'Mmm,' Kollberg said.
The whole country was littered with old cars that people just abandoned. It was by far the cheapest and simplest way of getting rid of a worn-out vehicle.
'What do we know about this Christer Paulson?' he said.
'Quite a bit He was recently released from a penal institution. Twenty-four years old and he already had a long record. He's from central Sweden originally, but apparently he's been living down here for quite some time.'
'And now he's dead.'
'Yes, well, Hector shot him. Self-defence is the term. For the time being, we don't know much more than that. There was a statement from a psychiatrist who said he was a neurotic type...'
Månsson looked at one of the papers in front of him.
'Yes,' he said. 'Antisocial In revolt against society. He lacked education and never held a job. But he's never been convicted of a violent crime, although he's apparently been armed on other occasions. Wanted to look tough, I suppose. He was also a drug addict.'
Kollberg sighed. This very type of person had become so common in the so-called welfare state that it was now utterly impossible to keep track of the individual cases. And, what was worse, no one had any idea what to do with them.
The contribution of the police was usually limited to a tap on the head with a truncheon and a little working over at the police station.
'I wonder if he would have fired if Hector hadn't been waving that pistol around,' Kollberg said. 'What did you say?'
'Nothing. I was just thinking out loud.'
'I heard what you said,' said Månsson after a short silence. 'I've wondered the same thing myself. But I've stopped worrying about it. The fact is, we'll never know.'
'Have you ever shot anyone?'
Månsson examined the toothpick he had just chewed to bits and chuckled to himself.
'Yes,' he said. 'Once. A cow. It escaped from the abattoir and wandered into town. That was back in the days of trams, and the poor thing attacked the old coal tram on Krueger & Toll Bridge. A regular bullfight'
'Mmm,' said Kollberg again.
'But that was a long time ago,' Månsson said. 'And besides, it was sort of a special case. I've always been sorry I didn't have my sabre with me. I could really have played matador.'
'I've never shot a cow,' Kollberg said.
'You haven't missed a thing,' Månsson said. 'She just laid there bleeding in the middle of the street and stared at me. No, I never carry my revolver any more. I've got it here in the drawer, of course.'
He kicked the desk.
'I don't much believe in shooting,' he said. 'And that's what you wanted me to say. Anyway, my eyesight isn't good enough.' Kollberg was silent.
'I saw an interesting case a few years ago,' Månsson said. 'That was back in the days when I still believed in my chances of making Detective Superintendent, so I went on this study trip to England. Not London, but this other place - Luton, it was called. The men I was working with had a real tough case one evening. There was this maniac who'd broken into the house where his ex-wife lived and he was threatening her and making a hell of a row. He had a gun in one hand and a samurai sword in the other.'
'What happened?'
'Well, these two constables, regular bobbies, were going to go in and get him. But he was pretty wild, swinging the sword around, and one of the constables got cut on the hand. Then he fired several shots in the air. So anyway, guess what they did.'
'What?'
'They sent for two more bobbies, who came over from the police station with a big net And they threw the net over this guy and caught him like he'd been some sort of performing bear. A net. How about that?'
'Not a bad idea,' Kollberg said.
'I thought about writing it up for the Swedish Police Journal,' Månsson said. 'But I suppose the fellows up in Stockholm would have laughed their heads off. For that matter, they probably wouldn't have printed it.'
"We still don't know anything about this fellow Caspar,' Kollberg said.
'No. But we've got a couple of good leads. First off, we can talk to this Christer Paulson's friends. If they'll talk to us. Some kids are so funny these days.'
'Not if you talk to them yourself,' Kollberg said.
'And second, we ought to find his prints in the car. Or maybe something else.'
Månsson drummed his fingers on the desk.
'This Christer Paulson was from Stockholm,' he said. 'Typical. Things have got so bad up there not even the villains have the guts to stay. They come and make trouble down here instead.'
There was something in what Månsson said, but Kollberg made do with a shrug of the shoulders. The telephone rang.
Månsson waved generously towards the phone.
'Be my guest,' he said. 'It's your turn.'
Kollberg grimaced mournfully and picked up the receiver.
