Read Online The Abominable Man by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö
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been betrayed and all the good intentions laid to rest.
For Nyman, however, it came too late. It was now almost seven years since he’d had his last precinct command.
During that time he’d worked mostly on things like civil defense.
But no one had been able to take away his reputation as an expert in maintaining order, and he had been eagerly consulted as a specialist in connection with the frequent large demonstrations toward the end of the sixties.
Martin Beck scratched the back of his neck and read through the last few lines of his inconsequential notes.
Married 1945, two children in the marriage, daughter Annelotte born 1949 and son Stefan born 1956.
Early retirement due to illness 1970.
He picked up his ballpoint pen and wrote:
Died in Stockholm, April 3, 1971.
Read through the whole thing one more time. Looked at the clock. Ten minutes to seven.
He wondered how things were going for Rönn.
11
The city woke up and yawned and stretched.
As did Gunvald Larsson. Woke up, yawned and stretched. Then he put a large hairy hand on the electric alarm clock, threw off the blanket and swung his long shaggy legs out of bed.
He put on his bathrobe and slippers and walked over to the window to check the weather. Dry, fair, thirty-seven degrees. The suburb he lived in was called Bollmora and consisted of some high-rise apartment buildings in the woods.
Then he looked in the mirror and saw a very large blond man, still six feet three and a half inches tall, but weighing in these days at 230 pounds. He got a littleheavier with every year, and it was no longer pure muscle that bulged beneath the while silk robe. But he was in good shape and felt stronger than ever, which was saying a good deal. For several seconds he stared into his own porcelain-blue eyes under a wrinkled brow. Then he combed his blond hair back with his fingers, pulled open his lips and examined his large strong teeth.
He got the morning paper from the mail slot and went out to the kitchen to make breakfast. There he made tea—Twining’s Irish Breakfast—and toast and boiled two eggs. He got out the butter, some Cheddar cheese and Scottish marmalade, three different kinds.
He leafed through the paper as he ate.
Sweden had done badly in the international ice hockey championships, and the managers, trainers and players were now emphasizing their lack of sportsmanship by hurling accusations at each other in public. There was also a fight going on within the Swedish TV—the monopoly’s central management was apparently doing everything it could to maintain a tight hold on the news services of the different channels.
Censorship, thought Gunvald Larsson. With laminated plastic gloves. Typical of this meddlesome capitalist society.
The biggest piece of news was that the readers were being given the opportunity to christen three bear cubs at Skansen. The results of a military study showing forty-year-old reservists to be in better physical condition than eighteen-year-old recruits were noted with resignation in a less prominent place. And on the culture page, where there was no risk of its being seen by unauthorized readers, there was an article on Rhodesia.
He read it while he drank his tea and ate his eggs and six pieces of toast.
Gunvald Larsson had never been in Rhodesia, but many times in South Africa, Sierra Leone, Angola and Mozambique. He’d been a seaman then, and had already known his own mind.
He finished his meal, washed the dishes and threw the paper in the trash. Since it was Saturday, he changed the sheets before making the bed. Then with great care he selected the clothes he would wear that day and laid them neatly on the bed. Removed his robe and pajamas and took a shower.
His bachelor apartment bore witness to good taste and a feeling for quality. Furniture, rugs, drapes, everything, from his white leather Italian slippers to his pivoting Nordmende color TV, was first class.
Gunvald Larsson was an inspector at
For Nyman, however, it came too late. It was now almost seven years since he’d had his last precinct command.
During that time he’d worked mostly on things like civil defense.
But no one had been able to take away his reputation as an expert in maintaining order, and he had been eagerly consulted as a specialist in connection with the frequent large demonstrations toward the end of the sixties.
Martin Beck scratched the back of his neck and read through the last few lines of his inconsequential notes.
Married 1945, two children in the marriage, daughter Annelotte born 1949 and son Stefan born 1956.
Early retirement due to illness 1970.
He picked up his ballpoint pen and wrote:
Died in Stockholm, April 3, 1971.
Read through the whole thing one more time. Looked at the clock. Ten minutes to seven.
He wondered how things were going for Rönn.
11
The city woke up and yawned and stretched.
As did Gunvald Larsson. Woke up, yawned and stretched. Then he put a large hairy hand on the electric alarm clock, threw off the blanket and swung his long shaggy legs out of bed.
He put on his bathrobe and slippers and walked over to the window to check the weather. Dry, fair, thirty-seven degrees. The suburb he lived in was called Bollmora and consisted of some high-rise apartment buildings in the woods.
Then he looked in the mirror and saw a very large blond man, still six feet three and a half inches tall, but weighing in these days at 230 pounds. He got a littleheavier with every year, and it was no longer pure muscle that bulged beneath the while silk robe. But he was in good shape and felt stronger than ever, which was saying a good deal. For several seconds he stared into his own porcelain-blue eyes under a wrinkled brow. Then he combed his blond hair back with his fingers, pulled open his lips and examined his large strong teeth.
He got the morning paper from the mail slot and went out to the kitchen to make breakfast. There he made tea—Twining’s Irish Breakfast—and toast and boiled two eggs. He got out the butter, some Cheddar cheese and Scottish marmalade, three different kinds.
He leafed through the paper as he ate.
Sweden had done badly in the international ice hockey championships, and the managers, trainers and players were now emphasizing their lack of sportsmanship by hurling accusations at each other in public. There was also a fight going on within the Swedish TV—the monopoly’s central management was apparently doing everything it could to maintain a tight hold on the news services of the different channels.
Censorship, thought Gunvald Larsson. With laminated plastic gloves. Typical of this meddlesome capitalist society.
The biggest piece of news was that the readers were being given the opportunity to christen three bear cubs at Skansen. The results of a military study showing forty-year-old reservists to be in better physical condition than eighteen-year-old recruits were noted with resignation in a less prominent place. And on the culture page, where there was no risk of its being seen by unauthorized readers, there was an article on Rhodesia.
He read it while he drank his tea and ate his eggs and six pieces of toast.
Gunvald Larsson had never been in Rhodesia, but many times in South Africa, Sierra Leone, Angola and Mozambique. He’d been a seaman then, and had already known his own mind.
He finished his meal, washed the dishes and threw the paper in the trash. Since it was Saturday, he changed the sheets before making the bed. Then with great care he selected the clothes he would wear that day and laid them neatly on the bed. Removed his robe and pajamas and took a shower.
His bachelor apartment bore witness to good taste and a feeling for quality. Furniture, rugs, drapes, everything, from his white leather Italian slippers to his pivoting Nordmende color TV, was first class.
Gunvald Larsson was an inspector at
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