Murder on the Thirty-First Floor (10 page)

The woman lifted her head from the pillow and gave him a blank stare.

‘Who the hell are you?’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘It’s the detective we’ve been waiting for all day, darling,’ called the guitar player from the outer room. ‘The great detective who’s come to expose us.’

‘Go to hell,’ said the woman, her head sinking back on to the pillow.

Jensen went over to the mattress.

‘Show me your ID card,’ he said.

‘Go to hell,’ she said in a muffled, sleepy voice.

He bent down, opened her handbag and rummaged around until he found the card. He glanced through the personal details. She was nineteen. In the top right-hand corner there
were two red marks, fully visible even though someone had tried to blot them out. That meant two arrests for drinking. A third would mean immediate admittance to an alcohol abuse clinic.

Inspector Jensen left the flat. He stopped at the door and turned to the guitar player.

‘I’ll be back in five minutes. Make sure you’re dressed.’

He went down to the car and called for an emergency vehicle. It arrived within three minutes, and he took two constables with him up to the flat. The guitar man had put on a shirt and trousers and was sitting on the windowsill, smoking. The woman was still asleep.

One of the constables produced a breath test kit, raised her head from the pillow and put the mouthpiece between her lips.

‘Breathe out,’ he said.

The crystals in the rubber bag turned green.

‘Put your clothes on,’ said the policeman.

The woman was awake at once. She sat up from the tangle of bedclothes and pulled one of the sheets over her breasts with clumsy, trembling hands.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, you can’t. I haven’t done anything. I live here. You can’t. No, no, for God’s sake, no.’

‘Get dressed,’ said the constable with the breath test, pushing the pile of clothes towards her with his foot.

‘No, I don’t want to,’ she shouted, throwing the clothes across the floor.

‘Take her in the blanket,’ said Inspector Jensen. ‘And be quick about it.’

She stared at him in wild, wordless horror. The right side of her face was a streaky red from the pressure of the pillow and her short, dark hair was a tangled mess.

Inspector Jensen went into the other room. The man was still sitting on the windowsill. The woman was crying, shrilly and hysterically, and seemed to be putting up a fight, but it didn’t last long. Within two minutes the policemen had overpowered her and taken her away. Jensen checked the time on his watch.

‘Was that really necessary?’ said the man at the window.

His voice was cultivated but uncertain, and his hands were shaking.

‘So it was you who sent the letter?’ said Inspector Jensen.

‘Yes, I admit it. I already bloody have.’

‘When did you send it?’

‘On Sunday.’

‘What time?’

‘In the evening. I don’t remember what time.’

‘Before or after nine o’clock?’

‘After, I think. I don’t remember the time, I told you.’

‘Where did you put the letter together?’

‘At home.’

‘Here?’

‘No, at my parents’.’

‘What sort of paper did you use?’

‘An ordinary bit of white paper.’

His confidence was growing and he regarded Jensen coldly.

‘Typewriter paper?’

‘No, a thicker kind. A bit off some kind of diploma.’

‘Where did you get this paper?’

‘At the publishing house. It was just lying around. People who leave or get the sack get given that sort of thing, I think. Do you want me to describe it?’

‘No need. Where did you find it?’

‘I told you: at the publishing house.’

‘Be more specific.’

‘It was just lying around. Someone must’ve had it as a sample, I guess.’

‘Did you find it on a desk?’

‘I think so.’

He seemed to be considering.

‘Or it could have been on some shelf.’

‘When was this?’

‘Oh, a few months ago. Whether you believe it or not, I can’t recall exactly. No, I really can’t remember, but it wasn’t this year at any rate.’

‘So you took it with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘As a joke?’

‘No, I thought I might use it for some shenanigans later on.’

‘Shenanigans?’

‘A stunt, if you like.’

‘What sort of stunt?’

‘Oh, there are lots of uses for a diploma like that. Sign it with a false name, stick a naked woman on the front and send it to some idiot.’

‘When did you get the idea for the letter?’

‘Last Sunday. I was just hanging around. And then it came to me that there was a way of putting the wind up that lot for a while. It was just a joke, of course. I didn’t think they’d take it that seriously.’

