The Terrorists (13 page)

Innumerable questions had been asked of neighbors, members of the family, employees, friends and acquaintances; and the more extensive the material grew, the clearer the picture of Walter Petrus became. Behind a jovial and generous facade was a hard, unscrupulous man who was utterly ruthless when it came to pursuing his own ends. His unprincipled behavior, especially in business, had earned him a great many antagonists, but the
people closest to him, who might have been thought to have had sufficiently strong motives for killing him, all had alibis for the time of the crime. Apart from his wife and children, there was no one who would gain financially from his death.

The duty officer handed the parcel to Chief Inspector Pärsson who opened it, glanced at the contents and called the young man in.

“What is this, and why did you bring it to us?” he said, pointing to the iron bar which had been rolled up in the newspaper.

“I found it in Rotebro,” said the man. “I thought maybe it might have something to do with the murder of that man Petrus. I read about it in the papers and it said the weapon hadn’t been found. A friend of mine lives across the street from the house where it happened, and I slept over at his place last night. We talked about the murder, of course, among other things, and when I found that thing this morning I thought it might be the murder weapon. Anyhow, I figured I ought to take it to the police.” He looked eagerly at Pärsson and went on hesitantly: “For safety’s sake. You never know.”

Pärsson nodded. A few days earlier a woman had sent a wrench through the mail along with a letter accusing her neighbor of the murder. She had found the wrench in the neighbor’s garage and since there was obviously blood on the tool and the neighbor had previously committed a murder, all the police had to do was come and take him away, she wrote. Pärsson had investigated the matter and it turned out that the woman was neurotic and paranoid, and that she was quite convinced her neighbor had killed her cat, which had been missing for three months. It also turned out that the blood on the wrench was red paint.

The young man looked uncertainly at him and Pärsson said in a friendly voice, “Thank you for coming. Do you think you could show us the place where you found it, if necessary?”

“Oh, yes. I put a stick in the ground, just in case.”

“Good,” said Pärsson. “Very sensible. Leave your name and telephone number out there, will you, and we’ll let you know if we need your help.”

An hour later the parcel was on Martin Beck’s desk at the
South police station. He examined the iron bar and then the enlarged close-ups of the fracture of the victim’s skull. Then he lifted the receiver and called the State Crime Lab in Solna. He asked to speak to Oskar Hjelm, the boss.

Hjelm sounded irritable, but then he usually did. “What is it this time?” he said.

“An iron bar,” said Martin Beck. “As far as I can see, it might very well be the one Walter Petrus was killed with. I know you’ve got a lot to do, but I’d appreciate it if you’d take care of it as quickly as you can. All right?”

“As quickly as I can,” said Hjelm. “We’ve got work out here to last us to Christmas and all of it has to be done as quickly as we can. But send it out. Anything special you want done, apart from the usual?”

“No, just the usual. See if it fits the wound, and whatever else you can get out of it. It’s been lying outdoors for a while so it’ll probably be difficult to find anything on it, but do your best.”

Hjelm sounded offended when he answered. “We always do our best.”

“I know,” said Martin Beck quickly. “I’ll send it out right away.”

“I’ll call you when it’s done,” said Hjelm.

Four hours later, just as Martin Beck was cleaning up his desk to go home, Hjelm called.

“Hjelm here,” he said. “Yes, it fits exactly. There are only minute traces of blood and brain tissue, but I managed to confirm the blood type. It’s the right one.”

“Nice going, Hjelm. Anything else?”

“A little cotton fiber. Of two kinds, in fact. Some white, probably from the towel used to wipe the blood off. And some navy blue, maybe from his clothes.”

“Great job, Oskar,” said Martin Beck.

“The iron bar itself is four hundred and twenty-four millimeters long, thirty-three in diameter, octagonal, wrought iron, and judging by the corrosion it’s been outdoors for quite a long time. Several years, maybe always. It’s hand-wrought and has been soldered at both ends.”

“Soldered to what? Do you have any idea what it was used for?”

