The Terrorists (10 page)

As he approached the first group of trees on a small rocky slope surrounded by thick bushes, he turned off the path. Before he pushed his way through the prickly blackthorn bushes to vanish among the trees, he let the iron bar slide out of his sleeve and vanish into the tangled undergrowth.

Martin Beck was sitting alone at home, leafing through an issue of
Longitude
as he listened to one of Rhea’s records. Rhea and he did not really have the same tastes in music, but they both liked Nannie Porres and often played her records.

It was a quarter to eight in the evening and he had considered going to bed early. Rhea was at a meeting of the parent-teacher
association of her children’s school, and anyway they had already celebrated Swedish Flag Day in a satisfactory manner that morning.

The telephone rang in the middle of “I Thought About You,” and as he knew it could hardly be Rhea, he was in no hurry to answer it. It turned out to be Chief Inspector Pärsson in Märsta district, known to some people as Märsta-Pärsta. Martin Beck considered the nickname infantile and always thought of him as Pärsson in Märsta.

“I called the duty officer first,” Pärsson said, “and he thought it’d be okay to call you at home. We’ve got a case out here in Rotebro which is clearly murder. The man’s had his skull bashed in with a powerful blow to the back of his head.”

“Where and when was he found?”

“In a row house on Tennisvägen. The woman who lives in the house and appears to be his mistress came home at about five and found him dead in the bath. He was alive when she left the house at half-past six in the morning, she says.”

“How long have you been there?”

“She called us at five thirty-five,” said Pärsson. “We got here almost exactly two hours ago.”

He paused for a moment and then went on. “I imagine it’s a case we could manage on our own, but I thought I’d better inform you as soon as possible. It’s difficult at this stage to decide just how complicated the investigation will be. The weapon hasn’t been found.”

“So you want us to come in on it?” said Martin Beck.

“If I hadn’t known that you weren’t actually working on a case at the moment, I wouldn’t have bothered you at this stage. But I wanted your advice, and I’m told you usually like to come in on a case when it’s reasonably fresh.”

Pärsson sounded slightly uncertain. He admired all notabilities, and Martin Beck could be considered one of those, but most of all he respected his professional skill.

“Of course,” said Martin Beck. “You’re quite right. I’m glad you called me up so soon.”

It was true. Often the police in country areas waited too long before calling in National Homicide, either because they overestimated their own resources and skills or misjudged the scope
of the investigation, or because they themselves wanted to rap the experts in Stockholm over the knuckles and have the honor of solving a murder. When they finally had to admit their limitations and Martin Beck and his men went to the place, they were often faced with a situation in which all the clues had been destroyed, all reports were illegible, witnesses had lost their memories, and the culprit had already established residence in Tahiti or had died of old age.

“When can you come?” said Pärsson, noticeably relieved.

“I’ll get started right away. I’ll just call Koll … Skacke, and see if he can drive me out.”

Martin Beck thought of calling Kollberg in situations like this out of habit. He supposed it was because his subconscious would not accept the fact that they were no longer working together. During the first few months after Kollberg resigned, he had actually called him several times in emergencies.

Benny Skacke was at home and as usual sounded eager and enthusiastic. He lived in southern Stockholm with his Monica and their one-year-old daughter. He promised to be at Köpmangatan within seven minutes, and Martin Beck went down to the street to wait for him. Exactly seven minutes later Skacke arrived in his black Saab.

On the way out to Rotebro he said, “You heard about Gunvald, didn’t you? That he got hit in the stomach by the President’s head?”

Martin Beck had heard and said, “He was lucky to get away with just that.”

Benny Skacke drove for a while in silence, then said, “I was thinking about Gunvald’s clothes. He’s always so careful about them and always gets them ruined. He must have gotten absolutely covered with blood.”

“Must have,” said Martin Beck. “But he got out of it alive, so he’s still ahead of the game.”

“A
head
is right!” said Skacke with a snort of laughter.

