police-haters were given grist for their mill.
'There's a latent hatred of police in all classes of society,' Melander said. 'And it needs only an impulse to trigger it off.'
'Oh,' Kollberg said, with complete lack of interest. 'And what is the reason for that?'
'The reason is that the police are a necessary evil’ Melander said. 'Everybody knows, even professional criminals, that they may suddenly find themselves in a situation in which only the police can help them. When the burglar wakes up at night and hears a rattling in his cellar, what does he do? Calls the police, of course. But so long as such situations don't crop up, most people react with either fear or contempt when the police, in one way or other, interfere in their existence or disturb their peace of mind.'
'Well, that's the last straw, if we have to regard ourselves as a necessary evil,' Kollberg muttered despondently.
'The crux of the problem is, of course,' Melander went on, quite unconcerned, 'the paradox that the police profession in itself calls for the highest intelligence and exceptional mental, physical and moral qualities in its practicians but has nothing to attract individuals who possess them.'
‘You're horrible,' Kollberg said.
Martin Beck had heard the arguments many times before and was not amused.
'Can't you carry on your sociological discussions somewhere else?' he said grumpily. 'I'm trying to think.'
'Of what?' Kollberg said.
And the telephone rang.
'Hello. Beck.'
'Hjelm here. How's it going?'
'Between ourselves, badly.'
'Have you identified that guy with no face yet?'
Martin Beck had known Hjelm for many years and had great confidence in him. He was not the only one; Hjelm was considered by many to be one of the cleverest forensic technicians in the world. If he were handled in the right way.
'No,' Martin Beck said. 'Nobody seems to miss him. And the door-knockers have drawn a blank.'
He drew a deep breath and went on.
‘You don't mean to say you've produced something new?'
Hjelm must be flattered - that was a well-known fact
'Yes,' he said smugly. 'We've given him an extra going-over. Tried to build up a more detailed picture. That gives some idea of the living person. I think we've managed to give him a certain character.'
Can I say: ‘You don't mean it?' thought Martin Beck.
'You don't mean it,' he said.
Yes, I do,' Hjelm said delightedly. 'The result's better than we expected.'
What should he pile on now? 'Fantastic'? 'Splendid'? Just plain: 'Fine'? or 'Terrific'? Must go into training at Inga's coffee klatsch, he thought
'Great’ he said.
'Thanks,' Hjelm replied enthusiastically.
'Don't mention it I suppose you can't tell me -
'Oh, sure. That's why I called up. We took a look at his teeth first. Not easy. They're in bad shape. But the fillings we have found are carelessly done. I don't think they can be the work of a Swedish dentist. I won't say any more on that point'
'That in itself is a good deal.'
'Then there's his clothes. We've traced his suit to one of the Hollywood shops here in Stockholm. There are three, as you may know. One on Vasagatan, one on Gotgatan and one at St Eriksplan.'
'Good,' Martin Beck said laconically.
He couldn't play the hypocrite any more.
‘Yes,' Hjelm said sourly, 'that’s what I think. Further, the suit was dirty. It has certainly never been dry- cleaned, and I should think he's worn it day in day out for a long time.'
'How long?'
'A year, at a guess.'
'Have you anything more?'
There was a pause. Hjelm had kept the best till last. This was only a rhetorical pause.
'Yes,' he said at length. 'In the breast pocket of the jacket we found crumbs of hashish, and some grains in the right trouser pocket derived from crushed Preludin tablets. The analyses of certain tests from the autopsy confirm that the man was a junkie.'
New pause. Martin Beck said nothing.
'In addition, he had gonorrhea. In an advanced stage.'
Martin Beck finished making his notes, said thank you and put down the phone.
'Reeks of the underworld,' Kollberg declared.
He had been standing behind the chair eavesdropping.
'Yes,' Martin Beck said. 'But his fingerprints are not in our files.'
'Perhaps he was a foreigner.'
'Quite possibly,' Martin Beck agreed. 'But what shall we do with this information? We can hardly let it out to the press.'
'No,' Melander said. 'But we can let it circulate by word of mouth among snouts and known addicts. Via the drug squad and the community relations workers in the various police districts.'
'Mmm,' Martin Beck murmured. 'Do that then.'
Not much use, he thought. But what else was to be done? During the last few days the police had made two spectacular raids on the so-called underworld. The result was exactly what they expected. Meagre. The raids had been foreseen by all except those who were most broken-down and destitute. The majority of those who had been picked up by the police - about one hundred and fifty - had been in need of immediate care and had been passed on to various institutions.
The investigation had so tar produced nothing, and the detectives who handled the contacts with the dregs of society said they were convinced the snouts really didn't know anything.
Everything seemed to bear this out No one could reasonably gain anything by shielding this criminal.
'Except himself,' said Gunvald Larsson, who had a fondness for unnecessary remarks.
The only thing they could do was to work on the material they already had. Try to trace the weapon and go on interrogating all who had had any connection with the victims. These interviews were now carried out by the reinforcements - Mansson from Malmo and a detective inspector from Sundsvall by the name of Nordin. Gunnar Ahlberg could not be spared from his ordinary work. It didn't really matter; everyone was pretty sure that these interrogations would lead nowhere.
The hours dragged past and nothing happened. Day was added to day. The days formed a week, and then another week. Once again it was Monday. The date was 4 December and the nameday was Barbro. The weather was cold and windy and the Christmas rush grew more and more hectic. The reinforcements got the blues and began to feel homesick, Mansson for the mild climate of southern Sweden and Nordin for the clear, bright cold of the northern winter. Neither of them was used to a big city and they both felt miserable in Stockholm. A lot of things got on their nerves, mainly the rush and tear, the jostling crowds and the unfriendly people. And as policemen they were irritated by the rowdyism and the petty crimes that were rife everywhere.
'It beats me how you guys stand it in this town,' Nordin said.
He was a stocky, bald man with bushy eyebrows and screwed-up brown eyes.
'We were born here,' Kollberg said. ‘We've never known anything else.'
'I just came in on the underground,' Nordin said. 'Just between Alvik and Fridhemsplan I saw at least fifteen individuals the police would have nabbed on the spot if it had been at home in Sundsvall.'
'We're short of people,' Martin Beck said.
‘Yes, I know, but...'