“It appears to be fairly old, maybe sixty or seventy years. Might have been in some kind of railing.”

“And you’re sure it’s the weapon used on Petrus?”

“Definitely,” said Hjelm. “Unfortunately the surface was so rough it was impossible to get any fingerprints.”

“We’ll have to do without them,” said Martin Beck. He thanked the other man and, with a grunt, Hjelm put down the receiver.

Martin Beck called Pärsson in Märsta and told him what Hjelm had said.

“Then that’s one step forward,” said Pärsson. “We’d better send out some men to comb the area. Not that I think it’ll be much use after such a long time, but still …”

“Do you know exactly where the iron bar was lying?” asked Martin Beck.

“The young man who found it marked the place. I’ll call him now. Do you want to come and see?”

“Okay. Just tell me when you’re going and I’ll come.”

Martin Beck went back to shuffling papers and files about, gradually succeeding in achieving some kind of order on his desk. Then he leaned back in his chair and opened a file that Åsa Torell had handed in earlier that morning. The file contained the report of her interviews with two girls who had known Walter Petrus. Åsa was obviously acquainted with one of them from her earlier work with the Vice Squad.

The girls’ stories agreed, on the whole. Their descriptions of Petrus were not flattering, and neither one of them seemed to mourn or regret his demise. As far as one of his characteristics was concerned, they were very much in agreement—he had been extremely miserly. He had, for instance, never ever bought them a dinner, or a cocktail, or given them so much as a pack of cigarettes or a candy bar. On one occasion he did take one of them to the movies, but she pointed out that he had free tickets for the show.

At fairly regular intervals he used to call them up and summon them to his office, always in the evenings after the staff had gone home, and they agreed that his sexual efforts were lamentable. He was almost always impotent, and those so-called moments of passion in his office, usually unsuccessful, did not
make him any more generous. Once or twice they had been given their cab fares home after their long, tiresome and fruitless efforts to give him sexual satisfaction, but mostly he simply sent them away, whining and discontented.

One of the reasons why the girls had had anything to do with him at all was his generosity with alcohol and hash. He kept a well-stocked bar and he always had a supply of Cannabis or marijuana. The other reason the girls stuck around was his persistent promises of important parts in future films, constant prospects of trips, to the Cannes Festival perhaps, and a life of luxury and fame.

One of the girls had stopped seeing him six months earlier, but the other had been with him as recently as a few days before his death. She admitted that at first she had been stupid enough to believe his promises, but had gradually realized that he was using her. After their last meeting she had been so disgusted with him that she had decided to say a few well-chosen words and slam down the receiver the next time he called. Now she needn’t worry about it any more.

Her epitaph for Walter Petrus certainly showed no signs of any warm feelings. Åsa had taken her at her word and written it down: “You can quote me. Say I’ve a good mind to do a go-go dance on his grave, if anyone’s gone to the trouble of digging a grave for that asshole.” Åsa had also clipped a note to the report. Martin Beck unfastened it and read:

Martin Beck put the paper into his desk drawer, closed the file and went and stood by the window with his hands in his pockets. He thought about Åsa’s suggestion that Walter Petrus might have been involved in the steadily increasing drug traffic. It was an aspect of the case that might open new roads for investigation, but might also complicate matters. There had been nothing in his office or his home to indicate that Petrus was involved
with drugs, but then they hadn’t been looking for anything, either. Now he would have to bring in the Narcotics Squad and see what they could find out.

The telephone rang. It was Pärsson in Märsta, informing him that he’d got hold of the youth who could show them the place where the iron bar was found, and that they would be driving out there in a little while.

Martin Beck promised to come and went to find Skacke, but Skacke had gone home or was out on some errand. He lifted the receiver to call a cab, but then changed his mind and called a garage instead. It would cost almost a hundred crowns to go to Rotebro and back by cab and this month’s bundle of cab receipts was already alarmingly thick. Although he drove a car only very reluctantly, and only when absolutely necessary, he had no choice this time. He took the elevator down to the garage where a black Volkswagen was waiting for him.