Benny Skacke was thirty-five and during the last six years had often worked with Martin Beck. He reckoned he had gained all his basic knowledge of criminal work by observing and studying the work of Lennart Kollberg and Martin Beck. He had also noted the special rapport that existed between the two men and
had been amazed how easily they read each other’s thoughts. He realized that such rapport would never arise between himself and Martin Beck, and he was aware that in Martin Beck’s eyes he was a poor substitute for Kollberg. This insight often made him unsure of himself in Martin Beck’s company.

On his side, Martin Beck understood very well how Skacke felt and did his best to encourage him and show that he appreciated his efforts. He had watched Skacke mature during the years he had known him and he knew Skacke worked hard, not only to do well in his career but also to become a really good policeman. He regularly spent his free time building up his physique and practicing on the firing range, and he studied constantly—law, sociology and psychology—and he also kept himself well-informed on what was happening within the force, both technically and organizationally.

Skacke was also a good driver and had a better knowledge of Stockholm and all its new suburbs than any taxi driver. He had no difficulty finding the address in Rotebro and stopped at the end of the row of parked cars on Tennisvägen.

A few representatives of the press had already arrived, but at least for the moment they were being held in check by a couple of policemen in civilian clothes who were standing by their cars and talking to them. The photographers immediately recognized Martin Beck and ran up clicking their cameras. The driveway leading to the house and garage was barred, but the policeman on duty let Martin Beck and Skacke through with a polite gesture toward his cap.

Inside, the house was seething with activity. The men from the crime lab were hard at work, a man squatting in the hall dusting a table lamp on a low chest by the telephone for fingerprints, and the flare of a flashbulb revealing a photographer in another room.

Chief Inspector Pärsson came up to Martin Beck and Skacke. “That was quick,” he said. “Do you want to look in the bathroom first?”

The man in the bath was not a pretty sight, and neither Martin Beck nor Skacke stayed in there any longer than necessary.

“The doctor just left,” said Pärsson. “He says the man’s been dead at least eight and at most fifteen hours. The blow killed
him at once, and he thinks the weapon may have been an iron lever or a crowbar, or something like that.”

“Who is he?” asked Martin Beck, nodding toward the bathroom.

Pärsson sighed. “Unfortunately someone the evening papers will eat up. Walter Petrus, the film director.”

“Oh, Christ,” said Martin Beck.

“Or Valter Petrus Pettersson, film director, as it says in his papers. His clothes, wallet and briefcase were lying in the bedroom.”

The men who had come to collect the body were standing impatiently waiting to get past, and Martin Beck, Pärsson and Skacke went into the living room to get out of the way.

“Where’s the woman who lives here?” asked Martin Beck. “And who is she? Don’t tell me she’s a film star.”

“No, thank God,” said Pärsson. “She’s upstairs. We’ve got a man talking to her at the moment. Her name’s Maud Lundin. She’s forty-two and works in a beauty salon in Sveavägen.”

“How does she seem?” asked Skacke. “Is she in shock?”

“Well,” said Pärsson, “she seemed more shaken. I think she’s fairly calm now. She can’t sleep here tonight, but she says she’s got a friend in town who’ll put her up until we’ve finished here.”

“Have you had time to question the neighbors?” asked Martin Beck.

“We’ve only spoken to the people who live in the houses on either side, and to the neighbor across the road. None of them saw or heard anything unusual, they say. But we’ll have to go to the other houses along the road tomorrow. Maybe we’ll have to talk to everyone in Rotebro. This is the sort of place where people know each other—their kids go to the same school, they shop at the same shops, and the ones who haven’t got cars use the same buses and trains.”

“But this Walter Petrus, does he live here, too?” asked Benny Skacke.

“No,” said Pärsson. “He comes a few times a week and spends the night with Mrs. Lundin. He lives with his wife and three children in a house in Djursholm.”

“Has the family been informed?” asked Martin Beck.

“Yes,” said Pärsson. “We were lucky—there was a receipt
from a private doctor in the briefcase. We called him and he seems to be their doctor and knows the family well. He offered to tell the family and look after them.”

“Good,” said Martin Beck. “We’ll have to question them tomorrow, too. It’s getting a little late now, so all we can do is try to finish up here.”

