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‘Yes,’ Rönn said. ‘It's supposed to be vacated the day after tomorrow and modernized or turned into something else. The patients are going to be moved to new wards in the central building.’
Martin Beck's thoughts moved promptly off in new directions.
‘I wonder what he used,’ he said a while later, mostly to himself. ‘Maybe a machete or a samurai sword.’
‘Neither one,’ said Rönn, who had just come into the room. ‘We've found the weapon. It's lying outside, about twelve feet from the window.’
They went outside and looked.
In the cold white light of a spot lay a broad-bladed cutting tool.
‘A bayonet,’ said Martin Beck.
‘Yes. Exactly. For a Mauser carbine.’
The six-millimetre carbine had been a common military weapon, used mostly by the artillery and cavalry. Martin Beck had one himself when he did his national service. The weapon had probably gone out of use by now and been struck from the quartermaster's rolls.
The blade was entirely covered with clotted blood.
‘Can you get fingerprints from that grooved handle?’
Rönn shrugged his shoulders.
Every word had to be dragged from him, if not by force then by verbal pressure.
‘You're letting it lie there until it gets light?’
‘Yes,’ Rönn said. ‘Seems like a good idea.’
‘I'd very much like to talk to Nyman's family as soon as possible. Do you think we could get his wife out of bed at this hour?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Rönn without conviction.
‘We have to start somewhere. Are you coming along?’ Rönn mumbled something.
‘What'd you say?’ said Martin Beck and blew his nose. ‘Got to get a photographer out here,’ Rönn said. ‘Yeah.’ But he didn't sound at all as if he cared.
8 (#ulink_a02fd31f-3fb3-5a10-ab91-36efa5411772)
Rönn walked out to the car and got into the driver's seat to wait for Martin Beck, who'd taken upon himself the unpleasant task of calling the widow.
‘How much did you tell her?’ he asked when Martin Beck had climbed in beside him.
‘Only that he's dead. He was apparently seriously ill, so maybe it didn't come as such a surprise. But of course now she's wondering what we've got to do with it.’
‘How did she sound? Shocked?’
‘Yes, of course. She was going to jump in a taxi and come straight over to the hospital. There's a doctor talking to her now. I hope he manages to convince her to wait at home.’
‘Yes. If she saw him now she'd really get a shock. It's bad enough having to tell her about it.’
Rönn drove north on Dalagatan towards Odengatan. Outside the Eastman Institute stood a black Volkswagen. Rönn nodded towards it.
‘Not bad enough he parks in a no-parking zone, he's halfway up on the pavement too. Lucky for him we're not from Traffic.’
‘On top of which he must have been drunk to park like that,’ said Martin Beck.
‘Or she,’ Rönn said. ‘It must be a woman. Women and cars …’
‘Typical stereotyped thinking,’ said Martin Beck. ‘If my daughter could hear you now you'd be in for a real lecture.’
The car swung right on Odengatan and drove on past Gustav Vasa Church and Odenplan. At the taxi station there were two cabs with their FREE signs lit, and at the traffic lights outside the city library there was a yellow street-cleaning machine with a blinking orange light on its roof, waiting for the light to turn green.
Martin Beck and Rönn drove on in silence. They turned on to Sveavägen and passed the street-sweeper as it rumbled around the corner. At the School of Economics they took a left on to Kungstensgatan.
‘Damn it to hell,’ said Martin Beck suddenly with emphasis.
‘Yeah,’ said Rönn.
Then it was quiet again in the car. When they'd crossed Birger Jarlsgatan, Rönn slowed down and started hunting for the number. A door to a block of flats across from the Citizens School opened and a young man stuck out his head and looked in their direction. He held the door open while they parked the car and crossed the street.
When they reached the doorway they saw that the boy was younger than he'd looked from a distance. He was almost as tall as Martin Beck, but looked to be fifteen years old at the most.
‘My name's Stefan,’ he said. ‘Mother's waiting upstairs.’
They followed him up the stairs to the second floor, where a door stood ajar. The boy showed them through the front hall and into the living room.
‘I'll get Mother,’ he mumbled and disappeared into the hall.
Martin Beck and Rönn remained standing in the middle of the room and looked around. It was very neat. One side was taken up by a suite of furniture that seemed to date from the 1940s and consisted of a sofa, three matching easy chairs in varnished blond wood and flowered cretonne upholstery, and an oval table of the same light wood. A white lace cloth lay on the table, and in the middle of the cloth was a large crystal vase of red tulips. The two windows looked out on the street, and behind the white lace curtains stood rows of well-tended potted plants. The wall at one end of the room was covered by a bookcase in gleaming mahogany, half filled with leather-bound books, half with souvenirs and knick-knacks. Small polished tables with pieces of silver and crystal stood here and there against the walls. A black piano with the lid closed over the keyboard completed the list of furniture. Framed portraits of the family stood lined up on the piano. Several still lifes and landscapes in wide ornate gold frames hung on the walls. A crystal chandelier burned in the middle of the room, and a wine-red Oriental rug lay beneath their feet.
Martin Beck took in the various details of the room as he listened to the footsteps approaching in the hall. Rönn had walked up to the bookcase and was suspiciously eyeing a brass reindeer-bell, one side of which was adorned with a brightly coloured picture of a mountain birch, a reindeer and a Lapp, plus the word ARJEPLOG in ornate red letters.
Mrs Nyman came into the room with her son. She was wearing a black wool dress, black shoes and stockings, and held a small white handkerchief clenched in one hand. She had been crying.
Martin Beck and Rönn introduced themselves. She didn't look as if she'd ever heard of them.
