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 post-mortem I was personally in telephone contact with the police officer I assumed 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 pass 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 clear 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 assume 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 Svärd, 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 far 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 Svärd 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 classic 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. Svärd 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