Martin Beck: The Locked Room Part 2

When she answered her voice had changed, had acquired an undertone of surprise. 'My dear Commissioner, we got this corpse from the police. Before carrying out a postmortem I was personally in telephone contact with the police officer I a.s.sumed was responsible for the investigation. He said it was a routine job. There was only one question he wanted answered.'

'What was that?'

'Whether the person concerned had committed suicide.'

Irritated, Martin Beck rubbed his knuckles against his chest. The spot where the bullet had gone through him still hurt at times. He'd been told it was psychosomatic, that it would pa.s.s as soon as his unconscious had relinquished its grip on the past. Just now, it was the present that, in high degree, was irritating him. And that was something in which his unconscious could hardly have any interest.

An elementary mistake had been made. Naturally, the postmortem ought to have been done without any hints from the police. To present the forensic experts with the suspected cause of death was little short of breach of duty, especially if, as in this case, the pathologist was young and inexperienced.

'Do you know the officer's name?'

'Detective Sergeant Aldor Gustavsson. I got the impression he was in charge of the case. He seemed to be experienced and to know what he was about'

Martin Beck knew nothing about Detective Sergeant Aldor Gustavsson or his possible qualifications. He said: 'So the police gave you certain instructions?'

'One could put it like that, yes! In any case the police made it quite dear that it was a question of suspected suicide.' 'I see.'

'Suicide means, as you perhaps know, that someone has killed himself.'

Beck did not reply to this. Instead he said: 'Was the autopsy difficult?'

'Not really. Apart from the extensive organic changes. That always puts a somewhat different complexion on our work.'

He wondered how many autopsies she had carried out, but he refrained from comment 'Did it take long?'

'Not at all. Since it was a question of suicide or acute illness I began by opening up the thorax.'

Why?'

'The deceased was an elderly man.'

Why did you a.s.sume death to have been sudden?' 'This police officer gave me to understand it was.' 'In what way?'

'By going straight to the point, I seem to remember.' 'What did he say?'

'"Either the old boy's taken his own life or else had a heart attack." Something along those lines.'

Another false conclusion crying aloud to heaven! There was nothing to suggest that Svard, before dying, might not have lain there paralysed or helpless for several days.

'So you opened his chest.'

'Yes, and the question was answered almost immediately. No doubt which alternative was correct.' 'Suicide?' 'Of course.' 'By?'

'He had shot himself through the heart. The bullet was still lodged in the thorax.'

'Had the bullet hit the heart?'

'Come very close, anyway. The main injury was to the aorta.' She paused briefly, then added a trifle acidly. 'Do I express myself comprehensibly?'

'Sure.' Martin Beck formulated his next question carefully. 'Have you an extensive experience of bullet wounds?'

'Enough, I reckon. Anyway this case presents hardly any complications.' How many autopsies might she have carried out on victims of bullet wounds in her life? Three? Two? Or maybe only one?

The doctor, intuiting perhaps his unvoiced doubts, explained: 'I worked in Jordan during the civil war, two years ago. No shortage of bullet wounds there.'

'But presumably not so many suicides.'

'No, not quite.'

'Well, it just so happens,' Martin Beck said, 'that few suicide cases aim at their hearts. Most shoot themselves through the mouth, some through the temple.'

"That may be. But this guy was for from being my first. When I was doing psychology I was taught that suicides - especially the romantics among them - have a deep-rooted instinct to aim at their hearts. Apparently it's a widespread tendency.'

'How long do you think Svard could have survived with this bullet wound?'

'Not long. One minute, maybe two or three. The internal haemorrhage was extensive. At a guess, I'd say a minute. But the margins are still very small. Does it matter?'

'Maybe not But there's something else that interests me. You examined the remains on twentieth June?'

'Yes, that's correct'

'How long do you think the man had been dead by then?' 'Mmm..,'

'On this point your report is vague.'

'As a matter of fact it's not easy to say. Maybe a more experienced pathologist than myself could have given you a more exact answer.'

'But what do you think? 'At least two months, but...' 'But?'

'But it depends what things were like at the scene of death. Warmth and damp air make a big difference. It could be less, for example, if the body was exposed to great heat. On the other hand, if disintegration was extensive, I mean..

'And the actual entrance wound?

"This business of the disintegration of the tissues makes that a difficult question, too.'

'Was the gun fired in contact with the body?'

'Not in my view. But I could be wrong, I must stress that'

'What is your view, then?'

'That he shot himself the other way. After all, there are two cla.s.sic ways, aren't there?'

'Indeed,' said Martin Beck. 'That's correct'

'Either one presses the barrel against one's body and fires, or else one holds one's arm with the pistol or whatever it is stretched right out, with the weapon reversed. In which case I suppose one has to pull the trigger with one's thumb.'

'Precisely. And so that's what you think happened?'

'Yes. But with every reservation imaginable. It's really very hard to be sure a gun was pressed against a body which had changed so.'

'I get you.'

'Then it's only me who doesn't understand a thing,' the girl said lightly. 'Why are you asking all these questions? Is it so important which way he shot himself?'

'Yes, it seems so. Svard was found dead at home in his flat, with all the windows and doors closed from inside. He was lying beside an electric radiator.'

