Murder on the Thirty-First Floor (9 page)

‘What’s this about?’ he said brusquely. ‘I must point out that I’m extremely short of time.’

Jensen took a step into the hall and showed his ID.

‘My name’s Inspector Jensen, from the Sixteenth District,’ he said, ‘I’m conducting an investigation that has to do with your former employment and place of work.’

The man’s posture and expression changed. He shuffled his feet uneasily and appeared to shrink. He looked scared and shifty.

‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered, ‘not here. Not here, in front of … Come into my … or the library … yes, the library would be better.’

He gestured vaguely, seemed to be searching for something to divert their attention, and said:

‘This is my son.’

The young man in the armchair gave them a look of utter boredom.

‘Aren’t you going to take your new car out for a spin?’ said the man in the smoking jacket.

‘Why would I want to?’

‘Well, girls and that sort of …’

‘Huh,’ said the youth.

His look clouded over once more.

‘I don’t understand young people nowadays,’ the man said with an embarrassed smile.

Inspector Jensen did not respond, and the smile immediately died away.

There were no books in the library, which was a big, light room with some cupboard units and several groups of low sofas and chairs. There were magazines lying on the tables.

The man in the smoking jacket carefully closed the doors and cast an imploring look at his visitor, whose face remained grave and set. He shuddered and went over to one of the cupboards, got out a tumbler, filled it with spirits almost to the brim and drained it in a single draught. He refilled the glass, looked at Inspector Jensen again and mumbled:

‘Well, it probably makes no difference now. Presumably I can’t offer you … no, of course not … sorry. It’s the shock, you see.’

The man collapsed on to one of the chairs. Jensen just stood there. He got out his notebook. The other man’s face was already shiny with sweat. He kept mopping it with a crumpled handkerchief.

‘Good God,’ he said, ‘I knew it. I’ve known it all along. That those devils would put the knife in as soon as the election was over.’

‘But I shall fight it,’ he said vehemently. ‘They’ll take the whole lot away from me, of course. But there are things I know, this and that, and they wouldn’t …’

Jensen observed him intently.

‘There are quite a few things,’ the man said. ‘Like figures that they’d find very hard to explain. Do you know how much income they declare for tax purposes? Do you know what their tax lawyers’ salaries are? Do you know who
really
pays their tax lawyers?’

He tugged nervously at his thinning hair and said miserably:

‘Sorry, sorry … I naturally don’t mean to … my case can hardly be made any worse, but …’

His voice became suddenly insistent.

‘Besides, does the interrogation have to be done here, in my own home? I assume you already know everything. Must you stand there like that? Why don’t you sit down?’

Inspector Jensen stayed where he was. He still said nothing. The man drained his tumbler and set it down with a crash. His hands were shaking.

‘Very well, very well, go ahead,’ he said dejectedly. ‘Let’s get it over with. So we can get away from here.’

He stood up and went back to the cupboard, where he fumbled with the tumbler and the bottle top.

Inspector Jensen opened his notebook and got out his pen.

‘When did you cease your employment?’ he asked.

‘Last autumn. The tenth of September. I’ll never forget that day. Nor the weeks leading up to it, they were dreadful, as dreadful as this day, today.’

‘You took early retirement?’

‘Yes. They made me. Out of pure goodwill, of course. I even got a doctor’s certificate. They thought of everything. Heart defect, they said, heart defect sounds good. There was nothing wrong with me at all, needless to say.’

‘And what did your pension amount to?’

‘I got full pay, and have been getting it ever since. Good God, it’s peanuts to them, compared to what they have to pay their tax experts. And anyway, they could stop paying it whenever they wanted to: I’d signed the papers.’

‘What papers?’

‘The statement, as they called it. The confession: I assume you’ve read it? And the transfer of this property and my assets. They only needed them pro forma, they said, not to make use of them unless it proved necessary. Well, I’ve never been under any illusion, I just didn’t think it would prove necessary so soon. And there were long periods when I tried to convince myself that they wouldn’t report me, that they really didn’t dare expose themselves to the scandal of a public trial and all the talk. They had me on a hook, after all; I mean to say, all this –’ he made a sweeping gesture – ‘compensates them for their losses, even if it did look a large sum.’

