Val McDermid - The Man Who Went Up in Smoke

‘Behind the Iron Curtain,’ said the red-haired man gravely.

‘We don't use expressions like that,’ said the other man. ‘Well, I hope you realize what all this means. If the case is reported and gets into the papers, that's bad enough – even if the story retained some kind of reasonable proportions and did get a relatively factual treatment. But if the magazine keeps everything to itself and uses it for its own, opinion-leading purpose, then heaven only knows what… Well, anyhow it would damage important relations, which both we and other people have spent a long time and a good deal of effort building up. The magazine's editor had a copy of a completed article with him when he was here on Monday. We had the dubious pleasure of reading it. If it's published, it would mean absolute disaster in some respects. And they were actually intending to publish it in this week's issue. We had to use all our powers of persuasion and appeal to every conceivable ethical standard to put a stop to its publication. The whole thing ended with the editor in chief delivering an ultimatum. If Matsson has not made his presence known of his own accord or if we haven't found him before the end of next week … well, then sparks are going to fly.’

Martin Beck massaged the roots of his hair.

‘I suppose the magazine is making its own investigations,’ he said.

The official looked absently at his superior, who was now puffing away furiously on his pipe.

‘I got the impression that the magazine's efforts in that direction were somewhat modest. That their activities in this particular respect had been put on ice until further notice. For that matter, they haven't the slightest idea as to where Matsson is.’

‘The man does undoubtedly seem to have disappeared,’ said Martin Beck.

‘Yes, exactly. It's very worrying.’

‘But he can't have just gone up in smoke,’ said the red-haired man.

Martin Beck rested one elbow on the edge of the table, clenched his fist and pressed his knuckles against the bridge of his nose. The steamer and the island and the jetty became more and more distant and diffuse in his mind.

‘Where do I come into the picture?’ he said.

‘That was our idea, but naturally we didn't know it would be you personally. We can't investigate all this, least of all in ten days. Whatever's happened, if the man for some reason is keeping under cover, if he's committed suicide, if he's had an accident or … something else, then it's a police matter. I mean, insofar as the job can be done only by a professional. So, quite unofficially, we contacted the police at top level. Someone seems to have recommended you. Now it's largely a matter of whether you will take on the case. The fact that you've come here at all indicates that you can be released from your other duties, I suppose.’

Martin Beck suppressed a laugh. Both officials looked at him sternly. Presumably they found his behaviour inappropriate.

‘Yes, I can probably be released,’ he said, thinking about his nets and the rowing boat. ‘But exactly what do you think I'd be able to do?’

The official shrugged his shoulders.

‘Go down there, I suppose. Find him. You can go tomorrow morning if you like. Everything is arranged, by way of our channels. You'll be temporarily transferred to our payroll, but you've no official assignment. Naturally we'll help you in every possible way. For example, if you want to you can make contact with the police down there – or otherwise not. And as I said, you can leave tomorrow.’

Martin Beck thought about it.

‘The day after tomorrow, in that case.’

‘That's all right too.’

‘I'll let you know this afternoon.’

‘Don't think about it too long, though.’

‘I'll phone in about an hour. Good-bye.’

The red-haired man rushed up and round his desk. He thumped Martin Beck on the back with his left hand and shook hands with his right.

‘Well, good-bye then. Good-bye, Martin. And do what you can. This is important.’

‘It really is,’ said the other man.

‘Yes,’ said the redhead, ‘we might have another Wallenberg affair on our hands.’

‘That was the word we were told not to mention,’ said the other man in weary despair.

Martin Beck nodded and left.

‘Are you going out there?’ said Hammar.

‘Don't know yet. I don't even know the language.’

‘Neither does anyone else on the force. You can be quite sure we checked. Anyhow, they say you can get by with German and English.’

‘Odd story.’

‘Stupid story,’ said Hammar. ‘But I know something that those people at the FO don't know. We've got a dossier on him.’

‘Alf Matsson?’

‘Yes. The Third Section had it. In the secret files.’

‘Counter-Espionage?’

‘Exactly. The Security Division. An investigation was made on this guy three months ago.’

There was a deafening thumping on the door and Kollberg thrust his head in. He stared at Martin Beck in astonishment.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Having my holiday.’

‘What's all this hush-hush you're up to? Shall I go away? As quietly as I came, without anybody noticing?’

‘Yes,’ said Hammar. ‘No, don't. I'm tired of hush-hush. Come in and shut the door.’

He pulled a file out of a desk drawer.

‘This was a routine investigation,’ he said, ‘and it gave rise to no particular action. But parts of it might interest anyone who is thinking of looking into the case.’

‘What the hell are you up to?’ said Kollberg. ‘Have you opened a secret agency or something?’

‘If you don't pipe down, you can go,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Why was Counter-Espionage interested in Matsson?’

‘The passport people have their own little eccentricities. At Arlanda airport, for instance, they write down the names of people who travel to those European countries that require visas. Some bright boy who looked in their books got it into his head that this Matsson travelled all too often. To Warsaw, Prague, Budapest, Sofia, Bucharest, Constanta, Belgrade. He was great for using his passport.’

‘And?’

‘So Security did a little hush-hush investigation. They went, for instance, to the magazine he works for and asked.’

‘And what did they reply?’

‘Perfectly correct, said the magazine. Alf Matsson is a great one for using his passport. Why shouldn't he be? He's our expert on Eastern European affairs. The results are no more remarkable than that. But there are one or two things. Take this rubbish and read it for yourself. You can sit here. Because now I'm going to go home. And this evening I'm going to go to a James Bond film. Bye!’

Martin Beck picked up the report and began to read. When he had finished the first page, he pushed it over to Kollberg, who picked it up between the tips of his fingers and placed it down in front of him. Martin Beck looked questioningly at him.

‘I sweat so much,’ said Kollberg. ‘Don't want to mess up their secret documents.’

Martin Beck nodded. He himself never sweated except when he had a cold.

They said nothing for the following half hour.

The dossier did not offer much of immediate interest, but it was very thoroughly compiled. Alf Matsson was not born in Gothenburg in 1934, but in Mölndal in 1933. He had begun as a journalist in the provinces in 1952 and been a reporter on several daily papers before going to Stockholm as a sports writer in 1955. As a sports reporter, he had made several trips abroad, among others to the Olympic Games, in Melbourne in 1956 and in Rome in 1960. A number of editors vouchsafed that he was a skilful journalist: ‘… adroit, with a speedy pen.’ He had left the daily press in 1961, when he was taken on by the weekly for which he still worked. During the last four years he had devoted more and more of his time to overseas reporting on a very wide variety of subjects, from politics and economics to sport and pop stars. He had taken his university entrance exam and spoke fluent English and German, passable Spanish and some French and Russian. He earned over 40,000 kronor a year and had been married twice. His first marriage took place in 1954 and was dissolved the following year. He had married again in 1961 and had two children, a daughter by his first marriage and a son by his second.