The Locked Room

The case had been preliminarily assessed as suicide; alternatively, death from starvation, illness, or other natural causes was suspected.

Martin Beck groped in his jacket pocket for some non-existent Florida cigarettes.

Nothing had been mentioned about Svärd in the newspapers. The story was far too banal. Stockholm has one of the highest suicide rates in the world – something everyone carefully avoids talking about or which, when put on the spot, they attempt to conceal by means of variously manipulated and untruthful statistics. The most usual explanation is the simplest: All other countries cheat much more with their statistics. For some years now, however, not even members of the government had dared to say this aloud or in public, perhaps from the feeling that, in spite of everything, people tend to rely more on the evidence of their own eyes than on political explanations. And if, after all, this should turn out not to be so, it only made the matter still more embarrassing. For the fact of the matter is that the so-called Welfare State abounds with sick, poor, and lonely people, living at best on dog food, who are left uncared for until they waste away and die in their rat-hole tenements. No, this was nothing for the public. Hardly even for the police.

But that wasn't all. There was a sequel to the story of this premature pensioner, Karl Edvin Svärd.

6

Martin Beck had been in his profession long enough to know that if something in a report appears incomprehensible it's because in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred someone has been careless, made a mistake, is guilty of a slip of the pen, has overlooked the crux of the matter, or lacked the ability to make himself understood.

The second part of the tale of the man who had died in the flat on Bergsgatan seemed shadowy, to say the least. At first, matters had followed their usual course. On Sunday evening the body had been taken away and put in the morgue. The next day the flat had been disinfected, something that was certainly needed, and Kristiansson and Kvastmo had presented their report on the case.

The autopsy on the corpse had taken place on Tuesday, and the police department responsible had received the verdict the following day. Post-mortems on old corpses are no fun, least of all when the person in question is known in advance to have taken his own life or died of natural causes. If, furthermore, the person in question enjoyed no very eminent status in society –if for instance he had been a prematurely pensioned warehouseman – then the whole thing loses its last vestiges of any interest whatever.

The post-mortem report was signed by a person Martin Beck had never heard of, presumably a temp. The text was exceedingly scientific and abstruse. This, perhaps, was why the matter had been treated rather dozily. As far as he could see, the documents had not even reached Einar Rönn at the Murder Squad until a week later. Only there had it aroused the attention to which it was entitled.

Martin Beck pulled the telephone towards him to make his first duty call in a long time. He picked up the receiver, laid his right hand on the dial, and then just went on sitting. He'd forgotten the number of the State Institute for Forensic Medicine and had to look it up.

The pathologist seemed surprised. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course I remember. That report was sent in two weeks ago.’

‘I know.’

‘Is something unclear?’

He thought she sounded slightly hurt.

‘Just a few things I don't understand. According to your report, the person in question committed suicide.’

‘Of course.’

‘How?’

‘Have I really expressed myself so badly?’

‘Oh no, not at all.’

‘What is it you don't understand, then?’

‘Quite a bit, to be honest; but that, of course, is due to my own ignorance.’

‘You mean of terminology?’

‘Among other things.’

‘If one lacks medical knowledge,’ she said consolingly, ‘one always has to expect certain difficulties of that type.’ Her voice was light and clear. On the young side, certainly.

For a while Martin Beck sat silent. At this point he ought to have said: ‘My dear young lady, this report isn't meant for pathologists but for quite another kind of person. Since it's been requested by the Metropolitan Police it ought to be written in terms that even a police sergeant, for example, could understand.’ But he didn't. Why?

His thoughts were interrupted by the doctor, who said: ‘Hello, are you there?’

‘Yes, I'm here.’

‘Is there something particular you want to ask about?’

‘Yes. Firstly I'd like to know your grounds for assuming suicide.’

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 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.’

‘Good-bye.’ 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. Svärd 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 duty. 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 Rönn 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 Svärd had shot himself with. I knew nothing about any gun, but I assumed 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 massive 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 assumed 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 documents 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 Svärd 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. ‘Good-bye.’

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 assume 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 Västberga?’

‘That's it.’

‘Unfortunately that's 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 ball-point 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?’

‘Bloody horrible. Full of big white maggots. Smelled to high heaven. One of the constables had thrown up in the lobby.’

‘Where were the officers?’

‘One was on guard outside the door. The other was sitting in the car.’

‘Had they guarded the door the whole time?’

‘Yeah, at least according to their own account.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘I went right in and took a peek. It looked bloody awful, like I said before. But it could have been something for CID, one never knows.’

‘But you drew another conclusion?’

‘Sure. After all, it was as clear as daylight. The door had been locked from inside in three or four different ways. It had been as much as those guys could do to get it open. And the window was locked and the blind drawn.’

‘Was the window still closed?’

‘No. Obviously the uniforms had opened it when they'd come in. Otherwise no one could've stayed in there without a gas mask.’

‘How long were you there?’