Pärsson looked at his watch. “Half-past nine,” he said. “Not that late. But you’re right. We can maybe leave his family in peace for a while.”

Pärsson was a tall, thin man with snow-white hair and a freckled complexion, which always made him look slightly sunburnt. He gave an aristocratic impression, with his narrow hooked nose, thin lips and small, elegant, deliberate movements.

“I’d like to talk to Maud Lundin for a while,” said Martin Beck. “You said you have a man upstairs with her. Would it be all right if I went up?”

“Yes, sure,” said Pärsson. “That’ll be fine. You’re the boss anyhow, so do as you please.”

They could hear voices and noises outside and Pärsson went into the kitchen to look out the window. “Those damned reporters,” he said. “They’re like vultures. I’d better go out and talk to them.” He walked toward the front door with dignified posture and serious face.

“You could look around a little,” said Martin Beck to Skacke.

Skacke nodded, went over to the bookcase and began to study the titles.

Martin Beck went up the stairs, which led into a large square room with wall-to-wall white carpeting. The furniture consisted of eight bulging armchairs in light-colored leather in a circle around a huge circular glass-topped table. There was a very complex and evidently very expensive stereo setup against one wall and white-painted loudspeakers on shelves in each corner. The ceiling was angled and the view through the large window facing out over the back of the house was rural and peaceful, with the shifting green of the forest beyond the wide field.

There was only one door in the room, and that was closed. Martin Beck could hear the murmur of voices through it. He knocked and went in.

Two women were sitting on a double bed with a white coverlet
of some furlike material. They fell silent and looked up at him as he stood in the doorway.

One of the women was heavily built and considerably taller than the other. She had powerful features, dark eyes, and her hair was parted in the center and hung straight and glossy down her back. The other woman was slim and slightly angular, with lively brown eyes and very short dark hair.

“Martin,” she said. “Hi! I didn’t know you were here.”

Martin Beck was surprised too, and hesitated before answering. “Hi, Åsa,” he said. “I didn’t know you were here, either. Pärsson said he had a man up here.”

“Oh,” said Åsa Torell, “he calls everyone his men, even if they’re women.”

She turned back to the other woman. “Maud, this is Chief Inspector Beck. He’s the head of the National Homicide Squad.”

The woman nodded at Martin Beck, who nodded back. He had not really collected himself after the sudden meeting with Åsa. Five years earlier he had almost been in love with her.

He had met her eight years ago, when her fiancé and his youngest colleague, Åke Stenström, had been shot dead, together with eight other people in a bus. Åsa had mourned Åke for a long time and had eventually decided to join the police. She was an assistant to Pärsson in Märsta now.

One summer night in Malmö, five years earlier, Martin Beck and Åsa had slept together. It had been a good night, and had never been repeated. He was glad now. Åsa was a sweet girl and their relationship was good and friendly whenever they met on duty, but after Rhea it was impossible for him to have sexual feelings for any other woman. Åsa was still unmarried, apparently wholly absorbed in her job, and she had become a very skillful policewoman.

“Go down to Pärsson, will you,” said Martin Beck. “He’s sure to need you down there.”

Åsa nodded cheerfully and went.

As Martin Beck knew how adept Åsa was, especially at establishing a relationship with the person she was questioning, he thought he would keep his conversation with Maud Lundin brief.

“I imagine you’re upset and tired after what’s happened,” he said. “I won’t trouble you for long, but I’d very much like to know what your relationship to Mr. Petrus was. How long have you known each other?”

Maud Lundin tucked her hair behind her ears and looked at him steadily. “For three years,” she said. “We met at a party and he asked me out to dinner once or twice after that. That was in the spring. In the summer he was going to start filming, and he gave me a job in makeup. We went on meeting.”

“But you aren’t working for him now?” asked Martin Beck. “How long did you work for him?”

“Only on that one film. Then it was a while before he got started on a new production, and I got a good job in a beauty salon.”

“What sort of film did you work on?”

“It was a film made for export only. It hasn’t been shown in Sweden.”

“What was it called?”

“Love in the Midnight Sun.”

“How often did you and Mr. Petrus meet?”