Pärsson was at the agreed meeting place in Rotebro, and together with the young man, they walked across the field to the blackthorn bushes where the iron bar had been found. The weather had taken a turn for the worse, the air was cold and damp, the evening sky low and gray with heavy rain-filled clouds. Martin Beck looked over toward the houses on the other side of the field.

“Funny he came this way, where he could be seen so easily.”

“Maybe he had a car over on the Enköping road,” Pärsson suggested. “I think we can start with that and examine the ground from here to the road tomorrow.”

“It looks like rain,” said Martin Beck, “and almost three weeks have gone by. It doesn’t seem likely you’ll find anything.”

His feet were cold and he longed to be home with Rhea. The blackthorn bushes had not produced any answer to the question of who had murdered Walter Petrus, and it was getting dark.

“Let’s go,” he said, starting to walk back toward the cars.

He drove straight to Tulegatan, and while Rhea fried meat rissoles out in the kitchen, he lay in the bath and thought about how he would organize the next day’s work.

The Narcotics Squad would have to be informed and brought into the picture.

A thorough search would have to be made of the house in Djursholm, of the film company’s office and of Maud Lundin’s house.

Benny Skacke would have to spend the day finding out if Petrus had some secret address, an apartment or premises rented under a false name.

The girl Åsa had talked to would have to be pressed a bit harder. That would be up to Narcotics.

He himself thought about going out to the house again to speak to Mrs. Pettersson and Hellström the gardener, but that could wait. Tomorrow he would have to stay in his office. Åsa could talk to the help in Djursholm. He wondered what Åsa was up to. She had not been seen all day.

“Food’s ready,” called Rhea. “Do you want wine or beer?”

“Beer, thanks,” he called back.

He climbed out of the bath and stopped thinking about the next day.

The National Commissioner of Police smiled at Gunvald Larsson, but there was no trace of boyish charm in the smile. It showed only two rows of sharp teeth and a barely concealed dislike of his visitor. Stig Malm was in position, which meant just behind his boss’s shoulder, trying to look as if none of this had anything to do with him.

Malm had reached his present post by means of what might be called clever careerist maneuvering, or, in rather more direct language, ass-licking. He knew how dangerous it was to offend some higher-ups, but he was also aware of the fact that it could be disastrous to sit too heavily on some subordinates. The day might come when they in their turn were given the chance to sit on him. So for the time being he was observing the situation with an open mind.

The Commissioner raised his hands an inch or two and let
them fall flat on the table again. “Well, Larsson,” he said, “there’s no need to tell you how genuinely pleased we are that you escaped from that terrible business without serious injury.”

Gunvald Larsson glanced at Malm, who did not look the least bit pleased. But when Malm saw that he was being observed, he tried to repair the damage with a wide smile. “Yes, indeed, Gunvald,” he said. “You certainly gave us an anxious morning.”

The chief turned and looked icily at his second-in-command, and Malm realized he’d gone too far. He at once suppressed the smile, looked down and thought despondently: Whatever you do, it’s wrong.

He did in fact have good reason for a certain misanthropy. If he or the Commissioner made some slight error that the evening papers could splatter all over their front pages, it was Malm who got blamed. And when some subordinate erred, it was Malm again who got shot down. If he had shown a little more spunk, this might not have been the case, but Stig Malm never carried his reasoning that far.

The Commissioner, who for some reason thought long pauses increased his authority, now said: “What seems slightly peculiar is that you stayed there for eleven days after the assassination, although you had a flight booked for the following day. You should have left on June sixth, and yet you weren’t back until the eighteenth. How do you explain that?”

Gunvald Larsson had prepared an answer to that question. “I had a new suit made,” he said.

“Does it take eleven days to have a suit made?” asked the Commissioner in astonishment.

“Yes, if you want the job done properly. It can be done more quickly of course, but there’s bound to be some sloppy work here and there.”

“Mmm,” said the Commissioner irritably. “As you know, we have our auditors, and things like suits may be difficult to fit into the budget. Why couldn’t you buy a new suit here?”