‘Not many minutes. Just long enough to establish the fact that it wasn't anything for the CID. It must have been either suicide or natural death, so all the rest was a matter for the uniforms.’

Martin Beck leafed through the report. ‘There's no list of any objects being taken into custody here,’ he said.

‘Isn't there? Well, I suppose somebody ought to have thought about that. On the other hand there was no point in it. The old boy hardly owned a thing. A table, a chair, and a bed, I guess; and then a few bits of junk out in the kitchenette.’

‘But you looked around?’

‘Of course. I inspected everything before I gave them the go-ahead.’

‘For what?’

‘What? How do you mean?’

‘Before you gave the go-ahead for what?’

‘To take away the remains, of course. The old man had to have a post-mortem, didn't he? Even if he was a suicide, he still had to be dissected. It's regulations.’

‘Can you summarize your observations?’

‘Sure. Simple. The body was lying about three yards from the window.’

‘About?’

‘Yeah, the fact was I didn't have a yardstick on me. It looked about two months old; putrid, in other words. In the room were two chairs, a table, and a bed.’

‘Two chairs?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Just now you said one.’

‘Oh? Yeah, well it was two anyway, I guess; and then there was a little shelf with some old newspapers and books, and in the kitchenette a couple of saucepans and a coffee pot, and then the usual.’

‘The usual?’

‘Yeah, a can opener, knives and forks, a rubbish bin, and so forth.’

‘I see. Was anything lying on the floor?’

‘Not a thing, apart from the body, I mean. I asked the constables and they said they hadn't found anything either.’

‘Was anyone else in the flat?’

‘Nope. I asked the boys, and they said not. No one else went in there, apart from me and these two. Then the guys with the van came and took the body away with them in a plastic bag.’

‘Since then we have come to know the cause of Svärd's death.’

‘Indeed. That's right. He shot himself. Incomprehensible, I say. And what did he do with the gun?’

‘You've no plausible explanation?’

‘None. The whole thing's as idiotic as can be. An insoluble case, like I said. Doesn't happen so often, eh?’

‘Did the constables have any opinion?’

‘No, all they saw was he was dead and that the place was all shut up. If there'd been a pistol, either they or I'd have found it. Anyway, it could only have been lying on the floor beside that dead old guy.’

‘Did you find out who the deceased was?’

‘Of course. His name was Svärd, wasn't it? It was even written up on the door. You could see at a glance the type of man he'd been.’

‘What type?’

‘Well, a social case. Old drunk, probably. That type often kill themselves; that is, if they don't drink themselves to death or get a heart attack or something.’

‘You've nothing else of interest to add?’

‘No, it's beyond comprehension, like I said. Pure mystery. I bet even you can't fix this one. Anyway there's other things more important.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Yes, I reckon so. Can I go now?’

‘Not quite yet,’ said Martin Beck.

‘I've no more to say,’ said Aldor Gustavsson, stubbing out his cigar in the ash tray.

Martin Beck got up and walked over to the window, where he stood with his back to his visitor. ‘I've a few things to say,’ he said.

‘Oh? What?’

‘Quite a lot. Among other things the forensic team inspected the place last week. Though almost all traces had been destroyed, one large and two smaller bloodstains were immediately discovered on the carpet. Did you see any patches of blood?’

‘No. Not that I looked for any.’

‘Obviously not. What did you look for?’

‘Nothing special. The case seemed quite clear.’

‘If you failed to see those bloodstains, it's conceivable you missed other things.’

‘At any rate there was no firearm there.’

‘Did you notice how the dead man was dressed?’

‘No, not exactly. After all, he was completely putrid. Some kind of rags, I suppose. Besides, I didn't see it made any difference.’

‘What you did immediately notice was that the deceased had been a poor and lonely person. Not what you would call an eminent member of society.’

‘Of course. When you've seen as many alcoholics and welfare cases as I have …’

‘Then?’

‘Yes, well, then you know who's who and what's what.’

Martin Beck wondered whether Gustavsson did. Aloud he said: ‘Supposing the deceased had been better adapted socially, perhaps you might have been more conscientious?’

‘Yes, in such cases one has to mind one's p's and q's. The fact is, we've one hell of a lot to attend to.’ He looked around. ‘Even if you don't realize it here, we're overworked. You can't start playing at Sherlock Holmes every time you come across a dead tramp. Was there anything else?’

‘Yes, one thing. I'd like to point out that your handling of this case has been atrocious.’

‘What?’ Gustavsson got up. All of a sudden it seemed to have dawned on him that Martin Beck was in a position to mar his career – perhaps seriously. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Just because I didn't see those bloodstains and a gun that wasn't there …’

‘Sins of omission aren't the worst ones,’ Martin Beck said. ‘Even if they, too, are unforgivable. To take an example: you called the police doctor and gave her instructions built on erroneous and preconceived ideas. Further, you fooled the two constables into thinking the case was so simple that you only had to walk into the room and look around for the whole matter to be cleared up. After declaring no criminological investigation was needed, you had the body carried away without even having any photos taken.’