I can have a look at it.
The decent-sized kitchen lacks both a table and chairs. Most likely there’s a dining area through the closed doors on our right.The stainless steel draining board has a double sink with a splash guard of glass. The taps suggest the sod had it piped in both hot and cold. On the draining board are a couple of big cognac balloons. On an enamelled shelf there’s a washing-up brush and a yellow dishcloth. There is also a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. When I met Zetterberg he wasn’t wearing them. Maybe the murderer rinsed himself off here and then forgot them?
‘Did Zetterberg wear glasses?’
‘We haven’t any confirmation about that as yet.’
The kitchen wall around the gas cooker has been scorched by the fire. The flames have consumed a good part of the cork mat and also licked at the wall on the other side, apparently without really taking hold.
‘Here the murderer makes a mistake,’ says Berglund and holds up an empty, unmarked, glass bottle. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘Paraffin oil?’
‘That is probably exactly what the murderer thought when he started the fire to get rid of the evidence.’ Berglund smiles and peruses me over his spectacles. ‘In actual fact it is carbolineum, not a very flammable liquid. It burns, but not very well.’
I shrug again. Outside the kitchen window the rain is belting down. Increasingly it’s looking like a proper autumn storm.
I hope I’ll be allowed to see the other rooms in the apartment, but the two goons turn back into the hall and head for the door. On the way, Berglund stops and turns to me.
‘We found a twenty-five öre coin here on the telephone. Possibly the murderer’s excuse could have been that he wanted to use it to make a call.’
He scrutinises me again. Lord knows what he’s after.
‘But the bloodstains are much closer to the front door,’ I object. ‘It doesn’t look as if they got this far.’
‘Maybe Zetterberg stayed here during the phone call, and was then beaten to death?’
I look around the hall for a moment before I stride up to the door. The frame of the door has a deep gash in it at the top. I point at it.
‘The inspector is mistaken,’ I say. ‘The murderer had hardly come into the hall before he raised his axe.’ I look around the vestibule, and slide my hand across the overcoats. ‘Did you find any clothes hangers in the hall?’
Without waiting for an answer I open the door and go into the corridor. Berglund quickly tails me. I crack my finger joints.
‘Yes, it’s being checked for fingerprints at the Central Agency but we haven’t had an answer yet. How did you know?’
‘I’d swear on a huge pile of Bibles that there was a camel-hair overcoat hanging there when I came to visit,’ I tell him as we’re walking down the stairs.
Outside in the illuminated circle under the streetlight, Olsson is waiting in the pouring rain with the extinguished pipe in his mouth and my hat in his hand. I’ll have to have it re-pressed.
I turn up my collar. The street is empty but for a bloke swaying back and forth as he stands there thoughtfully counting in his wallet. You know the weather’s bad when Kungsgatan is deserted on the maids’ Saturday off.
‘Now for some gymnastics,’ Olsson half yells to make himself heard over the wind. ‘Put on your hat and run down to Vasagatan, then turn left and stop by the constable.’
‘Hold up, now,’ I say. ‘What’s the idea?’
The wind knocks down a couple of potted plants that someone has put out on the window ledge, and the pots slam into the street ten metres from us. The weathervane is spinning so fast that its screeching has turned to a constant wail.
‘We need to reconstruct the getaway with you in the central role.’
‘The conditions are hardly the same,’ I call out and point at the streetlight outside Zetterberg’s house. ‘It was dark that evening, it was like looking up a chimney sweep’s arse.’
‘Something you must
The decent-sized kitchen lacks both a table and chairs. Most likely there’s a dining area through the closed doors on our right.The stainless steel draining board has a double sink with a splash guard of glass. The taps suggest the sod had it piped in both hot and cold. On the draining board are a couple of big cognac balloons. On an enamelled shelf there’s a washing-up brush and a yellow dishcloth. There is also a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. When I met Zetterberg he wasn’t wearing them. Maybe the murderer rinsed himself off here and then forgot them?
‘Did Zetterberg wear glasses?’
‘We haven’t any confirmation about that as yet.’
The kitchen wall around the gas cooker has been scorched by the fire. The flames have consumed a good part of the cork mat and also licked at the wall on the other side, apparently without really taking hold.
‘Here the murderer makes a mistake,’ says Berglund and holds up an empty, unmarked, glass bottle. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘Paraffin oil?’
‘That is probably exactly what the murderer thought when he started the fire to get rid of the evidence.’ Berglund smiles and peruses me over his spectacles. ‘In actual fact it is carbolineum, not a very flammable liquid. It burns, but not very well.’
I shrug again. Outside the kitchen window the rain is belting down. Increasingly it’s looking like a proper autumn storm.
I hope I’ll be allowed to see the other rooms in the apartment, but the two goons turn back into the hall and head for the door. On the way, Berglund stops and turns to me.
‘We found a twenty-five öre coin here on the telephone. Possibly the murderer’s excuse could have been that he wanted to use it to make a call.’
He scrutinises me again. Lord knows what he’s after.
‘But the bloodstains are much closer to the front door,’ I object. ‘It doesn’t look as if they got this far.’
‘Maybe Zetterberg stayed here during the phone call, and was then beaten to death?’
I look around the hall for a moment before I stride up to the door. The frame of the door has a deep gash in it at the top. I point at it.
‘The inspector is mistaken,’ I say. ‘The murderer had hardly come into the hall before he raised his axe.’ I look around the vestibule, and slide my hand across the overcoats. ‘Did you find any clothes hangers in the hall?’
Without waiting for an answer I open the door and go into the corridor. Berglund quickly tails me. I crack my finger joints.
‘Yes, it’s being checked for fingerprints at the Central Agency but we haven’t had an answer yet. How did you know?’
‘I’d swear on a huge pile of Bibles that there was a camel-hair overcoat hanging there when I came to visit,’ I tell him as we’re walking down the stairs.
Outside in the illuminated circle under the streetlight, Olsson is waiting in the pouring rain with the extinguished pipe in his mouth and my hat in his hand. I’ll have to have it re-pressed.
I turn up my collar. The street is empty but for a bloke swaying back and forth as he stands there thoughtfully counting in his wallet. You know the weather’s bad when Kungsgatan is deserted on the maids’ Saturday off.
‘Now for some gymnastics,’ Olsson half yells to make himself heard over the wind. ‘Put on your hat and run down to Vasagatan, then turn left and stop by the constable.’
‘Hold up, now,’ I say. ‘What’s the idea?’
The wind knocks down a couple of potted plants that someone has put out on the window ledge, and the pots slam into the street ten metres from us. The weathervane is spinning so fast that its screeching has turned to a constant wail.
‘We need to reconstruct the getaway with you in the central role.’
‘The conditions are hardly the same,’ I call out and point at the streetlight outside Zetterberg’s house. ‘It was dark that evening, it was like looking up a chimney sweep’s arse.’
‘Something you must
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