‘How large?’

‘Nearly a million. Look, must you put me through the torture of repeating this all over again? Verbally. And here … at home?’

‘Was it all in cash?’

‘No, barely half. And it was spread over many years. The rest …’

‘Yes?’

‘The rest was materials, mostly building materials, transport, labour, paper, envelopes. He had it all on his list down to the last paper clip and rubber band and pot of glue, the devil.’

‘Who?’

‘That devil in charge of their investigation. Their favourite Rottweiler, the head of publishing. I didn’t see them in person, not even once. They didn’t want to dirty their hands with a thing like that, he said. And nobody was to know anything about it. It would do irreparable damage to the group, he said. There was an election coming up straight afterwards. I suspected they’d just wait until it was over.’

He was constantly mopping his face with his handkerchief, which was already grey and sodden.

‘What … What are you going to do with me?’

‘When you stopped work, were you given some kind of diploma, a farewell letter?’

The man in the smoking jacket shuddered.

‘Yes,’ he said flatly.

‘Please show it to me.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, at once.’

The man got unsteadily to his feet, tried to adjust his expression, and went out of the room. A few minutes later he was back with the diploma. It was under glass in a frame with a broad gold edge. The message was signed by the chairman and the publisher.

‘There were two more sheets to it, a pair of blank pages. What have you done with them?’

The man regarded Jensen in bewilderment.

‘Don’t know. Threw them away, I suppose. I think I cut that bit off before I went to the framing shop.’

‘You don’t remember for sure?’

‘No, but I must have thrown them away. I remember cutting them off.’

‘With scissors?’

‘Er, yes, I’m sure of it.’

He stared at the frame and shook it.

‘What a charade,’ he muttered. ‘What hypocrisy, what bloody hypocrisy.’

‘Yes,’ said Inspector Jensen.

He closed his notebook, put it in his pocket and got up.

‘Goodbye,’ he said.

The man stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘When … when are you coming back?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Inspector Jensen.

The youth in the hall was still sitting in the same position, but was now studying the horoscope in one of the magazines with a faint glimmer of interest.

It was already dark by the time Inspector Jensen drove back, and in the decaying dormitory towns, the tower blocks were massed like queues of black ghosts in the scrubby woodland.

He didn’t bother to go to the office but drove straight home. On the way he stopped at a snack bar. Though he was well aware of the consequences, he had three sandwiches and two cups of black coffee.

That was the fourth day gone.

The phone rang before Inspector Jensen was dressed. It was five to seven in the morning and he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, shaving. During the night he had been afflicted by severe colic; the griping pain had subsided but his midriff still felt tender and bruised.

He knew it must be to do with work, because he never used the phone for private calls and did not let anyone else do so, either.

‘Jensen,’ said the police chief, ‘what in the name of God are you playing at?’

‘We’ve still got three days at our disposal.’

‘That’s not precisely what I meant.’

‘I’ve only just started the interviews.’

‘I wasn’t referring to the pace, Jensen.’

There was no answer to that. The police chief gave a gravelly cough.

‘Luckily enough, for you and for me, the matter’s already been cleared up.’

‘Cleared up?’

‘Yes, they’ve found out who did it.’

‘Who are “they”?’

‘The group’s own people. As we assumed from the word go, it was a misguided prank. One of the employees, a journalist on one of the papers. Apparently a rather bohemian young
man with lots of wild ideas, but a good boy at heart. They seem to have suspected him all along, though they didn’t bother to say so.’

‘I see.’

‘I assume they didn’t want to cast suspicions until they had some evidence.’

‘I see.’

‘Anyway, it’s all settled. They’re dropping the charge. Taking the financial loss and tempering justice with mercy. The only thing you need to do is go and formally accept his confession. Then you can close the case.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ve got the man’s address here, can you take it down?’