He had spoken with growing assurance and lucidity. Now he said, in a tone of appeal:

‘I mean, I wasn’t to know they’d kick up such a hell of a fuss. Didn’t think it through.’

‘What sort of glue did you use?’

‘Some I had. Just ordinary glue.’

Inspector Jensen nodded.

‘Show me your ID card.’

The man produced his card at once. It had six red marks, all crossed through in blue.

‘There’s no point taking me in for being drunk, I’ve got three in hand.’

Jensen gave back the card.

‘She hasn’t,’ said the man, nodding towards the other room. ‘And anyway, it was your fault in a way. We’ve been waiting for you since some time last night, and what’re we supposed to do in the meantime? I can’t bear sitting still. Poor kid.’

‘Is the woman your fiancée?’

‘Yes, I suppose you could put it like that.’

‘Does she live here?’

‘Yes, usually. She’s fine, a nice sort of girl, but hard work. A bit old fashioned. She’s really into me, if you know what I mean, Inspector.’

Jensen nodded.

‘Can I just ask, if my uncle … if that lot up there hadn’t been decent enough to drop the charge, what sort of sentence would I have got?’

‘That would have been up to the court,’ said Jensen.

He closed his notebook.

The man got out a cigarette and lit it. He had jumped down from the windowsill and was leaning casually against the wall.

‘The bloody stupid things you find yourself doing,’ he said. ‘Thank God I was born lucky.’

Jensen put his notebook away in his pocket and glanced towards the door.

‘The letters you used for the message, you tore them out of the paper, didn’t you?’

‘I certainly did.’

‘You tore them?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t cut them out? With scissors?’

The man put a hand to the bridge of his nose. Smoothed his eyebrows with his fingers and frowned. Then he looked at Jensen.

‘I can’t really be sure,’ he said at last.

‘Try.’

Pause.

‘No, I can’t remember.’

‘Where did you post the letter?’

‘Here. In town.’

‘Be more precise.’

‘In a postbox somewhere.’

‘Tell me exactly where the postbox was.’

‘I can’t, actually.’

‘You don’t know where you posted the letter?’

‘Yes, I told you, it was somewhere in town. But I don’t remember exactly where.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No, it would be absurd to expect me to. The place is full of postboxes, isn’t it?’

Jensen didn’t reply.

‘Isn’t it?’ the man said irritably.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Well then.’

‘But you remember which part of the city you posted it in, at any rate?’

Jensen looked out of the window, expressionless.

The other man was trying to catch his eye. When that failed, he looked away and said:

‘No, I don’t remember. Does it matter?’

‘Where do your parents live?’

‘Over to the east.’

‘Perhaps you posted the letter near where they live?’

‘I tell you I don’t know. Why the hell does it matter?’

‘Didn’t you in fact post the letter here in the south?’

‘Of course I bloody did. No, hang on, I don’t know.’

‘Where did you post the letter?’

‘I don’t know, for God’s sake, I’ve told you that,’ the man said hysterically. He was breathing heavily. After a moment’s pause he said:

‘I drove round the whole town that evening.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you don’t know where you posted the letter?’

‘No, how many times have I got to repeat myself?’

He started walking to and fro across the floor, taking small, restless steps.

‘So you don’t remember?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t know where you posted the letter?’

‘No,’ shouted the young man, unable to control himself.

‘Get your coat on and come with me,’ said Inspector Jensen.

‘Where to?’

‘To the Sixteenth District police station.’

‘Can’t I just pop in and sign the papers tomorrow? I’ve got … other things to do tonight.’

‘No.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘It’s not within your right to refuse. You’re under arrest.’

‘Under arrest? What the hell do you mean, you stupid flat-foot? They’ve dropped the charges, haven’t they? Under arrest? What for?’

‘For giving false or misleading evidence.’

Not a word was said in the car. The man under arrest sat in the back seat and Jensen could see him in the rearview mirror, almost without moving his eyes. The man looked nervous. He was continually blinking behind his glasses, and when he thought he wasn’t being watched he bit his nails.

