Can you describe them? And the car?’
Sjögren took a last drag at his cigarette, then threw the butt into the fireplace, where a large number of cigarette ends and dead matches lay already.
‘The car was a Renault 16, I know that for sure,’ he said. ‘It was light grey or beige, I don't know what the colour's called; but it's almost white. I don't remember all the number, but it was an “A” registration and I've a mental image of two threes in the number. There could have been three, of course, but two at least, and I think they stood one after the other, somewhere in the middle of the row of figures.’
‘Are you sure it was an “A”-reg?’ Rönn asked. ‘Not “AA” or “AB”, for example?’
‘No, just “A”. I remember that clearly. I've a hell of a good visual memory.’
‘Yes, it's very good,’ Rönn said. ‘If all eyewitnesses had one like yours, life would be much simpler.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Sjögren, ‘ I Am a Camera. Have you read it? By Isherwood.’
‘No,’ said Rönn. He'd seen the film, though he didn't say so. He'd seen it because he admired Julie Harris. But he neither knew who Isherwood was nor even that the film was based on a novel.
‘But you must have seen the film?’ said Sjögren. ‘That's how it is with all the good books around. People see the film and don't take the trouble to read the book. Now this film was damn good, though it had a stupid title. How about Wild Nights in Berlin, eh?’
‘Oh,’ said Rönn, who was sure it was called I Am a Camera when he'd seen it. ‘Yes, it does sound rather stupid.’
It was getting dark, and Sten Sjögren got up and lit the floor lamp behind Rönn's armchair. When he sat down again, Rönn said: ‘Well, suppose we go on. You were going to describe the men in the car.’
‘Yes, though when I caught sight of them there was only one of them sitting in it.’
‘Oh?’
‘The other was standing on the pavement, waiting with the rear door ajar. He was a big guy, a good bit taller than me and powerfully built. Not fat, but heavy and powerful looking. He could easily have been my age, roughly between thirty and thirty-five, and had lots of frizzy hair – almost like Harpo Marx, but darker – mouse-coloured. He wore black trousers, which looked very tight, with those flared legs, and a shiny black shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned quite far down the chest, and I think he had some sort of silver thing on a chain around his neck. His face was pretty sunburned or, to be more precise, red. When the chick – if it was a chick – came running along, he opened the rear door for her to jump in and then slammed it shut, sat down in front, and the car sped off at a terrific pace.’
‘In which direction?’ Rönn asked.
‘It swung right across the street and headed up towards the Maria Square.’
‘Oh,’ Rönn said. ‘I see. And the other man?’
‘He was sitting behind the wheel, so I didn't see him too well. But he looked younger, can't have been much over twenty. And he was thin and pale, that much I did see. He was wearing a white T-shirt, and his arms were really scrawny. His hair was black, quite long, and seemed dirty. Greasy and straggly. He had sunglasses on, yes, and now I remember he had a wide black watch strap on his left wrist.’
Sjögren leaned back in his chair, beer glass in hand.
‘Well, now I think I've told you all I can recall,’ he said. ‘Or do you reckon I've forgotten something?’
‘I don't know,’ Rönn said. ‘If you should happen to remember anything else, I hope you'll call me. Will you be at home these next few days?’
‘Yes, unfortunately,’ Sjögren said. ‘In fact I'm on holiday but haven't any money to travel anywhere with. So I suppose I'll just have to hang around here.’
Rönn emptied his glass, got up. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘It's very possible we'll be needing your help again a little later on.’
Sjögren, too, got up and followed Rönn down the stairs. ‘You mean I'll have to go through it all again?’ he said. ‘Wouldn't it be best to tape it once and for all?’ He opened his front door and Rönn stepped outside.
‘What I was thinking was that you might be needed to identify these characters when we catch up with them. It's also possible we may be asking you to come to CID and take a look at some pictures.’ They shook hands, and Rönn went on: ‘Well, we'll see. We may not have to trouble you further. Thanks for the beer.’
‘Oh, that was nothing. If I can be of any help, I'd be pleased to oblige.’
As Rönn drove off, Sten Sjögren waved amicably from his steps.
Police dogs apart, professional sleuths are rarely more than human. Even during the most important and serious investigations they can evince typically human reactions. The tension when some unique and conclusive item of evidence is to be studied, for example, can often become unbearable.
In all this, the special bank robbery squad was no exception. Like their eminent and self-invited guests, they were holding their breath. All eyes in the half-dark room were fixed on the rectangular screen where the bank's film of the Hornsgatan robbery was shortly to be shown. With their own eyes they were not only about to see an armed bank robbery and a murder, but also the person who had committed it and to whom the alert and inventive evening press had already attributed every peculiar trait, dubbing her ‘the sex-bomb murderer’ and ‘the blonde gunwoman in sunglasses’ – epithets which only revealed how journalists, lacking any imagination of their own, find inspiration elsewhere. The reality of the case – armed robbery and murder – was too banal for them.
The last sex queen to be caught robbing a bank had been a flat-footed, pimply lady of about forty-five. According to reliable sources, she had weighed almost fourteen stone and had more double chins than there are pages in a book. But not even the false teeth she lost in front of the court gave the lie, in the press's opinion, to its own lyrical description of her appearance. And a horde of uncritical readers were to remain convinced through all eternity that she was a winsome, starry-eyed creature who should have entered the Miss Universe contest.
Always it had been like this. When women draw attention to themselves by committing a flagrant crime, the evening papers always make them sound as if they've come straight out of Inger Malmroos's school for models.
The pictures of the robbery had only just become available. This was because the cassette, as usual, had been faulty, and the photo lab had had to take extreme care not to damage the exposed negative. In the end, however, they had managed to pry it loose from the spool and develop it without even fraying its edges. For once the exposure, at least, seemed to have been correct and the results were being predicted as technically perfect.
‘What's it to be?’ Gunvald Larsson quipped. ‘A Donald Duck?’
‘The Pink Panther's funnier,’ said Kollberg.
‘Some guys, of course,’ Gunvald Larsson said, ‘are
