy with meetings, and Einar Rönn had gone out on a call.
It was a long while before Martin Beck succeeded in contacting the detective sergeant who had finally sent the case on to Homicide. This hadn't happened till Monday the 26th, and Martin Beck found it imperative to ask him a question: ‘Is it true the autopsy report came in as early as that Wednesday?’
The man's voice wavered noticeably as he answered: ‘I can't really say for sure. Anyhow I didn't read it personally until that Friday.’
Martin Beck said nothing. He waited for some kind of explanation. It came:
‘In this precinct we're hardly up to half strength. There wasn't a chance of clearing up any but the most urgent matters. The papers just pile up on us. It's getting worse every day.’
‘So – no one had looked at the autopsy report before that?’
‘Yes, our commissioner here. And on Friday morning he asked me who'd taken care of the gun.’
‘What gun?’
‘The one Svärd had shot himself with. I knew nothing about any gun, but I assumed one of the officers who'd taken the call had found it.’
‘I have their report in front of me,’ Martin Beck said. ‘If there'd been a firearm in the flat there should be some mention of it.’
‘I can't see how this radio patrol could have made any mistake,’ the man said, at once on the defensive. He was disposed to defend his men, and it wasn't hard to see why. During the past year criticism of the regular police had been growing steadily. Relations with the public were worse than ever before and the burden of work had almost doubled. As a consequence, any number of policemen had simply given up. Unfortunately they were generally the best. In spite of massive unemployment in Sweden it was impossible to get new men, and the recruiting base was getting smaller than ever. Those policemen who stayed felt an even stronger need to stick together.
‘Maybe not,’ Martin Beck said.
‘Those guys did exactly what they should have done. After they'd let themselves in and found the dead man, they called in one of their superiors.’
‘This Gustavsson guy?’
‘Exactly A man from the Criminal Investigation Division. Apart from the actual finding of the corpse it was his business to draw conclusions and report observations. And I assumed they'd shown him the gun and he'd taken care of it.’
‘And then not even bothered to report it?’
‘Such things can happen,’ the policeman said dryly.
‘Well, it appears now there was no weapon inside the room.’
‘No. But I didn't find that out till Monday, a week ago, when I was speaking to Kristiansson and Kvastmo. Whereupon I immediately sent the documents over to Kungsholmsgatan.’
The Kungsholmen police station and the CID offices were in the same block. Martin Beck took the liberty of saying: ‘Well, that wasn't very far, anyway.’
‘We've made no mistakes,’ the man said.
‘Actually I'm more interested in what happened to Svärd than in who might have made a mistake,’ Martin Beck said.
‘Well, if a mistake's been made, it hasn't been by the Metropolitan Police, anyway.’
This retort was insinuating, to say the least. Martin Beck found it best to terminate the conversation. ‘Thanks for your help,’ he said. ‘Good-bye.’
The next man on the line was Detective Sergeant Gustavsson, who seemed to be in an incredible rush. ‘Oh that,’ he said. ‘Well, I don't understand it at all. But I assume things like that do happen.’
‘What things?’
‘Inexplicable things, puzzles to which there's quite simply no solution. So one sees at once one might as well give up.’
‘Be so kind as to come over here,’ Beck said.
‘Now? To Västberga?’
‘That's it.’
‘Unfortunately that's impossible.’
‘I think not.’ Martin Beck looked at his watch. ‘Let's say half past three.’
‘But it's simply impossible …’
‘Half past three,’ Martin Beck said, and put down the phone. Getting up from his chair he started pacing his room, his hands clasped behind his back.
This opening skirmish said volumes about the trend during the last five years. More and more often one was obliged to initiate an investigation by trying to sort out what the police had been up to. Not infrequently this proved harder than clearing up the actual case.
Aldor Gustavsson made his entrance at 4.05. The name hadn't meant a thing to Martin Beck, but as soon as he saw the man he recognized him. A skinny guy, aged about thirty, dark-haired, with a tough, nonchalant air. Martin Beck recalled having seen him now and then in the orderly room of the Stockholm CID as well as in other less prominent contexts.
‘Please sit down.’
Gustavsson sat down in the best chair, crossed his legs, and took out a cigar. He lit it and said: ‘Crazy story, this, eh? What did you want to know?’
For a while Martin Beck sat quietly, rolling his ball-point pen between his fingers. Then he said: ‘At what time did you get to Bergsgatan?’
‘Some time in the evening. About ten.’
‘What did it look like then?’
‘Bloody horrible. Full of big white maggots. Smelled to high heaven. One of the constables had thrown up in the lobby.’
‘Where were the officers?’
‘One was on guard outside the door. The other was sitting in the car.’
‘Had they guarded the door the whole time?’
‘Yeah, at least according to their own account.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I went right in and took a peek. It looked bloody awful, like I said before. But it could have been something for CID, one never knows.’
‘But you drew another conclusion?’
‘Sure. After all, it was as clear as daylight. The door had been locked from inside in three or four different ways. It had been as much as those guys could do to get it open. And the window was locked and the blind drawn.’
‘Was the window still closed?’
‘No. Obviously the uniforms had opened it when they'd come in. Otherwise no one could've stayed in there without a gas mask.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Not many minutes. Just long enough to establish the fact that it wasn't anything for the CID. It must have been either suicide or natural death, so all the rest was a matter for the uniforms.’
Martin Beck leafed through the report. ‘There's no list of any objects being taken into custody here,’ he said.
‘Isn't there? Well, I suppose somebody ought to have thought about that. On the other hand there was no point in it. The old boy hardly owned a thing. A table, a chair, and a bed, I guess; and then a few bits of junk out in the kitchenette.’
‘But you looked around?’