‘But please sit down,’ she said, and took a seat in one of the flowered chairs.
When the two policemen had seated themselves she looked at them with despair in her eyes.
‘What is it that's actually happened?’ she asked in a voice that was much too shrill.
Rönn took out his handkerchief and began to polish his florid nose, thoroughly and at length. But Martin Beck hadn't expected any help from that quarter.
‘If you have anything to calm your nerves, Mrs Nyman – pills, I mean – I think it would be wise to take a couple now,’ he said.
The boy, who had taken a seat on the piano stool, stood up.
‘Papa has … There's a bottle of Restenil in the cabinet in the bathroom,’ he said. ‘Shall I get it?’
Martin Beck nodded and the boy went out to the bathroom and came back with the tablets and a glass of water. Martin Beck looked at the label, shook out two tablets into the lid of the bottle and handed them to Mrs Nyman, who obediently swallowed them with a gulp of water.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now please tell me what it is you want. Stig is dead, and neither you nor I can do anything about that.’
She pressed the handkerchief to her mouth, and her voice was stifled when she spoke.
‘Why wasn't I allowed to go to him? He's my husband after all. What have they done to him there at the hospital? That doctor … he sounded so odd …’
Her son went over and sat on the arm of her chair. He put his arm around her shoulders.
Martin Beck twisted in his chair so that he sat directly facing her, then he threw a glance at Rönn, sitting silently on the sofa.
‘Mrs Nyman,’ he said, ‘your husband did not die of his illness. Someone entered his room and killed him.’
The woman stared at him and he could see in her eyes that several seconds passed before she understood the significance of what he'd said. She lowered the hand with the handkerchief and pressed it to her breast. She was very pale.
‘Killed? Someone killed him? I don't understand …’
The son had gone white around the nostrils and his grip around his mother's shoulders tightened.
‘Who?’ he said.
‘We don't know. A nurse found him on the floor of his room just after two o'clock. Someone had come in through the window and killed him with a bayonet. It must have happened in the course of a few seconds, I don't think he had time to realize what was happening.’
Said Martin Beck. The giver of comfort.
‘Everything indicates he was taken by surprise,’ Rönn said. ‘If he'd had time to react he would have tried to protect himself or ward off the blows, but there's no sign that he did.’
The woman now stared at Rönn.
‘But why?’ she said.
‘We don't know,’ Rönn said.
That was all he said.
‘Mrs Nyman, maybe you can help us find out,’ said Martin Beck. ‘We don't want to cause you unnecessary pain, but we have to ask you a few questions. First of all, can you think of anyone who might have done it?’
The woman shook her head hopelessly.
‘Do you know if your husband had ever received any threats? Or if there was anyone who thought he had reason to want to see him dead? Anyone who threatened him?’
She went on shaking her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Why should anyone threaten him?’
‘Anyone who hated him?’
‘Why should anyone hate him?’
‘Think carefully,’ Martin Beck said. ‘Wasn't there anyone who thought your husband had treated him badly? He was a policeman, after all, and making enemies is part of the job. Did he ever say someone was out to get him or had threatened him?’
The widow looked in confusion first at her son, then at Rönn, and then back at Martin Beck.
‘Not that I can recall. And I'd certainly remember if he'd said anything like that.’
‘Papa didn't talk much about his job,’ Stefan said. ‘You'd better ask at the station.’
‘We'll ask there too,’ said Martin Beck. ‘How long had he been sick?’
‘A long time, I don't remember exactly,’ the boy said, and looked at his mother.
‘Since June of last year,’ she said. ‘He got sick just before midsummer, an awful pain in his stomach, and he went to the doctor right after the holiday. The doctor thought it was an ulcer and had him go on sick leave. He's been on sick leave ever since, and he's been to several different doctors and they all say different things and prescribe different medicines. Then three weeks ago he went into Sabbath and they've been examining him and doing a lot of tests ever since, but they couldn't find out what it was.’
Talking seemed to distract her attention and help her repress the shock.
‘Papa thought it was cancer,’ the boy said. ‘The doctors said it wasn't. But he was terribly sick all the time.’
‘What did he do all this time? Hasn't he worked at all since last summer?’
‘No,’ Mrs Nyman said. ‘He was really very ill. Had attacks of pain that lasted several days in a row when all he could do was lie in bed. He took a lot of pills, but they didn't help much. He went down to the station a few times last autumn to see how things were going, as he said, but he couldn't work.’
‘Mrs Nyman, can't you remember anything he said or did that might have some connection with what's happened?’ asked Martin Beck.
She shook her head and started sobbing dryly. Her eyes glided on past Martin Beck and she stared straight ahead at nothing.
‘Do you have any brothers and sisters?’ Rönn asked the boy.
‘Yes, a sister, but she's married and lives in Malmö.’
Rönn glanced inquiringly at Martin Beck, who was rolling a cigarette thoughtfully back and forth between his fingers as he looked at the two people in front of him.
‘We'll be going now,’ he said to the boy. ‘I'm sure you can take care of your mother, but I think the best thing would be if you could get a doctor to come over and give her something to make her sleep. Is there any doctor you can call at this time of night?’
The boy stood up and nodded.
‘Doctor Blomberg,’ he said. ‘He usually comes when someone in the family's sick.’
He went out in the hall and they heard him dial a number and after a while someone seemed to answer.
The conversation was short and he came back and stood beside his mother. He looked more like an adult now than he had when they first saw him down in the doorway.
‘He's coming,’ the boy said. ‘You don't need to wait. It won't take him long.’
They stood up and Rönn went over and put his hand on the woman's shoulder. She didn't move, and when they said good-bye she didn't respond.
The boy went with them to the door.
