Is included in the same gang as Matsson, but doesn't like M. much and has probably never had relations with him. Has gone around with Stig Lund for a year until quite recently. Nowadays seems to go around with Molin. Secretary at a fashion firm, Studio 45.
One of the gang, but no great friend of Matsson's. Divorced in Lulea, since then a resident in Stockholm. Drinks quite a bit, nervous and restless. Appears stupid, but a nice guy. Found guilty of drunken driving in May 1965.
Came to Stockholm in 1960 and has known Matsson since that time. They spent a lot of time together earlier, but during the last two years they have only met because they go to the same pubs. Quiet and gentle, drinks a lot and usually falls asleep at the table when he's drunk. Ex-athlete, took part in competitions with cross-country running his specialty, 1945-51.
Came to Sweden 1950. Journalist on various auto magazines and in the daily press since 1959. Earlier various jobs such as auto mechanic. Speaks Swedish almost without accent. Moved to flat on Svartensgatan July 1 of this year; before that he lived in Hagalund. Plans to marry at beginning of September, to a girl from Uppsala who is not one of the gang. No more friendly with Matsson than the aforementioned. Drinks quite a bit, but is known for not appearing drunk when he is. Seems quite a bright boy.
Alf Matsson's 'best friend,' i.e. he maintains he is, but speaks ill of M. behind his back. Divorced in Stockholm four years ago, keeps up support payments and sees his children now and again. Conceited, overbearing and tough attitude, especially when drunk, which happens often. Charged with intoxication in Stockholm twice, 1963 and 1965. Relationship with Pia Bolt not very serious on his side.
There are some more in the group: Krister Sjoberg, commercial artist; Bror Forsgren, advertising representative; Lena Rosen, journalist; Bengtsfors, journalist; Jack Meredith, film cameraman, as well as a few more, more or less peripheral. None of these was actually present on the day or evening in question.
Martin Beck got up and fetched the piece of paper he had made notes on while talking to Melander.
He took the paper back to bed with him.
Before putting out the light, he read the whole lot through again—Kollberg's report and his own carelessly scribbled notes.
26
Saturday, the thirteenth of August, was gray and windy, and the plane to Stockholm took its time against the headwind.
The lingering taste of crayfish was anything but delicious at this time of day and the paper mug of bad coffee that the airline had to offer hardly improved matters. Martin Beck leaned his head against the vibrating window and watched the clouds.
After a while he tried smoking, but it tasted disgusting. Kollberg was reading a daily from southern Sweden, glancing critically at the cigarette. He probably did not feel too good either.
As far as Alf Matsson was concerned, it could now be said that he was probably seen for the last time exactly three weeks ago—in the foyer of the Hotel Duna in Budapest.
The pilot informed them that the weather was cloudy and that the temperature was fifteen degrees centigrade in Stockholm, and it was drizzling.
Martin Beck extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray and said, 'That murder you were on ten days ago, is it cleared up?'
'Oh, yes.'
'No difficulties?'
'No. Psychologically, it was utterly uninteresting, if that's what you mean. Drunk as pigs, both of them. The guy who lived in the flat sat there giving the other guy trouble until he got angry and hit him with a bottle. Then he got scared and hit him twenty times more. But you know all that.'
'And afterward. Did he try to get away?'
'Oh, yes, of course. He went home and wrapped up his bloodstained clothes. Then he got a bottle of wood alcohol and went and sat under Skanstull Bridge. All we had to do was to go and pick him up. Then he flatly denied everything for a while and then began to bawl.'
After a brief pause, he said, still without looking up, 'He's got a screw or two missing. Skanstull Bridge! But he did his best.'
Kollberg lowered his paper and looked at Martin Beck.
'Exactly,' he said. 'He did his best.'
He returned to his paper.
Martin Beck frowned, picked up the list he had received the night before and read it through again. Time and time again, until they arrived. He put the paper in his pocket and fastened his safety belt. Then came the usual few minutes of unpleasantness as the plane waddled in the wind and slid down its invisible chute. Gardens and rooftops and two bounces on the concrete, and then he could let out his breath again.
They exchanged a few remarks in the domestic flight lounge while they were waiting for their luggage.
'Are you going out to the island tonight?'
'No, I'll wait a bit.'
'There's something rotten about this Matsson story.'
'Yes.'
'Aggravating.'
In the middle of Traneberg Bridge, Kollberg said, 'And it's even more aggravating that we can't stop thinking about the miserable business. Matsson was a boor. If he's really disappeared, then that's a good deed done. If he's on the run, then someone'll get him one of these days. That's not our business. And if by any chance he's somehow died down there, then that's nothing to do with us either. Is it?'
'That's right.'
'But supposing the man just goes on having disappeared. Then we'll be thinking about it for ten years. Christ!'
'You're not being particularly logical.'
'No. Exactly,' said Kollberg.
The police station seemed unusually quiet, but of course it was Saturday and, despite everything, still summer. On Martin Beck's desk lay a number of uninteresting letters and a note from Melander:
'A pair of black shoes in the flat. Old. Not used for a long time. No dark-gray suit.'
Outside the window, the wind tore at the treetops and the rain was driving against the windowpane. He thought of the Danube and the steamers and the breeze from the sunny hills. Viennese waltzes. The soft, warm night air. The bridge. The quay. Martin Beck gingerly felt the bump on the back of his head with his fingers, then went back to his desk and sat down.
Kollberg came in, looked at Melander's message, scratched his stomach and said, 'It's probably our concern in any case.'
'Yes, I think so.'
Martin Beck thought for a moment.
'When you were in Rumania, did you turn in your passport?'
'Yes, the police collected your passports at the airport. Then you got it back at the hotel a week later. I saw mine standing in my pigeonhole for several days before they gave it to me. It was a big hotel. The police handed in whole bundles of passports every evening.'
Martin Beck pulled the telephone toward him.
