Martin Beck's position gave him the doubtful pleasure of reading confidential reports. Most of them were political, and he threw them directly into the Out basket for secret papers, to be passed on to the next bureaucrat with clearance. But he usually read the ones that seemed to have some connection with his own job. Suicide, for example, was a subject that had begun to interest him more and more. And secret memoranda on the subject cropped up with increasing regularity. The point of departure was always the same: Sweden led the world by a margin that seemed to grow larger from one report to the next, but, as with so many other things, the National Commissioner had decreed that nothing must get out. On the other hand, the explanation varied. Other countries cheated on their statistics. For a long time it had been popular to single out the Catholic countries, but then the Archbishop and some religious bigwigs within the police department had begun to complain, so then countries with a socialist form of government had had to take their place. But Swedish intelligence had immediately made difficulties, on the grounds that they could no longer use priests as spies. Since the secret activities of the Security Police fell into the category of things that always, inevitably, got out, a sigh of relief was heaved at National Police Administration Headquarters. Rumour had it that the National Commissioner himself had expressed certain misgivings at the suggestion that Swedish priests, some of whom were outright card-carrying Reds, would be able to spy on Swedish Communists or bring so formidable an opponent as the Soviet Union to its knees.
But as usual, all of this was unconfirmed rumour. Out must nothing get, as they sometimes put it – for a joke, or at least for the sake of putting it some different way. But the faithful would tolerate no deviation. ‘Nothing must get out’ was the proper expression.
And that was that.
The gist of the latest suicide manifesto was as follows: Since most people neither shoot themselves nor jump off Väster Bridge but get good and drunk instead and then swallow a bottle of sleeping pills, they could be written off as cases of accidental poisoning and completely eliminated from the statistics, which would thus suddenly become amazingly auspicious.
Martin Beck thought about these things a lot.
Månsson poured some more grape juice in his Gripenberger.
He had not spoken for some time, and to judge by his clothing he wasn't planning to go anywhere.
He was wearing a nightshirt, flannel trousers, and terry-cloth slippers, plus a bathrobe that seemed to be part of the ensemble.
‘The wife will be here in a little while,’ he said. ‘Usually shows up around three o'clock.’
Månsson had apparently gone back to his life as five-sevenths bachelor, in that he spent five days of the week alone and the weekends with his wife.
They had separate apartments.
‘It's a good system,’ he said. ‘It's true, I did have a girlfriend in Copenhagen for a year or so. And she was terrific, but it got to be too much of a good thing. I'm not as young as I used to be.’
Martin Beck thought for a moment about what the other man had said.
True, Månsson was older than he was, but not by more than a couple of years.
‘But she was damned good for me as long as it lasted. Her name was Nadja. I don't know if you ever met her.’
‘No,’ Martin Beck said.
He suddenly wanted to change the subject.
‘By the way, how's Benny Skacke doing?’
‘Not bad. He's an inspector now, and married to his physiotherapist. They had a little girl last spring. She was born on a Sunday, a little ahead of schedule, and he was in Minnesberg playing football when it happened. He claims all the important things in his life happen while he's playing football. God knows what he means.’
Martin Beck knew quite well what Skacke was referring to, but he didn't say anything.
‘In any case, he's a good policeman,’ Månsson said. 'And there's getting to be a shortage of those. Unfortunately, I get the feeling he's not happy here. He can't get used to this city, somehow. He's been here almost five years, but I think he's still homesick for Stockholm.
‘Of all godforsaken places,’ he added philosophically and emptied his glass.
Then he looked demonstratively at his watch.
‘I suppose I'd better be going now,’ said Martin Beck.
‘Yes,’ Månsson said. ‘I was about to say that was a good idea if you wanted to catch Mård sober. But that's not the real reason.’
‘Oh?’
‘No. If you stay another fifteen minutes you'll meet my wife. And in that case, I'd have to get dressed. She's sort of conventional, and she'd never stand for the idea of my sitting around with prominent police chiefs in this getup. Shall I call you a cab?’
‘I'd rather walk.’
He'd been in Malmö many times before, and he knew his way around, at least in the inner city.
Besides, it was a pretty day, and he wanted to organize his thoughts before he talked to Bertil Mård.
He was conscious of the fact that Månsson had furnished him with a presupposition.
This was clearly going to be a case where presuppositions played an important part.
Presuppositions were never good. Letting them affect your judgement was as dangerous as ignoring them. You always had to remember that a supposition could be right even if it was preconceived.
Martin Beck was eager to form his own opinion of Mård. He knew they would soon be face to face.
The brewpub was closed for the holiday, and Månsson had gone to the trouble of assigning a police recruit to watch the house on Mäster Johansgatan and had instructed him to raise the alarm if Mård left home.
The police recruit would have been a great success on TV doing a parody of someone trying not to look as if he were watching a house. In addition, the house was very small, and the buildings on either side had been torn down. He was standing across the street with his hands behind his back, gazing out into empty space but casting continuous sidelong glances at the door behind which the object of his attentions was supposed to lurk.
Martin Beck stopped some distance off and watched. A minute or so went by and then the recruit walked slowly across the street and inspected the door in detail. And poked at the name-plate. Then he ambled back to his post with studied nonchalance and then spun around to be sure nothing improper had occurred behind his back. Like so many other policemen out on confidential or delicate assignments, he was wearing black shoes, dark blue socks, the trousers to his uniform, a light blue shirt, and a dark blue tie. To this he had added a yellow stocking cap, a leather jacket with big shiny buttons and red and yellow embroidery on the sleeves, and, around his neck, a scarf in colours that even Martin Beck recognized as being those of the Malmö Football Club – white and sky blue. His jacket bulged on the right side as if he had a bottle of spirits in his pocket.
When Martin Beck walked up to him he jumped as if bitten by a snake and immediately raised his hand to the nonexistent peak of his cap and delivered his report.
‘No one has left the building, Inspector.’
Martin Beck stood silently for a moment in his amazement at being recognized. Then he reached out and took a corner of the scarf between thumb and forefinger.
‘Did your mother knit this for you?’
‘No, sir,’ said the young man, blushing. ‘She didn't. It was my little sister's boyfriend. His name