But it wasn't Malm this time. It was Benny Skacke.
'Hi,' he said. 'I'm still down here in Vellinge waiting for the recovery lorry. It looks like she's out of petrol. But it's the right car, that seems definite. The stuff they stole is still inside.'
'Well, don't poke around and leave a lot of unnecessary fingerprints,' Kollberg said.
'No,' Skacke said. 'I won't. Don't worry about that. But there's another thing I thought maybe you'd want to know.'
Benny Skacke was always a little unsure of himself whenever he spoke to Kollberg. They had certain experiences in common which Skacke would like to have seen forgotten.
'Come on, Benny,' Kollberg said. 'What is it?'
'Well, Vellinge is still sort of a little town, where most of the people know all about each other, even if it is in Malmö Division.'
'What have you found out?'
"There's a man here had his car stolen. Sunday. Although he doesn't seem to have reported it until yesterday. For that matter, it was his wife who called it in.'
'Good work, Benny,' Kollberg said. 'Give me the number and everything, so we can send out a description.'
Kollberg noted down the details and then sent the information out on the telex.
"This all fits together nicely,' Månsson said.
'Mmm,' said Kollberg. 'It's beginning to.'
'Right,' Månsson said. 'Christer Paulson and this here Caspar do a job together. They're seen breaking into the house. The radio patrol with Elofsson, Borglund, and Hector happens to be right there in the neighbourhood. They stop the car with the thieves in it. Christer Paulson shoots Hector and Elofsson, but Hector gets his revolver out...'
'Has his revolver out,' Kollberg said.
'Okay, has it out. In any case, he kills Christer Paulson. Caspar's scared shitless and jumps in the car and drives off. He manages to get across the bridge at Höllviksnäs - that's the only tricky bit. From there on, he can stick to back roads, which we can't block or even watch effectively.'
Kollberg was no great expert on Skane, but he did know that Ljunghusen was on a promontory cut off by the Falsterbo Canal and that there was only one bridge over the canal.
'Could he get out before the first squad car arrived?'
'Easy. It only took him a minute or two to get to the bridge. Ljunghusen is right next to the canal. But as you can imagine, things got a little confused that morning. We had a lot of people in the area, but most of them were hustling down the motorway from Malmö at a hundred and ten miles an hour. On top of everything else, two of our cars broke down. Anyway, our friend Caspar makes it to Vellinge. And runs out of petrol. He drives off the road. And then he steals another car and drives away.1
'Where to?'
'As far as he can get, probably. That kid isn't still in this neck of the woods. But now we've got some data on his new car, we're bound to track it down.'
'Yes,' Kollberg said.
He was thinking about something else.
'Unless the owner gave us the wrong licence number, the wrong make, and the wrong colour,' Månsson said.
'I want you to answer me a question,' Kollberg said. 'Even if it goes against the grain. It's not that I want to be disloyal to the official version, but for my own sake I have to know exactly what happened.'
'Don't worry about me,' Månsson said.
'Exactly what happened to Borglund?'
'I think I know, but it's only a guess,' Månsson said.
‘What do you think?'
'I think Borglund was asleep in the back seat when they stopped the car with the suspects. By the time he got out, everything was happening very fast. Christer Paulson and possibly this kid Caspar started shooting, and then Hector returned their fire, with the result we know of. As soon as that first shot went off, Borglund took cover, which is to say, he threw himself in the ditch. Apparently he landed right on a wasps' nest and a wasp stung him on the carotid artery. He tried to go on duty on Sunday, but he was so sick he had to go home. And on Monday he went into the hospital. He'd lost consciousness by that time, and he never regained it.'
'An accident,' Kollberg muttered.
'Yes. But not unique. I'm pretty sure it's happened before.'
'Did you talk to him before he went to the hospital?'
'Yes. He knew practically nothing. They'd stopped a car, he didn't know why, and then one of the suspects started shooting. So he took cover. He was just scared, I imagine.'
