The Locked Room. Майкл Коннелли
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People see the film and don't take the trouble to read the book. Now this film was damn good, though it had a stupid title. How about Wild Nights in Berlin, eh?’
‘Oh,’ said Rönn, who was sure it was called I Am a Camera when he'd seen it. ‘Yes, it does sound rather stupid.’
It was getting dark, and Sten Sjögren got up and lit the floor lamp behind Rönn's armchair. When he sat down again, Rönn said: ‘Well, suppose we go on. You were going to describe the men in the car.’
‘Yes, though when I caught sight of them there was only one of them sitting in it.’
‘Oh?’
‘The other was standing on the pavement, waiting with the rear door ajar. He was a big guy, a good bit taller than me and powerfully built. Not fat, but heavy and powerful looking. He could easily have been my age, roughly between thirty and thirty-five, and had lots of frizzy hair – almost like Harpo Marx, but darker – mouse-coloured. He wore black trousers, which looked very tight, with those flared legs, and a shiny black shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned quite far down the chest, and I think he had some sort of silver thing on a chain around his neck. His face was pretty sunburned or, to be more precise, red. When the chick – if it was a chick – came running along, he opened the rear door for her to jump in and then slammed it shut, sat down in front, and the car sped off at a terrific pace.’
‘In which direction?’ Rönn asked.
‘It swung right across the street and headed up towards the Maria Square.’
‘Oh,’ Rönn said. ‘I see. And the other man?’
‘He was sitting behind the wheel, so I didn't see him too well. But he looked younger, can't have been much over twenty. And he was thin and pale, that much I did see. He was wearing a white T-shirt, and his arms were really scrawny. His hair was black, quite long, and seemed dirty. Greasy and straggly. He had sunglasses on, yes, and now I remember he had a wide black watch strap on his left wrist.’
Sjögren leaned back in his chair, beer glass in hand.
‘Well, now I think I've told you all I can recall,’ he said. ‘Or do you reckon I've forgotten something?’
‘I don't know,’ Rönn said. ‘If you should happen to remember anything else, I hope you'll call me. Will you be at home these next few days?’
‘Yes, unfortunately,’ Sjögren said. ‘In fact I'm on holiday but haven't any money to travel anywhere with. So I suppose I'll just have to hang around here.’
Rönn emptied his glass, got up. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘It's very possible we'll be needing your help again a little later on.’
Sjögren, too, got up and followed Rönn down the stairs. ‘You mean I'll have to go through it all again?’ he said. ‘Wouldn't it be best to tape it once and for all?’ He opened his front door and Rönn stepped outside.
‘What I was thinking was that you might be needed to identify these characters when we catch up with them. It's also possible we may be asking you to come to CID and take a look at some pictures.’ They shook hands, and Rönn went on: ‘Well, we'll see. We may not have to trouble you further. Thanks for the beer.’
‘Oh, that was nothing. If I can be of any help, I'd be pleased to oblige.’
As Rönn drove off, Sten Sjögren waved amicably from his steps.
Police dogs apart, professional sleuths are rarely more than human. Even during the most important and serious investigations they can evince typically human reactions. The tension when some unique and conclusive item of evidence is to be studied, for example, can often become unbearable.
In all this, the special bank robbery squad was no exception. Like their eminent and self-invited guests, they were holding their breath. All eyes in the half-dark room were fixed on the rectangular screen where the bank's film of the Hornsgatan robbery was shortly to be shown. With their own eyes they were not only about to see an armed bank robbery and a murder, but also the person who had committed it and to whom the alert and inventive evening press had already attributed every peculiar trait, dubbing her ‘the sex-bomb murderer’ and ‘the blonde gunwoman in sunglasses’ – epithets which only revealed how journalists, lacking any imagination of their own, find inspiration elsewhere. The reality of the case – armed robbery and murder – was too banal for them.
The last sex queen to be caught robbing a bank had been a flat-footed, pimply lady of about forty-five. According to reliable sources, she had weighed almost fourteen stone and had more double chins than there are pages in a book. But not even the false teeth she lost in front of the court gave the lie, in the press's opinion, to its own lyrical description of her appearance. And a horde of uncritical readers were to remain convinced through all eternity that she was a winsome, starry-eyed creature who should have entered the Miss Universe contest.
Always it had been like this. When women draw attention to themselves by committing a flagrant crime, the evening papers always make them sound as if they've come straight out of Inger Malmroos's school for models.
The pictures of the robbery had only just become available. This was because the cassette, as usual, had been faulty, and the photo lab had had to take extreme care not to damage the exposed negative. In the end, however, they had managed to pry it loose from the spool and develop it without even fraying its edges. For once the exposure, at least, seemed to have been correct and the results were being predicted as technically perfect.
‘What's it to be?’ Gunvald Larsson quipped. ‘A Donald Duck?’
‘The Pink Panther's funnier,’ said Kollberg.
‘Some guys, of course,’ Gunvald Larsson said, ‘are hoping for the Nazi rallies at Nuremberg.’
They were both sitting in the front row and spoke in loud voices, but behind them prevailed only a deep silence. All the potentates present, notably the National Police Commissioner and Superintendent Malm from the National Police Board, held their tongues. Kollberg wondered what they were thinking.
Weighing up their chances, no doubt, of making life hell for refractory subordinates. Perhaps their thoughts were even harking back to the days when there'd really been some order in things, when Heydrich had been elected president of the International Police Association by acclamation. Or perhaps they were thinking how much better the situation had been only a year ago, even, before anyone had dared to doubt the wisdom of once again entrusting all police training to military reactionaries.
The only one who sniggered was Bulldozer Olsson.
Formerly Kollberg and Gunvald Larsson had had very little to do with each other. But in recent years certain common experiences had to some extent changed the situation. Not to the point where they could be called friends or where the notion of associating outside their work would ever have occurred to them; but ever more frequently they found they were on the same wavelength. And here, in the special squad, they unquestionably had to stick together.
The technical preparations were over. The room was vibrating with suppressed excitement.
‘Well, now we'll see,’ Bulldozer Olsson said enthusiastically. ‘If the pictures are as good as they say they are, we'll put them on television tonight, and that'll give us the whole gang in a little box.’
‘Longlegs is passable, too,’ Gunvald Larsson said.
‘Or Swedish Sex,’ said Kollberg. ‘Fancy – I've never seen a blue movie. You know, Louise, Seventeen, Strips, all that sort of stuff’
‘Quiet over there!’ snapped the National Police Commissioner.
The film began. The focus was perfect. None of those present had ever seen anything like such excellent results. Usually the thieves only resembled vague blobs or poached eggs; but this