Jensen drove into the yard and parked by the entrance to the arrest area. He walked his charge past the inspection desk, along the row of cells where drunks were sobbing or slumped hopelessly on their benches behind the gleaming steel bars, and opened a door. The room inside was brightly lit. The ceiling, walls and floor were white, and in the middle of the room was a stool with a white seat of hard plastic.

The man looked around, defiant but at a loss, and sat down on the stool. Inspector Jensen left him there, turning the key on the outside of the door.

Up in his office he lifted the telephone receiver, dialled three digits and said:

‘Send an interrogator to the solitary confinement cell. A false confession that needs retracting. And be quick about it.’

Then he took a white card out of his breast pocket, laid it on the desk and drew a tiny, five-pointed star in the top left corner. He slowly and carefully filled the entire width of the card with stars just like it. In the next row he drew six-pointed
stars, all identical and very small, and then repeated the row of five-pointed stars. Once he had reached the bottom row, he counted up the stars. Altogether he had drawn 1,242 stars, 633 with five points and 609 with six.

He had heartburn and a churning in the pit of his stomach, and it was getting on his nerves, so he drank a cup of bicarbonate of soda. From the yard came yells and other noise to indicate some kind of violent scuffle, but he didn’t bother to go over to the window.

Four hours and twenty-five minutes passed, and then the telephone rang.

‘That’s done,’ said the interrogator. ‘It wasn’t him, but we had to dig deep.’

‘And the report?’

‘Signed and ready.’

‘The motive?’

‘Money, I should think. He’s still refusing to admit it, of course.’

‘Let him go.’

‘Are we proceeding to a prosecution?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want me to get out of him who paid him?’

‘No.’

‘It would be easy, now.’

‘No,’ said Inspector Jensen, ‘There’s no need.’

He put down the receiver. He ripped up the card covered in stars and threw the pieces in the bin. Then he picked up the list of nine numbered names, turned to a new page in his notebook and wrote: Number 2. Age 42, reporter, divorced, left at his own request.

Inspector Jensen drove home and went to bed without eating or drinking anything. He was very tired and the heartburn had gone, but it took him a long time to get to sleep.

That was the fifth day, and it had been a complete waste of time.

‘It was the wrong man,’ said Inspector Jensen.

‘I don’t understand. What happened? He owned up, didn’t he?’

‘His confession was a work of fiction.’

‘And he admitted that?’

‘Yes, eventually.’

‘So you’re telling me the man confessed to something he didn’t do? Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you get to the bottom of what made him do that?’

‘No.’

‘Doesn’t that detail have implications for the rest of the investigation?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘No, maybe that’s best,’ said the police chief.

He sounded as though he was talking to himself.

‘Jensen?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re in a rather unenviable situation at the moment. As far as I’m aware, they still want the perpetrator caught. You have a bare two days left. Will you pull it off?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If you haven’t managed to lay hands on whoever did it by Monday, I can’t answer for the consequences. In fact I can’t even imagine them. Need I spell that out?’

‘No.’

‘Our failure could create unpleasantness for me personally.’

‘Understood.’

‘After this unexpected turn of events it’s naturally more vital than ever for the investigation to be carried out with the utmost discretion.’

‘Understood.’

‘I’m relying on your judgement. Good luck.’

The police chief had rung at almost exactly the same time as the morning before, but this time Jensen was on his way out when the call came through. He had only had two hours’ sleep the previous night, but still felt refreshed and fairly well rested. The honey water had not satisfied his hunger, however, and the hollow feeling in his diaphragm showed no sign of abating.

‘I shall have to eat a cooked meal soon. Tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.’

He said this to himself as he went down the stairs. It was very rare for him to talk to himself.

Light rain towards morning had dissolved the covering of snow. The temperature was now a degree or so above freezing, the clouds had dispersed and the sunlight was white and cold.

In the station in the Sixteenth District they still hadn’t completed the early-morning chores. Outside the entrance to the arrest area stood the metallic grey van that was to take those who were on their third arrest for drinking to clinics and work camps, and down in the basement the staff were just bundling their dishevelled charges out of the cells. The officers looked washed out by night duty and exhaustion. At the door, those who had been released waited in a long, silent queue to
file past the inspection desk and be given their pre-discharge injections.