'Except for Caspar,' Kollberg said,'I've now heard what everyone involved has to say. And there's no one who claims that this lad Caspar shot anyone or employed any kind of violence at all. It strikes me as extremely hypocritical to maintain that Borglund was murdered’
'Actually, no one does. All we've said is that he died of the injuries he received in connection with an exchange of fire. And that's true, as a matter of fact. What are you getting at?'
Månsson gave Kollberg a worried look.
'I'm thinking of this boy we're hunting,' Kollberg said. 'At the moment, we don't know who he is, but we're sure to find out soon. He's the object of a pretty wild manhunt that might make anyone lose his head. But it may very well be that the only thing he did was take part in the burglary of an empty summer villa. I don't like it.'
'No,' Månsson said. 'But there's not much to like in this job.'
And then the telephone rang.
Malm.
How's it going? What have you done? Kollberg handed the receiver to Månsson. 'He's better informed,' he lied.
Månsson reported the news one item at a time, as cool as ice. 'What did he say?' asked Kollberg when the conversation was oyer.
'"Excellent,"' Månsson said. 'That's what he said. Plus that we should clap on all sail.' Clap on all sail.
An hour later, Benny Skacke arrived with the infamous car.
When the fingerprint experts were finished, it was time for an inspection.
'What a heap,' Månsson said. 'And here's the loot - an old TV, some rugs, this funny statue or whatever it is. A few bottles of booze. Rubbish. Plus some five-kronor pieces from a piggy bank.'
'And two dead and two in the hospital, probably crippled for life.'
'Yes, that's certainly a lot of needless casualties,' Månsson said. ‘What we can try to do is to see that there aren't any more,' Kollberg said.
They went over the old Chevvy again, with even greater care. Both of them were trained for this kind of job, and Månsson could even claim to be an expert at discovering things that no one else could find.
And he was the one who found it.
A thin piece of paper, folded several times, which had slipped down behind the cushion of the seat beside the driver. The upholstery was torn, and the little sheet of paper had lodged inside the padding. Kollberg was almost certain that he never would have found it.
On the other hand, he did find two picture postcards in the glove compartment. Both of them were addressed to Christer Paulson, at an address on Stenbocksgatan in Malmö. Two different girls seemed to have written them. The messages were of no interest. As clues, per se, they would have been a good deal more interesting twenty-four hours earlier. Not even the address was news. The police had already managed to find it through the social welfare authorities.
They took what they'd found to Månsson's office.
Kollberg unfolded the little slip of paper, and Månsson took out his magnifying glass.
'What is it?'Kollberg said.
'A transaction receipt from a Danish bank,' Månsson said. 'The blue copy, at least. It's just the sort of thing you either throw away or else fold up and stuff in your pocket And then lose it when you pull out your handkerchief to blow your nose.' 'And you sign it? With your name?'
'Sometimes,' Månsson said. 'Sometimes not. It depends on the rules of the bank. This one is signed.'
'Jesus, what handwriting!' Kollberg said.
'A lot of kids write like that these days. But what does it say?'
'"Ronnie,'' I think. And then something that starts with C. And then a little "a", and then an angleworm.'
'It could be Ronnie Casparsson,' Månsson said. 'Or something like that. But that's just a guess.'
'It does say "Ronnie" in any case.'
'We'll have to check and see if there is anyone named Ronnie Casparsson,' Månsson said.
Skacke came into the room and shifted his weight from one foot to the other for a while. Kollberg looked up at him.
'You can cut that out now, Benny. The past is buried and forgotten. If we're going to work together you can't go around acting like a five-year-old who's been into the biscuit barrel. What is it?'
'Well, I've got some kids out here who knew Christer Paulson. A girl and two boys. Social welfare helped us get them over here. We found several, but these were the only ones who seemed like they might talk to us. Maybe. Does one of you want to talk to them?'
'Yes,' Kollberg said. 'I'd be glad to.'
The young people looked very ordinary. That is to say, they would not have looked ordinary seven or eight years earlier. They had on long, embroidered leather jackets. The boys were wearing Levi's, also covered with embroidery, and the girl had on a floor-length skirt that looked to be Indian or Moroccan or some such thing. They all had leather boots with high heels and hair that reached down to their shoulders.