Martin Beck read the caption.
The hero of the day, Inspector Gunwald Larsson (r) made a heroic contribution during last night’s fire by saving several people’s lives. Here he can be seen examining the remains of the house, which was totally destroyed.
‘Not only do the blasted bunglers not even know the difference between right and left,’ mumbled Gunvald Larsson, ‘but they…’
He did not say anything more, but Martin Beck knew what he meant, and nodded thoughtfully to himself. The name was spelled wrong too. Gunvald Larsson looked at the picture with distaste and pushed the paper away with his arm.
‘And I look moronic too,’ he said.
‘There are drawbacks to being famous,’ said Martin Beck.
Against his will, Kollberg, who detested Gunvald Larsson, squinted down at the scattered newspapers. All the pictures were equally misleading and every front page was decorated with Gunvald Larsson’s staring eyes underneath glaring headlines.
Heroic deeds and heroes and God knows what else, thought Kollberg, sighing dejectedly. He was sitting hunched up in a chair, fat and flabby, his elbows on the desk.
‘So we find ourselves in the strange position of not knowing what happened?’ said Hammar severely.
‘Not all that strange,’ said Kollberg. ‘I personally hardly ever know what’s happened.’
Hammar looked critically at him and said:
‘I mean we don’t know whether the fire was arson or not.’
‘Why should it be arson?’ asked Kollberg.
‘Optimist,’ said Martin Beck.
‘’Course it was bloody well arson,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘The house blew up practically right in front of my nose.’
‘And are you certain the fire began in this man Malm’s room?’
‘Yes. As good as.’
‘How long had you had the house under observation?’
‘About half an hour. Personally. And before that, that fathead Zachrisson was there. Hell of a lot of questions, by the way.’
Martin Beck massaged the bridge of his nose between his right-hand thumb and forefinger. Then he said:
‘And are you certain no one went in or out during that time?’
‘Yes, I’m damned sure of that. What happened before I went there, I don’t know. Zachrisson said that three people had gone in and no one had come out.’
‘Can one rely on that?’
‘Don’t think so. He seems unusually dumb.’
‘You don’t mean that, do you?’
Gunvald Larsson looked angrily at him and said:
‘What the hell’s all this about anyway? I’m standing there and the miserable house catches fire. Eleven people were trapped inside and I got eight of them out.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed that,’ said Kollberg, glancing sideways at the newspapers.
‘Is it quite certain that it is a question of only three people killed in the fire?’ Hammar asked.
Martin Beck took some papers out of his inside pocket and studied them. Then he said:
‘It seems so. That man Malm, another called Kenneth Roth who lived above Malm, and then Kristina Modig, who had a room in the attic. She was only fourteen.’
‘Why did she live in the attic?’ asked Hammar.
‘Don’t know,’ said Martin Beck. ‘We’ll have to find that out.’
‘There’s a hell of a lot more we’ve got to find out,’ said Kollberg. ‘We don’t even know that it was just those three who were killed. And also, all that about eleven people is just a supposition, isn’t it, Mr Larsson?’
‘Who were the people who got themselves out, then?’ said Hammar.
‘First of all, they didn’t get themselves out,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘I was the one who got them out. If I hadn’t happened to have been standing there, not a damned one of them would have got clear. And second, I didn’t write down their names. I had other things to do at the time.’
Martin Beck looked thoughtfully at the big man in bandages. Gunvald Larsson often behaved badly, but to be offensive to Hammar must be due to either megalomania or a stroke. Hammar frowned.
Martin Beck shuffled through his papers and said as a diversion:
‘I’ve at least got the names here. Agnes and Herman Söderberg. They are married, sixty-eight and sixty-seven years old. Anna-Kajsa Modig and her two children, Kent and Clary. The mother is thirty, the boy five and the girl seven months. Then two women, Clara Berggren and Madeleine Olsen, sixteen and twenty-four, and a guy called Max Karlsson. How old he is, I don’t know. The last three didn’t live in the house, but were there as guests. Probably at Kenneth Roth’s, the one who was killed in the fire.’
‘None of those names means anything to me,’ said Hammar.
‘Nor me,’ said Martin Beck.
Kollberg shrugged his shoulders.
‘Roth was a thief,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘And Söderberg a drunk and Anna-Kajsa Modig a whore. If that makes you any happier.’
A telephone rang and Kollberg answered. He pulled a notepad towards him and took a ballpoint pen out of his pocket.
‘Oh, yes, it’s you is it? Yes, get going.’
The others watched him in silence. Kollberg put down the receiver and said:
‘That was Rönn. This is the position: Madeleine Olsen probably won’t survive. She’s got eighty per cent burns plus concussion and a multiple fracture of the femur.’
‘She was red-haired all over,’ said Gunvald Larsson.
Kollberg looked sharply at him and went on:
‘Old man Söderberg and his wife are suffering smoke poisoning, but their chances are passable. Max Karlsson has thirty per cent burns and will live. Carla Berggren and Anna-Kajsa Modig are physically uninjured, but both are suffering from severe shock, as is Karlsson. None of them is fit to be interrogated. Only the two kids are perfectly all right.’
‘So it might be an ordinary fire, then,’ said Hammar.
‘Balls,’ said Gunvald Larsson.
‘Shouldn’t you go home to bed?’ said Martin Beck.
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, eh?’
Ten minutes later, Rönn himself appeared. He goggled at Larsson in astonishment and said:
‘What in the world are you doing here?’
‘You may well ask,’ said Gunvald Larsson.
Rönn looked reproachfully at the others.
‘Have you lost your minds?’ he said. ‘Come on, Gunvald, let’s go.’
Gunvald rose obediently and walked over to the door.
‘One moment,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Just one question. Why were you shadowing Göran Malm?’
‘Haven’t the slightest idea,’ said Gunvald Larsson, and left.
An astonished silence reigned.
A few minutes later, Hammar grunted something incomprehensible and left the room. Martin Beck sat down, picked up a newspaper and began reading it. Thirty seconds later, Kollberg followed his example. They sat like this, in sullen silence, until Rönn