LITMIR.BIZ

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a joke?’ said Backlund coldly.

      ‘Right,’ said Månsson absentmindedly and looked around.

      Journalists and photographers were roaming around in the dining room. Some of them must have been there long before the police, and one or more had been on the spot in the grill or the bar when the famous shot was fired. Probably. If Månsson's suspicions proved correct.

      ‘But the manual requires …’ Backlund began.

      Just then Benny Skacke hurried into the dining room. He was thirty years old, and already an assistant detective. Previously he had been with the National Murder Squad in Stockholm, but had asked to be transferred after taking a rather foolish risk that had almost cost the life of one of his superiors. He was dedicated, conscientious, somewhat naïve. Månsson liked him.

      ‘Skacke can help you,’ he said.

      ‘A Stockholmer,’ said Backlund sceptically.

      ‘Right,’ said Månsson. ‘And don't forget that description. That's all that matters now.’

      He threw his shredded toothpick into an ashtray, went out into the lobby and headed for the telephone across from the reception desk.

      Månsson made five calls in rapid succession. Then he shook his head and went into the bar.

      ‘Well, look who's here!’ said the barman.

      ‘How's it going?’ Månsson said and sat down.

      ‘What can we get you today? The usual?’

      ‘No. Just a grape juice. I've got to think.’

      Sometimes everything gets messed up, Månsson thought. This case had really got off to a bad start. In the first place, Viktor Palmgren was important and well known. True, it was hard to tell exactly why, but one thing was certain – he had plenty of money, at least a million. The fact that he had been shot down in one of the most famous restaurants in Europe didn't help matters. This case would attract a lot of attention and could have far-reaching consequences. Immediately after the shooting, the hotel personnel had carried the wounded man out to a TV lounge and fixed a makeshift stretcher. They'd alerted the police and an ambulance at the same time. The ambulance had come very quickly, picked up the wounded man and taken him to General Hospital. For a while there had been no sign of the police. In spite of the fact that a patrol car had been parked at the railway station – in other words, less than two hundred yards from the scene of the crime. How had that happened? He had received the explanation now, but it wasn't especially flattering to the police. The call had been misinterpreted at first, the case judged to be less urgent than others. The two policemen at the train station had therefore spent their time picking up a completely harmless drunk. Only after the police had been alerted a second time had cars and uniformed men been dispatched to the hotel, with Backlund fearlessly in the lead. What had then been undertaken in the way of investigation seemed totally slipshod. Månsson himself had sat rehashing Gone With the Wind with his wife for more than forty minutes. Besides that, he'd had two drinks and been forced to wait for a taxi. When the first policeman arrived, half an hour had passed since the shot was fired. As to Viktor Palmgren's condition, the situation was equally unclear. He had been examined at the emergency ward in Malmö, then referred to a neurosurgeon in Lund, about fifteen miles away. At this very second the ambulance was still on its way. One of the most important witnesses, Palmgren's wife, was also in the ambulance. She'd probably sat across from him at the table and had been the person most likely to get a close look at the gunman.

      An hour had already gone by. An hour wasted, and every second of it was precious.

      Månsson shook his head again and glanced at the clock above the bar. Nine-thirty.

      Backlund marched into the bar, followed closely by Skacke.

      ‘And you just sit here?’ Backlund said, quite surprised.

      He strained his eyes to stare at Månsson.

      ‘How's the description coming?’ said Månsson. ‘We've got to get a move on.’

      Backlund fumbled with his notebook, put it on the bar, took off his glasses and began cleaning them.

      ‘Listen,’ Skacke said quickly, ‘this is the best we can come up with right now. Medium tall, thin face, thin dark brown hair, combed back. Brown sports coat, pastel shirt, dark grey trousers, black or brown shoes. Age about forty.’

      ‘Fine,’ said Månsson. ‘Send it out. Right away. Block all main roads, check out trains, planes and boats.’

      ‘Right,’ said Skacke.

      ‘I want him to stay in town,’ said Månsson.

      Skacke left.

      Backlund put on his glasses, stared at Månsson and repeated his pertinent question, ‘And you just sit here?’

      Then he looked at the glass, saying with even greater astonishment, ‘Drinking?’

      Månsson didn't reply.

      Backlund turned his attention to the clock over the bar, compared it with his watch and said, ‘That clock's wrong.’

      ‘Of course,’ the barman said. ‘It's fast. A little service for guests who're in a hurry to catch a train or boat.’

      ‘Hmm,’ Backlund said. ‘We'll never get this figured out. How can we determine the correct time when we can't rely on the clock?’

      ‘It won't be too easy,’ Månsson said absentmindedly.

      Skacke came back.

      ‘Well, that's done,’ he said.

      ‘Probably too late,’ Månsson said.

      ‘What in the world are you talking about?’ Backlund said, seizing his notepad. ‘About this waiter …’

      Dismissing him with a gesture, Månsson said, ‘Wait. We'll take that later. Benny, go call the police in Lund and ask them to send a man to the neurosurgeon at the hospital. The man they send should have a tape recorder with him so he can catch anything Palmgren says. If and when he regains consciousness. He'll have to question Mrs Palmgren, too.’

      Skacke departed again.

      ‘About the waiter. I'd say he wouldn't have noticed a thing if Dracula himself had fluttered through the dining room,’ the barman said.

      Irritated, Backlund kept quiet. Månsson waited to say anything else until Skacke came back. Since Backlund was officially Skacke's superior, he carefully addressed his question to both of them.

      ‘Who do you two think is the best witness?’

      ‘A guy named Edvardsson,’ said Skacke. ‘He was sitting only three tables away. But …’

      ‘But what?’

      ‘He isn't sober.’

      ‘Alcohol is a curse,’ Backlund said.

      ‘Okay, we wait with him until tomorrow,’ said Månsson. ‘Who can drop me off at headquarters?’

      ‘I can,’ said Skacke.

      ‘I'll stay here,’ Backlund said stubbornly. ‘This is officially my case.’

      ‘Right,’ said Månsson. ‘We'll be seeing you.’

      In the car he mumbled, ‘Trains and boats …’

      ‘Do you think he's got away?’ asked Skacke hesitantly.

      ‘He could have. Any way you look at it, we've got a whole lot of people to call. And we can't worry about waking anybody up.’

      Skacke looked sideways at Månsson, who was taking out another toothpick. The car swung into the courtyard of the main police station.

      ‘Planes,’ Månsson said to himself. ‘It could be a rough night.’

      The station seemed large, grim and very empty

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