offenders.
Berglund and Olsson meet us on the stairs. Both are wearing decent overcoats. Berglund’s Ulster has a fur-trimmed collar and his newly polished kid-leather boots show themselves at their best against the white marble floor. He smiles and offers his hand; Olsson only raises Dahlman’s stick to the brim of his bowler hat. I flinch. Olsson smiles.
‘Should we free the prisoner from his handcuffs?’ The older constable straightens up as he’s talking.
‘I think we’ll leave them on for the time being,’ says Olsson, stuffing his pipe. He keeps smiling. ‘And you’d better come up with us as well.’
We follow the smell of smoke as we go up the stairs in silence. Berglund is polishing his glasses again.
The whole sixth floor is still sealed off. Just by the stairs, ourcompany has to take a long step over a sizeable pool of congealed blood. From this a wide trail of blood leads to Zetterberg’s door in an almost unbroken line. We stand on the other side of it, shoulder to shoulder, like a group of farmers inspecting their land.
‘What do you think?’
Berglund turns round and looks at me over the rims of his glasses. Olsson looks at me over Berglund’s head. Does he think I can’t see him? I shrug.
‘A hell of a lot of blood. Someone hit him hard on the head or cut him open with something sharp.’
‘Yes.’ Berglund caresses his moustache.
‘He moved very slowly,’ I go on. ‘He crept or dragged himself to the stairs where he bled dry. Unless someone dragged him.’
‘Why would someone drag him?’
‘Why are you asking me?’
The two goons exchange a glance. Olsson nods towards the corridor while he strikes a match and gets his pipe going. I tighten my fists until my nails cut into my palms.
Berglund makes a gesture towards Zetterberg’s flat. He and one of the older goons follow me while the other constable and Olsson stay behind. We reach the double doors. Berglund throws out his hand.
‘As you can see, Kvist, there’s no damage here. Possibly, Zetterberg let the perpetrator in voluntarily.’
‘Possibly.’ I remember how I pushed Zetterberg into the flat. The sound when he fell and dragged a chair with him.
Berglund presses down the door handle and invites me to go in first. We step into the smell of smoke. Berglund turns on the ceiling light in the hall. I feel his eyes on my back.
The floor is covered in crushed mirror glass and blood. The chair and the mirror are still lying there, overturned in the hall,but the mirror lies the other way around, with its back against the floor. Zetterberg must have crawled out from beneath it at some point. There are still some pointed shards of glass in the frame. Along one wall, large bloodstains have been ringed with chalk and, just above floor level, there’s a rust-brown handprint. I point at it.
‘It’s Zetterberg’s.’ Berglund doesn’t take his eyes off me.
‘The blood?’
‘Two different blood groups. We’re working on the hypothesis that Zetterberg tried to defend himself and that the mirror was broken during the fight. The murderer cut himself on the glass, or Zetterberg caused him some kind of injury.’
‘Which would rule me out, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes. Unless it was a question of a nose bleed or similar?’
‘You’ll have to tap me for some, quite simply.’
‘And if it matches the evidence?’
‘I still didn’t kill him.’ I wonder if I dare ask Berglund for a cigarette. After all, we’re supposed to be on good terms.
‘Go inside,’ he says. ‘No need to tiptoe around. All the evidence has been secured.’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘A whole lot of various ones, but none on the murder weapon.’
‘What did he use?’
‘What makes you think it’s a man?’
‘That’s what you said.’
Berglund doesn’t answer. He gestures into the spacious apartment. I walk through the hall towards the kitchen. They asked me about an axe. What was it they called it? A mason’s axe? I feel like asking if
Berglund and Olsson meet us on the stairs. Both are wearing decent overcoats. Berglund’s Ulster has a fur-trimmed collar and his newly polished kid-leather boots show themselves at their best against the white marble floor. He smiles and offers his hand; Olsson only raises Dahlman’s stick to the brim of his bowler hat. I flinch. Olsson smiles.
‘Should we free the prisoner from his handcuffs?’ The older constable straightens up as he’s talking.
‘I think we’ll leave them on for the time being,’ says Olsson, stuffing his pipe. He keeps smiling. ‘And you’d better come up with us as well.’
We follow the smell of smoke as we go up the stairs in silence. Berglund is polishing his glasses again.
The whole sixth floor is still sealed off. Just by the stairs, ourcompany has to take a long step over a sizeable pool of congealed blood. From this a wide trail of blood leads to Zetterberg’s door in an almost unbroken line. We stand on the other side of it, shoulder to shoulder, like a group of farmers inspecting their land.
‘What do you think?’
Berglund turns round and looks at me over the rims of his glasses. Olsson looks at me over Berglund’s head. Does he think I can’t see him? I shrug.
‘A hell of a lot of blood. Someone hit him hard on the head or cut him open with something sharp.’
‘Yes.’ Berglund caresses his moustache.
‘He moved very slowly,’ I go on. ‘He crept or dragged himself to the stairs where he bled dry. Unless someone dragged him.’
‘Why would someone drag him?’
‘Why are you asking me?’
The two goons exchange a glance. Olsson nods towards the corridor while he strikes a match and gets his pipe going. I tighten my fists until my nails cut into my palms.
Berglund makes a gesture towards Zetterberg’s flat. He and one of the older goons follow me while the other constable and Olsson stay behind. We reach the double doors. Berglund throws out his hand.
‘As you can see, Kvist, there’s no damage here. Possibly, Zetterberg let the perpetrator in voluntarily.’
‘Possibly.’ I remember how I pushed Zetterberg into the flat. The sound when he fell and dragged a chair with him.
Berglund presses down the door handle and invites me to go in first. We step into the smell of smoke. Berglund turns on the ceiling light in the hall. I feel his eyes on my back.
The floor is covered in crushed mirror glass and blood. The chair and the mirror are still lying there, overturned in the hall,but the mirror lies the other way around, with its back against the floor. Zetterberg must have crawled out from beneath it at some point. There are still some pointed shards of glass in the frame. Along one wall, large bloodstains have been ringed with chalk and, just above floor level, there’s a rust-brown handprint. I point at it.
‘It’s Zetterberg’s.’ Berglund doesn’t take his eyes off me.
‘The blood?’
‘Two different blood groups. We’re working on the hypothesis that Zetterberg tried to defend himself and that the mirror was broken during the fight. The murderer cut himself on the glass, or Zetterberg caused him some kind of injury.’
‘Which would rule me out, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes. Unless it was a question of a nose bleed or similar?’
‘You’ll have to tap me for some, quite simply.’
‘And if it matches the evidence?’
‘I still didn’t kill him.’ I wonder if I dare ask Berglund for a cigarette. After all, we’re supposed to be on good terms.
‘Go inside,’ he says. ‘No need to tiptoe around. All the evidence has been secured.’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘A whole lot of various ones, but none on the murder weapon.’
‘What did he use?’
‘What makes you think it’s a man?’
‘That’s what you said.’
Berglund doesn’t answer. He gestures into the spacious apartment. I walk through the hall towards the kitchen. They asked me about an axe. What was it they called it? A mason’s axe? I feel like asking if
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