Maj Sjowall - The Man on the Balcony

‘Yes. And when he got here they were in Lill-Jans Wood. This was the ninth time.’

‘What about the old woman?’

‘Ambulance case. Rushed to hospital. Shock, fractured jaw, four teeth knocked out, broken nose. All she saw of the man was that he had a red bandanna handkerchief over his face. Lousy description.’

Gunvald Larsson paused again and then said:

‘If I'd had the dog van…’

‘What?’

‘Your admirable pal Beck said that I should send out the dog van, when he was up last week. Maybe a dog would have found…’

He nodded again in the direction of the rocks, as though unwilling to put what he meant into words.

Kollberg didn't like Gunvald Larsson particularly, but this time he sympathized with him.

‘It's possible,’ Kollberg said.

‘Is it sex?’ Gunvald Larsson asked with some hesitation.

‘Presumably.’

‘In that case I don't suppose there's any connection.’

‘No, I don't suppose there is.’

Rönn came up to them from inside the cordon and Larsson said at once:

‘Is it sex?’

‘Yes,’ Rönn said. ‘Looks like it. Pretty certain.’

‘Then there's no connection.’

‘What with?’

‘The mugger.’

‘How are things going?’ Kollberg asked.

‘Badly,’ Rönn said. ‘Everything must have been washed away by the rain. She's soaked to the skin.’

‘Christ, it's sickening,’ Larsson said. ‘Two maniacs prowling around the same place at the same time, one worse than the other.’

He turned on his heel and went back to the car. The last they heard him say was:

‘Christ, what a bloody awful job. Who'd be a cop…’

Rönn watched him for a moment. Then he turned to Kollberg and said:

‘Would you mind coming for a moment, sir?’

Kollberg sighed heavily and swung his legs over the rope.

Martin Beck did not go back to Stockholm until Saturday afternoon, the day before he was due back on duty. Ahlberg saw him off at the station.

He changed trains at Hallsberg and bought the evening papers at the station bookstall. Folded them and tucked them into his raincoat pocket and didn't open them until he had settled down on the express from Gothenburg.

He glanced at the banner headlines and gave a start. The nightmare had begun.

A few hours later for him than for the others. But that was about all.

There are moments and situations that one would like to avoid at all costs but which cannot be put off. Police are probably faced with such situations more often than other people, and without a doubt they occur more often for some policemen than for others.

One of these situations is to question a woman called Karin Carlsson less than twenty-four hours after she has learned that her eight-year-old daughter has been strangled by a sex maniac. A lone woman who, despite injections and pills, is still suffering from shock and is so apathetic that she is still wearing the same brown cotton housecoat and the same sandals she had on when a corpulent policeman she had never seen before and would never see again had rung her doorbell the day before. Moments such as that immediately before the questioning begins.

A detective superintendent in the homicide squad knows that this questioning cannot be put off, still less avoided, because apart from this one witness there is not a single clue to go on. Because there is not yet a report on the autopsy and because the contents of that report are more or less already known.

Twenty-four hours earlier Martin Beck had been sitting in the stern of a rowboat taking up the nets that he and Ahlberg had put down early the same morning. Now he was standing in a room at investigation headquarters at Kungsholmsgatan with his right elbow propped on a filing cabinet, far too ill at ease even to sit down.

It had been thought suitable for this questioning to be conducted by a woman, a detective inspector of the vice squad. She was about forty-five and her name was Sylvia Granberg. In some ways the choice was a very good one. Sitting at the desk opposite the woman in the brown housecoat she looked as unmoved as the tape recorder she had just started.

When she switched off the apparatus forty minutes later she had undergone no apparent change, nor had she once faltered. Martin Beck noticed this again when, a little later, he played back the tape together with Kollberg and a couple of others.

GRANBERG: I know it's hard for you, Mrs Carlsson, but unfortunately there are certain questions we must put to you. WITNESS: Yes.

G: Your name is Karin Elisabet Carlsson?

W: Yes.

G: When were you born?

W: Sev … nineteenthir …

G: Can you try and keep your head turned towards the microphone when you answer?

W: Seventh of April 1937.

G: And your civil status?

W: What … I …

G: I mean are you single, married or divorced?

W: Divorced.

G: Since when?

W: Six years. Nearly seven.

G: And what is your ex-husband's name?

W: Sigvard Erik Bertil Carlsson.

G: Where does he live?

W: In Malmö … I mean he's registered there … I think.

G: Think? Don't you know?

MARTIN BECK: He's a seaman. We haven't been able to locate him yet.

G: Wasn't the husband liable for support of his daughter?

MB: Yes, of course, but he doesn't seem to have paid up for several years.

W: He … never really cared for Eva.

G: And your daughter's name was Eva Carlsson? No other first name?

W: No.

G: And she was born on the fifth of February 1959?

W: Yes.

G: Would you be good enough to tell us as exactly as possible what happened on Friday evening?

W: Happened … nothing happened. Eva … went out.

G: At what time?

W: Soon after seven. She'd been watching TV and we'd had our dinner.

G: What time was that?

W: At six o'clock. We always had dinner at six, when I got home. I work at a factory that makes lampshades … and I call for Eva at the afternoon nursery on the way home. She goes there herself after school … then we do the shopping on our way …

G: What did she have for dinner?

W: Meatballs … could I have a little water?

G: Of course. Here you are.

W: Thank you. Meatballs and mashed potatoes. And we had ice cream afterwards.

G: What did she drink?

W: Milk.

G: What did you do then?

W: We watched TV for a while … it was a children's programme.

G: And at seven o'clock or just after she went out?

W: Yes, it had stopped raining then. And the news had started on TV. She's not very interested in the news.

G: Did she go out alone?

W: Yes. Do you … you see it was quite light and the school holidays had begun. I told her she could stay out and play until eight. Do you think it … was careless of me?

G: Certainly not. By no means. Then you didn't see her again?

W: No … not until … no, I can't …

G: The identification? We needn't talk about that. When did you start getting worried?

W: I don't know. I was worried the whole time. I'm always worried when she's not at home. You see, she's all …

G: But when did you start looking for her?

W: Not until after half past eight. She's careless sometimes. Stays late with a playmate and forgets to look at the time. You know, children playing …

G: Yes. I see. When did you start searching?

W: About a quarter to nine. I knew she had two playmates the same age she used to go to. I called up the parents of one of them but got no answer.