The Fire Engine That Disappeared. Colin Dexter
said Kollberg.
‘If you mean Gunvald, he’s in South Hospital with concussion. He is not allowed to speak or read for several days. And whose fault is that?’
‘Well, not mine,’ said Kollberg.
‘Yes, that’s just what it is. I’ve a damned good mind to punch you.’
‘Don’t stand there yelling at me,’ said Kollberg.
‘I can do better than that,’ said Rönn. ‘You’ve always behaved like a clod to Gunvald. But this just takes the biscuit.’
Einar Rönn was from Norrland, a calm, good-natured man, who never normally lost his temper. During their fifteen-year acquaintanceship, Martin Beck had never before seen him angry.
‘Oh, well, then, it’s just as well he’s got one mate, anyhow,’ said Kollberg, sarcastically.
Rönn took a step towards him, clenching his fists. Martin Beck rose swiftly and stood between them, turning to Kollberg and saying:
‘Stop it now, Lennart. Don’t make things any worse.’
‘You’re not much better yourself,’ said Rönn to Martin Beck. ‘You’re both a couple of shits.’
‘Hey, now, what the hell…’ said Kollberg, straightening up.
‘Calm down, Einar,’ said Martin Beck to Rönn. ‘You’re quite right, we should have seen that there was something wrong with him.’
‘I’ll say you should,’ said Rönn.
‘I didn’t notice much difference,’ said Kollberg nonchalantly. ‘Presumably one has to be at the same high intellectual level to…’
The door opened and Hammar came in.
‘You all look very peculiar,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing,’ said Martin Beck.
‘Nothing? Einar looks like a boiled lobster. Are you thinking of having a fight? No police brutality, please.’
The telephone rang and Kollberg snatched up the receiver like a drowning man grasping the proverbial straw.
Slowly, Rönn’s face resumed its normal colour. Only his nose remained red, but it was usually red anyway.
Martin Beck sneezed.
‘How the hell should I know that?’ said Kollberg into the telephone. ‘What corpses anyway?’
He flung down the receiver, sighed and said:
‘Some idiot at the medical labs who wanted to know when the bodies can be moved. Are there any bodies, for that matter?’
‘Have any of you gentlemen been to the scene of the fire, may I ask?’ said Hammar acidly.
No one replied.
‘Perhaps a visit for study purposes would do no harm,’ said Hammar.
‘I’ve got a bit of desk work to do,’ said Rönn, vaguely.
Martin Beck walked towards the door. Kollberg shrugged his shoulders, rose and followed him.
‘It must simply be an ordinary fire,’ said Hammar stubbornly, and to himself.
The scene of the fire was now barricaded off to such an extent that no ordinary mortal could catch a glimpse of anything more than a cordon of uniformed police. The moment Martin Beck and Kollberg got out of the car, they were accosted by two of them.
‘Hey, you, where are you two off to?’ said one of them pompously.
‘Don’t you see you can’t park there like that,’ said the other.
Martin Beck was just about to show his identification card, but Kollberg warded him off and said:
‘Excuse me, officer, but would you mind giving me your name?’
‘What business is it of yours?’ said the first policeman.
‘Move along, then,’ said the other. ‘Otherwise there might be trouble.’
‘Of that I’m certain,’ said Kollberg. ‘It’s just a question of for whom.’
Kollberg’s bad temper was reflected very clearly in his appearance. His dark blue trench coat was flapping in the wind, he had not bothered to button up his collar, his tie hung out of his right-hand jacket pocket and his battered old hat was perched on the back of his head. The two policemen glanced at each other meaningfully. One of them took a step nearer. Both had rosy cheeks and round blue eyes. Martin Beck saw that they had decided that Kollberg was intoxicated and were just about to lay hands on him. He knew Kollberg was in a state to make mincemeat of them, both physically and mentally, in less than sixty seconds and that their chances of waking up next morning without a job were very great. He wished no one ill that day, so he swiftly drew out his identity card and thrust it under the nose of the more aggressive of the two policemen.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ said Kollberg, angrily. Martin Beck looked at the two policemen and said placidly:
‘You’ve got a lot to learn. Come on, now, Lennart.’
The ruins of the fire looked melancholy. Superficially, all that was left of the house were the foundations, one chimney stack and a huge heap of charred boards, blackened bricks and fallen tiles. Over everything hung the acrid smell of smoke and burned matter. Half a dozen experts in grey overalls were crawling about, carefully poking in the ashes with sticks and short spades. Two great sieves had been set up in the back yard. Hoses still snaked their way along the ground, and down on the road there was a fire engine. In the front seat sat two firemen playing paper, scissors, stone.
Ten yards away stood a lone dismal figure, a pipe in his mouth and his hands thrust deep down in his coat pockets. This was Fredrik Melander of the Murder Squad in Stockholm and a veteran of hundreds of difficult investigations. He was generally known for his logical mind, his excellent memory and unshakeable calm. Within a smaller circle, he was most famous for his remarkable capacity for always being in the toilet when anyone wanted to get hold of him. His sense of humour was not nonexistent, but very modest; he was parsimonious and dull and never had brilliant ideas or sudden inspiration. Briefly, he was a first-class policeman.
‘Hi,’ he said, without taking his pipe out of his mouth.
‘How’s it going?’ said Martin Beck.
‘Slow.’
‘Any results?’
‘Not exactly. We’re being very careful. It’ll take time.’
‘Why?’ asked Kollberg.
‘By the time the fire engine got here, the house had collapsed and before the extinguishing work got going, it was almost burned out. They poured on gallons of water and put the fire out pretty quickly. Then it got colder later on in the night and it all froze together into one great slab.’
‘Sounds jolly cheerful,’ said Kollberg.
‘If I’ve got it right, then they have to sort of peel off that heap, layer by layer.’
Martin Beck coughed and said:
‘And the bodies? Have they found any yet?’
‘One,’ said Melander.
He took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed with the stem towards the right-hand part of the burned-out house.
‘Over there,’ he said. ‘The fourteen-year-old girl, I think. The one who slept in the attic.’
‘Kristina Modig?’
‘Yes,