'That could explain the advanced putrefaction,' she said. 'In that case a month could be enough.'

'Really?'

'Yes. And that could also explain why it's hard to find any powder burns from a point-blank shot'

'I see,' said Martin Beck. 'Thanks for your help.

'Oh, that's nothing. If there's-anything else I can explain, please call back.'

'Goodbye.' He put down the receiver. She was an old hand at explanations. Soon there'd only be one thing left to explain. But that was still more bewildering. Svard could not possibly have committed suicide. To shoot yourself without a gun - that's not easy.

And in the flat on Bergsgatan there'd been no weapon.

7.

Martin Beck went on with his phoning. He tried to get hold of the original radio patrol that had been summoned to Bergsgatan, but neither of the two officers, it seemed, were on duly. After some calling around it transpired that one was on holiday and the other absent from duty to give evidence in a district court case. Gunvald Larsson was busy with meetings, and Einar Ronn had gone out on a call.

It was a long while before Martin Beck succeeded in contacting the detective sergeant who had finally sent the case on to Homicide. This hadn't happened till Monday the 26th, and Martin Beck found it imperative to ask him a question: 'Is it true the autopsy report came in as early as that Wednesday?'

The man's voice wavered noticeably as he answered: 'I can't really say for sure. Anyhow I didn't read it personally until that Friday.'

Martin Beck said nothing. He waited for some kind of explanation. It came: 'In this precinct we're hardly up to half strength. There wasn't a chance of clearing up any but the most urgent matters. The papers just pile up on us. It's getting worse every day.'

'So - no one had looked at the autopsy report before that?'

'Yes, our commissioner here. And on Friday morning he asked me who'd taken care of the gun.' 'What gun?'

'The one Svard had shot himself with. I knew nothing about any gun, but I a.s.sumed one of the officers who'd taken the call had found it'

'I have their report in front of me,' Martin Beck said. 'If there'd been a firearm in the flat there should be some mention of it'

'I can't see how this radio patrol could have made any mistake,' the man said, at once on the defensive. He was disposed to defend his men, and it wasn't hard to see why. During the past year criticism of the regular police had been growing steadily. Relations with the public were worse than ever before and the burden of work had almost doubled. As a consequence, any number of policemen had simply given up. Unfortunately they were generally the best. In spite of ma.s.sive unemployment in Sweden it was impossible to get new men, and the recruiting base was getting smaller than ever. Those policemen who stayed felt an even stronger need to stick together.

'Maybe not,' Martin Beck said.

'Those guys did exactly what they should have done. After they'd let themselves in and found the dead man, they called in one of their superiors.'

'This Gustavsson guy?'

'Exactly. A man from the Criminal Investigation Division. Apart from the actual finding of the corpse it was his business to draw conclusions and report observations. And I a.s.sumed they'd shown him the gun and he'd taken care of it'

'And then not even bothered to report it?'

'Such things can happen,' the policeman said dryly.

'Well, it appears now there was no weapon inside the room.'

'No. But I didn't find that out till Monday, a week ago, when I was speaking to Kristiansson and Kvastmo. Whereupon I immediately sent the doc.u.ments over to Kungsholmsgatan.'

The Kungsholmen police station and the CID offices were in the same block. Martin Beck took the liberty of saying: 'Well, that wasn't very far, anyway.'

'We've made no mistakes,' the man said.

'Actually I'm more interested in what happened to Svard than in who might have made a mistake,' Martin Beck said.

'Well, if a mistake's been made, it hasn't been by the Metropolitan Police, anyway.'

This retort was insinuating, to say the least. Martin Beck found it best to terminate the conversation. 'Thanks for your help,' he said.'Goodbye.'

The next man on the line was Detective Sergeant Gustavsson, who seemed to be in an incredible rush. 'Oh that,' he said. 'Well, I don't understand it at all. But I a.s.sume things like that do happen.'

'What things?'

'Inexplicable things, puzzles to which there's quite simply no solution. So one sees at once one might as well give up.' 'Be so kind as to come over here,' Beck said. 'Now? To Vastberga?' 'That's it.'

'Unfortunately thats impossible.'

'I think not' Martin Beck looked at his watch. 'Let's say half past three.'

'But it's simply impossible...'

'Half past three,' Martin Beck said, and put down the phone. Getting up from his chair he started pacing his room, his hands clasped behind his back.

This opening skirmish said volumes about the trend during the last five years. More and more often one was obliged to initiate an investigation by trying to sort out what the police had been up to. Not infrequently this proved harder than clearing up the actual case.

Aldor Gustavsson made his entrance at 4.05. The name hadn't meant a thing to Martin Beck, but as soon as he saw the man he recognized him. A skinny guy, aged about thirty, dark-haired, with a tough, nonchalant air. Martin Beck recalled having seen him now and then in the orderly room of the Stockholm CID as well as in other less prominent contexts. 'Please sit down.'

Gustavsson sat down in the best chair, crossed his legs, and took out a cigar. He lit it and said: 'Crazy story, this, eh? What did you want to know?'

For a while Martin Beck sat quietly, rolling his ballpoint pen between his fingers. Then he said: 'At what time did you get to Bergsgatan?'

'Some time in the evening. About ten.'

'What did it look like then?'