The Laughing Policeman

Nordin said nothing. With the last he was inclined to agree.

'Misery,' the Swiss said, slimming up. 'But easy to earn money for foreigner. Everything else hopeless. I live in a room with three others. Pay four hundred kronor a month. How do you say - extortion? Dirty trick. Just because there is a housing shortage. Only rich men and criminals can afford to go to restaurants. I have saved money. I'm going home, I get my own little garage and marry.'

'Haven't you met any girls here?'

'Swedish girls are not worth having. Maybe students and the like can meet nice girls. Ordinary workmen meet only one sort. Like this Blonde Malin.'

'What sort?'

'Whores.' He pronounced the 'w'.

'You mean you don't want to pay for girls?'

Horst Dieke pouted.

'Many cost nothing. Whores all the same. Free whores.'

Nordin shook his head.

'You've only seen Stockholm, Horst. Pity.'

'Is the rest any better?'

Nordin nodded emphatically. Then he said, 'And you don't remember anything more about this guy?' 'No. Only that he laughed. Like this.'

Dieke opened his mouth and again emitted the shrill, bleating cry.

Nordin nodded good-bye and left.

Under the nearest lamp post he stopped and took out his notebook.

'Blonde Malin,' he murmured. 'Junkie dens. Free whores. What a profession to have chosen.'

It's not my fault, he thought The old man forced me into it.

A man approached along the pavement Nordin raised his Tyrolean hat which was already covered with snow, and said, 'Excuse me, can you -'

With a swift, suspicious glance at him the man hunched his shoulders and hurried on.

'... tell me where the underground station is?' Nordin murmured to the whirling blobs of wet snow.

Shaking his head, he scribbled a few words on the open page. Pablo or Paco. White Amazon. Cafe Tegnergatan-Sveavagen. Laughter. Blonde Malin, free whore.

Then, putting pen and paper in his pocket, he sighed and trudged away out of the circle of light.

₂₁

Kollberg stood outside the door of Asa Torell’s flat in Tjarhovsgatan. The time was already eight o'clock in the evening and in spite of everything he felt worried and absent-minded. In his right hand he held the envelope they had found in the drawer out at Vastberga.

The white card with Stenstrom's name was still on the door above the brass plate.

The bell didn't seem to be working and, true to habit, he pounded with his fist on the door. Asa Torell opened it at once. Stared at him and said, 'All right, all right, here I am. For God's sake don't kick the door down.'

'Sorry,' Kollberg mumbled.

It was dark in the flat He took his coat off and switched on the hall light. The old police cap was lying on the hat rack, just as before. The wire of the doorbell had been wrenched loose and was dangling from the jamb.

Asa Torell followed his gaze and muttered, 'A horde of idiots kept intruding. Journalists and photographers and God knows who. The bell never stopped ringing.'

Kollberg said nothing. He went into the living room and sat down in one of the safari chairs.

'Can't you put the light on so that at least we can see one another?'

'I can see quite well enough. All right, if you like, if you like, sure, I’ll put it on.'

She switched on the light, but did not sit down. She paced restlessly to and fro, as though she were caged in and wanted to get out

The air in the flat was stale and stuffy. The ashtrays had not been emptied for several days. The whole room was untidy and didn't seem to have been cleaned at all, and through the open door he saw that the bedroom too was in a mess and that the bed had certainly not been made. From the hall he had also glanced into the kitchen, where dirty plates and saucepans lay piled up in the sink.

Then he looked at the young woman. She walked up to the window, swung round and walked back towards the bedroom. Stood for a few seconds staring at the bed, turned again and went back to the window. Over and over again.

He had to keep moving his head from side to side to follow her with his eyes. It was almost like watching a tennis match.

Asa Torell had changed during the nineteen days that had passed since he saw her last She had the same thick grey skiing socks on her feet, or at any rate similar ones, and the same black slacks. But this time they were spotted with cigarette ash and her hair was uncombed and matted. Her gaze was unsteady and she had dark rings under her eyes; the skin on her lips was dry and cracked. She could not keep her hands still and the insides of the forefinger and middle finger of her left hand were stained a virulent yellow with nicotine. On the table lay five opened cigarette packets. She smoked a Danish brand - Cecil. Ake Stenstrom had not smoked at all.

'What do you want?' she asked gruffly.

She walked up to the table, shook a cigarette out of one of the packets, lit it with trembling hands and dropped the burnt match on the floor. Then she said, 'Nothing, of course. Just like that idiot Ronn, who sat here mumbling and rolling his head for two hours.'

Kollberg didn't answer.

'I'll have the phone turned off,' she announced abruptly. 'Aren't you working?' ‘I’m on sick leave.' Kollberg nodded.

'Stupidly,' she said. The firm has its own doctor. He said I was to rest for a month in the country or preferably go abroad. Then he drove me home.'

She drew deeply at her cigarette and tapped off the ash; most of it fell beside the ashtray.

'That was three weeks ago,' she said. 'It would have been much better if I could have gone on working as usual'

She swung round and went over to the window, looked down into the street and plucked at the curtain.

'As usual,' she said to herself.

Kollberg squirmed in his chair, ill at ease. This was going to be worse than he'd expected.

‘What do you want,' she asked again, without turning her head. 'Answer me, for God's sake. Say something.'

Somehow he must break the isolation. But how?

He got up and went over to the big carved bookcase. Looked at the books and took one out It was rather an old one, Manual of Crime Investigation by Otto Wendel and Arne Svensson, printed in 1949. He turned over the title page and read:

This is a numbered and limited edition. This copy, No. 2080, is for Detective Lennart Kollberg. The book is intended as a guide for policemen in their often difficult and responsible work on the scene of the crime. The contents are of a confidential nature, and the authors therefore request everyone to see that the book does not fall into the wrong hands.

He himself had written in the words 'Detective Lennart Kollberg long ago. It was a good book and it had been very useful to him in the old days.

'This is my old book,' he said.

'Take it then,' she replied.

'No. I gave it to Ake a couple of years ago.'

'Oh. Then he hasn't stolen it at any rate.'

He dipped into it as he considered what ought to be said or done. Here and there he had underlined certain passages. In two places he noticed a stroke in the margin made with a ball-point pen. Both were under the chapter heading

Sex Murders.

The sex murderer (the sadist) is often impotent and his violent crime is in that case an abnormal act for the attainment of sexual satisfaction.