Inspector Jensen wrote the information on the back of a little white card.

‘It’s probably best for all parties if you go round there as soon as possible. So we can get this all over and done with.’

‘Yes.’

‘Tidy up the loose ends in the usual way and then make a copy of the paperwork. Just in case they want to see how the case was handled.’

‘I see.’

‘Jensen?’

‘Yes.’

‘No need for you to feel deflated. It’s only natural for things to turn out this way. Of course the group’s own people had better prospects of solving the case quickly. Their knowledge of their staff and the internal situation gave them a big head start.’

Inspector Jensen said nothing. The police chief’s breathing was heavy and uneven.

‘There’s one other thing,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘I indicated from the outset that you were to focus entirely on the investigation of the threatening letter, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘That means you need not and ought not to take account of any other matters that have emerged during the investigation. As soon as this young joker’s confession has been verified and dealt with, you are to put the matter aside. You’re free to forget the whole affair. Understood?’

‘Understood.’

‘I think that will be the best thing for all concerned and as I said, not least for you and me.’

‘I see.’

‘Excellent. Goodbye.’

Inspector Jensen returned to the bathroom and finished shaving. Then he got dressed, drank a cup of hot water and honey and read the newspaper, taking his time.

Although the traffic was less dense than usual, he kept to a moderate speed on the motorway, and when he parked outside the station it was already half past nine.

He sat at his desk for a while, not bothering with the reports or the pre-prepared address list. Then he rang for the man in the plainclothes patrol, gave him the white card and said:

‘Find out what you can about this individual. Everything you can get hold of. And be quick about it.’

He stood at the window for a long time, watching the sanitary squad, who had still not completed their disinfection when two police officers in green uniforms dragged in the first blind drunk arrest of the day. A while later, the man who had been making investigations at the post office rang.

‘Where are you?’

‘In the central newspaper archive.’

‘Any results to report?’

‘Not yet. Shall I carry on?’

‘Yes,’ said Inspector Jensen.

The head of the plainclothes patrol returned just over an hour later.

‘Well?’

‘Age twenty-six. Son of a well-known businessman. The family’s thought to be wealthy. Occasionally works as a journalist on a weekly magazine. Well educated. Unmarried. Seen as enjoying the protection of his bosses, apparently because of family connections. Temperament …’

The police officer frowned and studied the sheet of paper as if finding it hard to decipher his own handwriting.

‘Unstable, spontaneous, charming, sense of humour. Given to reckless pranks. Poor nerves, not very reliable, lacks stamina. Seven convictions for drunkenness, two periods of treatment in the alcohol addiction clinic. Sounds like the black sheep of the family,’ concluded the head of the plainclothes patrol.

‘That will do,’ said Inspector Jensen.

At half past twelve he had lunch sent up from the canteen: two soft-boiled eggs, a cup of tea and three wheaten rusks.

When he had finished his meal he stood up, put on his hat and coat, went down to the car and drove south.

He found the address he had been given on the second floor of an ordinary block of flats, but no one answered when he rang the bell. He listened, and thought he could make out a vague musical sound from inside the flat. After a minute or two, he tried the handle. The door was unlocked and he went in.

It was a standard flat with a hall, kitchen and two other rooms. The walls in the first room were bare and there were no curtains at the windows. In the middle of the floor stood a wooden chair, and beside it an empty cognac bottle. On the chair sat a naked male figure, playing the guitar.

He put his head on one side and surveyed his visitor, but did not stop playing or say anything.

Inspector Jensen went on into the next room. That had no proper furniture either, and no carpet or curtains, but on the floor there were some bottles and a heap of clothes. On a mattress in one corner a woman was asleep in a tangle of sheets and blankets with her head buried in a pillow. She had one arm resting on the floor, where cigarettes, a brown PVC bag and an ashtray were within easy reach.

The air was thick and stale, smelling of alcohol, tobacco smoke and naked human bodies. Inspector Jensen opened the window.