'If you can run that tart in for something, I couldn't be more pleased. I think I know where she is. When she isn't here, she's usually at a cafe on Engelbrektsplan.'
Nordin thanked her and went out into the cold.
Blonde Malin was not at the other cafe either; all its regular customers seemed to have deserted it Nordin, reluctant to give in, went up to a woman who was sitting by herself and reading a thumbed and grubby magazine. She didn't know who Blonde Malin was, but suggested that he should look in at a wine bar on Kungsgatan.
Nordin trudged on along the odious Stockholm streets, wishing he were at home in Sundsvall again.
This time he was rewarded for his pains.
He shook his head at the cloakroom attendant who came forward to take his coat, stood in the doorway of the bar and looked around. He caught sight of her almost at once.
She was big-framed, but didn't seem fat Her fair hair, bleached by the look of it, was piled up on top of her head.
Nordin didn't doubt for a moment that this was Blonde Malin.
She was sitting on a wall-seat with a wineglass in front of her. Beside her sat a much older woman, whose long black hair, hanging in unruly curls to her shoulders, didn't make her look any younger. Sure to be a free whore, Nordin thought
He observed the two women for a while. They were not talking to each other. Blonde Malin was staring at the wineglass, which she twiddled between her fingers. The black-haired woman kept looking around the room, now and then flinging her long hair aside with a coquettish toss of the head.
Nordin turned to the cloakroom attendant.
'Excuse me, but do you know the name of that blonde lady sitting over by the wall?'
The man looked across the room.
'Lady!' he snorted. 'Her! No, I don't know her name, but I think they call her Malin. Fat Malin or something like that' Nordin gave him his hat and coat
The black-haired woman looked at him expectantly as he came up to their table.
'Pardon my intrusion,' Nordin said. 'I'd like a word with Miss Malin if she doesn't mind.'
Blonde Malin looked at him and sipped her wine.
‘What about?' she said.
'About a friend of yours,' Nordin said. 'Perhaps we could move to another table and have a quiet talk?'
Blonde Malin looked at her companion and he hastened to add, 'If your friend doesn't mind, of course.'
The black-haired woman filled her glass from the carafe on the table and got up.
'Don't let me disturb you,' she said huffily.
Blonde Malin said nothing.
'I'll go and sit with Tora,' the woman said. 'So long, Malin.' She picked up her glass and went over to a table farther down the room.
Nordin drew out a chair and sat down. Blonde Malin looked at him expectantly.
'I'm Detective Inspector Ulf Nordin,' he said. 'It's possible that you can help us with something.'
'Oh yeah?' Blonde Malin said. 'And what would that be? You said it was about a friend of mine.'
'Yes,' Nordin replied. 'We'd like some information about a man you know.'
Blonde Malin looked at Ulf Nordin contemptuously. 'I'm not grassing on anybody,' she said. Nordin took out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to her. She took one and he lit it for her.
'It's not a question of being a grass,' he said. 'A few weeks ago you rode with two men in a white Volvo Amazon to a garage in Hagersten. The garage is on Klubbacken and is owned by a Swiss named Horst. The man who drove the car was a Spaniard. Do you remember that occasion?'
'Supposing I do,' Blonde Malin said. 'What of it? Nisse and I only went with this Paco so Nisse could show him the way to the garage. Anyway, he's gone back to Spain now.'
'Paco?'
'Yes.'
She drained her glass and poured out the rest of the wine in the carafe.
'May I offer you something?' Nordin asked. 'A little more wine?' She nodded and Nordin beckoned to the waitress. He ordered half a carafe of wine and a stein of beer. 'Who's Nisse?' he asked
'The guy with me in the car, of course. You said so yourself just now.'
'Yes, but what's his other name besides Nisse? What does he do?' 'His name's Goransson. Nils Erik Goransson. I don't know what he does. I ain't seen him for a couple of weeks.' 'Why?' Nordin asked. 'Eh?'
‘Why haven't you seen him for a couple of weeks? Didn't you meet quite often before that?'
'We ain't married, are we? We're not even going steady. We just went together sometimes. Maybe he's met some girl. How do I know. I haven't seen him for a while at any rate.'
The waitress brought the wine and Nordin's beer. Blonde Malin immediately filled her glass.
'Do you know where he lives?' Nordin asked.
'Nisse? No, he sort of didn't have anywhere to live. He lived with me for a time and then with a mate on the South Side, but I don't think he's there now. I don't know, really. And even if I did, I'm not too sure I'd tell a cop. I'm not going to inform on anybody.'
Nordin took a draught of beer and looked amiably at the large, fair girl opposite him.
'You don't have to, Miss — Pardon me, but what's your name besides Malin?'
'My name ain't Malin at all,' she said. 'My name's Magdalena Rosen. People call me Blonde Malin because I'm so blonde.' She stroked her hair.
'What do you want Nisse for, anyway? Has he done something? I ain't going to sit here answering a lot of questions if I don't know what it's all about'
'No, of course not I'll tell you what it is you can help us with,' Ulf Nordin said.
He finished his beer and wiped his mouth.
'May I ask just one more question?' he said.
She nodded.
'How was Nisse usually dressed?'
She frowned and thought for a moment.
'Most of the time he wore a suit,' she said. 'One of them light beige ones with covered buttons. And shirt and shoes and underpants, like all other guys.'
- 'Didn't he have an overcoat?'
'Well, I'd hardly call it an overcoat One of them thin black things - nylon, you know. Why?'
She looked inquiringly at Nordin.
'Well, Miss Rosen, it's possible that he is dead.'
'Dead? Nisse? But... why... why do you say it's possible? How do you know he's dead?'
Ulf Nordin took out his handkerchief and wiped his neck. It was very warm in the bar and his whole body felt sticky.
'The thing is,' he said, 'we've a man out at the morgue we haven't been able to identify. There's reason to suspect that the dead man is Nils Erik Goransson.'
'How's he supposed to have died?' Blonde Malin asked suspiciously.
'He was one of the passengers on that bus that you've no doubt read about He was shot in the head and must have been killed outright Since you're the only person we've traced who knew Goransson well, we'd be grateful if you'd come out to the morgue tomorrow and see if it's him.'
She stared at Nordin in horror.
'Me? Come out to the morgue? Not on your life!'
The time was nine o'clock on Wednesday morning when Nordin and Blonde Malin got out of a taxi outside the institute for forensic medicine on Tomtebodavagen. Martin Beck had been waiting for them for a quarter of an hour and together they entered the morgue.
Blonde Malin was pale under her carelessly applied make-up. Her face was bloated and her fair hair was not arranged as neatly as it had been the evening before.
Nordin had had to wait in her hall while she got ready. When at last they came out into the street, he noted that she showed up considerably more to her advantage in the dimness of the bar than in the bleary morning light
