Murder at the Savoy. Arne Dahl
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you heard of Viktor Palmgren?’ said the Chief of Police.
‘The executive? The VIP?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course I've heard of him, but I don't know much about him other than that he has a million different companies and he's loaded. Oh, yeah, he also has a beautiful young wife who was a model or something. What's wrong with him?’
‘He's dead. He died tonight at the neurosurgical clinic in Lund after he was shot in the head by an unknown assailant in the dining room of the Savoy in Malmö. It happened last night. Don't you have newspapers out in Västberga?’
Martin Beck again refrained from replying. Instead he said, ‘Can't they take care of it themselves down in Malmö?’
He took the glass of whisky Kollberg offered him and took a drink.
‘Isn't Per Månsson on duty?’ he continued. ‘He surely ought to be capable of …’
The Chief of Police cut him off impatiently.
‘Of course Månsson is on duty, but I want you to go down and help him. Or rather to take charge of the case. And I want you to leave as soon as you can.’
Thanks a lot, thought Martin Beck. A plane did leave Bromma at a quarter to one in the morning, but he didn't plan to be on it.
‘I want you to leave early tomorrow,’ the Chief of Police said.
Obviously he didn't know the schedule.
‘This is an extremely complicated, sensitive matter. And we have to solve it without delay.’
It was quiet for a moment. Martin Beck sipped his drink and waited. Finally the other man continued, ‘It's the wish of someone higher up that you take charge of this.’
Martin Beck frowned and met Kollberg's questioning look.
‘Was Palmgren that important?’ he said.
‘Obviously. There were strong vested interests in certain areas of his operations.’
Can't you skip the clichés and come out with it? Martin Beck thought. Which interests and which certain areas of which operations?
Evidently it was important to be cryptic.
‘Unfortunately I don't have a clear idea of what kind of operations he was engaged in,’ he said.
‘You'll be informed about all that eventually,’ the Chief of Police said. ‘The most important thing is that you get to Malmö as quickly as possible. I've talked to Malm, and he's willing to release you. We have to do our utmost to apprehend this man. And be careful when you talk to the press. As you can well understand, there's going to be a good deal written about this. Well, when can you leave?’
‘There's a plane at nine-fifty in the morning, I think,’ Martin Beck said hesitantly.
‘Fine. Take it,’ said the Chief of Police and hung up.
Viktor Palmgren died at seven thirty-three on Thursday evening. As recently as half an hour before the official declaration of death, the doctors involved in his case had said that his constitution was stable and the much-discussed general condition not so serious.
On the whole, the only thing wrong with him was that he had a bullet in his head.
Present at the instant of death were his wife, two brain surgeons, two nurses and a first assistant detective from the police in Lund.
There had been general consensus that an operation would have been much too risky, which seemed fairly sensible, even to a layman. For the fact remained that Palmgren had been conscious from time to time and on one occasion in such good shape that they could communicate with him.
The detective, who felt more dead than alive by this time, had asked him a couple of questions: ‘Did you get a good look at the man who shot you?’ And, ‘Did you recognize him?’
The answers had been unambiguous, positive to the first question and negative to the second. Palmgren had seen the would-be killer, but for the first and last time in his life.
That didn't exactly make it any more comprehensible. In Malmö, Månsson's face was creased with heavy lines of misgiving, and he yearned for his bed, or at least for a clean shirt.
It was an unbearably hot day, and the main police station was by no means air-conditioned.
The only small lead he'd had to go on had been bungled.
Those Stockholmers, Månsson thought.
But he didn't say it, out of consideration for Skacke, who was sensitive.
Furthermore, how much had that lead been worth?
He didn't know.
Maybe nothing.
But still. The Danish police had questioned the staff of the hydrofoil Springeren, and one of the hostesses on board during the nine o'clock trip from Malmö to Copenhagen had noticed a man, primarily because he had insisted on standing on the after-deck during the first part of the thirty-five-minute journey. His appearance, meaning mostly his clothing, corresponded somewhat to the scanty description.
Something actually seemed to fit together.
The fact is, you don't stand up on the deck of these hydrofoils, which in most respects resemble airplanes more than boats. It's even doubtful whether you would be permitted to stand out in the fresh air during the passage. Eventually the man had wandered down and sat in one of the armchairs. He hadn't purchased tax-free chocolate, alcohol or cigarettes on board and thus hadn't left any written notes behind him. To buy anything, you have to fill out a printed order form.
Why had this person tried to remain on deck for as long as possible?
Perhaps to throw something into the water.
In that case, what?
The weapon.
If, in fact, the same person was involved. If, in which case, he wanted to get rid of the weapon.
If, in fact, the man in question hadn't been afraid of becoming seasick and had therefore preferred the fresh air.
‘If, if, if,’ Månsson mumbled to himself and broke his last toothpick between his teeth.
It was an abominable day. In the first place, the heat, which was next to unbearable when you were forced to sit indoors. Moreover, inside the windows, you were completely unprotected from the blazing afternoon sun. In the second place, this passive waiting. Waiting for information, waiting for witnesses who had to exist but didn't get in touch.
The examination of the scene of the crime was going badly. Hundreds of fingerprints had been found, but there was no reason to assume that any of them belonged to the man who had shot Viktor Palmgren. They'd placed their greatest hopes on the window, but the few prints on the glass were much too blurred to be identified.
Backlund was most irritated by not being able to find the empty shell.
He called several times about that.
‘I don't understand where it could have gone,’ he said with annoyance.
Månsson thought that the answer to that question was so simple that even Backlund should have been able to work it out. So he said with mild irony, ‘Let me know if you have a theory.’
They couldn't find any footprints, either. Quite naturally, since so many people had tramped around in the dining room, and also because it's next to impossible to find any usable impressions on wall-to-wall carpeting. Outside the window the man had stepped into a window box before hopping down on to the pavement. To the great detriment of the flowers, but offering scarcely any information to the forensic technicians.