Murder at the Savoy. Arne Dahl
The day was hot and stifling, without a breath of air. There had been a haze quivering in the atmosphere, but now the sky was high and clear, its colours shifting from rose to dusky blue. The sun's red disc would soon disappear beyond the island of Ven. The evening breeze, which was already rippling the smooth mirror of the Sound, brought weak puffs of agreeable freshness to the streets of Malmö. With the gentle wind came fumes of the rotting refuse and seaweed that had been washed up on Ribersborg Beach and in through the mouth of the harbour into the canals.
The city doesn't resemble the rest of Sweden to a very great degree, largely because of its location. Malmö is closer to Rome than to the midnight sun, and the lights of the Danish coast twinkle along the horizon. And even if many winters are slushy and windblown, summers are just as often long and warm, filled with the song of the nightingale and scents from the lush vegetation of the expansive parks.
Which is exactly the way it was that fair summer evening early in July 1969. It was also quiet, calm and quite deserted. The tourists weren't noticeable to any extent – they hardly ever are. As for the roaming, unwashed hash-smokers, only the first bands had arrived, and not so many more would show up either, since most of them never get past Copenhagen.
It was rather quiet even in the big hotel across from the railway station near the harbour. A few foreign businessmen were deliberating over their reservations at the reception desk. The cloakroom attendant was reading one of the classics undisturbed in amongst the rails of coats. The dimly lit bar contained only a couple of regular customers speaking in low voices and a barman in a snow-white jacket.
In the large eighteenth-century dining room to the right of the lobby there wasn't much going on either, even if it was somewhat livelier. A few tables were occupied, mostly by people who were sitting alone. The pianist was taking a break. In front of the swinging doors leading to the kitchen stood a waiter, hands behind his back, looking contemplatively out of the big open windows, probably lost in thoughts of the sandy beaches not too far away.
A dinner party of seven, a well-dressed and solemn gathering of varying sexes and ages, was sitting in the back of the dining room. Their table was cluttered with glasses and fancy dishes, surrounded by champagne buckets. The restaurant personnel had discreetly withdrawn, for the host had just risen to speak.
He was a tall man in late middle age, with a dark-blue shantung suit, iron-grey hair and a deep suntan. He spoke calmly and skilfully, modulating his voice in subtly humorous phrases. The other six at the table sat watching him quietly; only one of them was smoking.
Through the open windows came the sounds of passing cars, trains switching tracks at the station across the canal, the largest junction in northern Europe, the abrupt hoarse tooting of a boat from Copenhagen, and somewhere on the bank of the canal a girl giggling.
This was the scene that soft warm Wednesday in July, at approximately eight-thirty in the evening. It's essential to use the expression ‘approximately’, for no one ever managed to pin down the exact time when it happened. On the other hand, what did happen is quite easy to describe.
A man came in through the main entrance, cast a glance at the reception desk with the foreign businessmen and the uniformed attendant, passed the cloakroom and the long narrow lobby outside the bar, and walked into the dining room calmly and resolutely, with steps that weren't notably rapid. There was nothing remarkable about this man so far. No one looked at him; he did not bother to look around either.
He passed the Hammond organ, the grand piano and the buffet with its array of glistening delicacies and continued past the two large pillars supporting the ceiling. With the same resolve he walked directly towards the party in the corner, where the host stood talking with his back turned to him. When the man was about five steps away, he thrust his right hand inside his suit coat. One of the women at the table looked at him, and the speaker half turned his head to see what was distracting her. He gave the approaching man a quick, indifferent glance, and started to turn back towards his guests, without a second's interruption in the comments he was making. At the same instant the newcomer pulled out a steel-blue object with a fluted butt and a long barrel, aimed carefully and shot the speaker in the head. The report was not shattering. It sounded more like the peaceful pop of a rifle in a shooting gallery at a fair.
The bullet struck the speaker just behind the left ear, and he fell forward on to the table, his left cheek in the crenellated mashed potatoes around an exquisite fish casserole à la Frans Suell.
Sticking the weapon into his pocket, the gunman turned sharply to the right, walked the few steps to the nearest open window, placed his left foot on the sill, swung himself over the low window, stepped into the window box outside, hopped down on to the pavement and disappeared.
At the table three windows away a diner in his fifties grew rigid and stared with amazement, a glass of whisky halfway to his mouth. In front of him was a book that he had been pretending to read.
The man with the suntan and the dark-blue shantung suit was not dead.
Stirring, he said, ‘Ow! It hurts.’
Dead people don't usually complain. Besides, it didn't even look as if he were bleeding.
Per Månsson was sitting in his bachelor den on Regementsgatan, talking to his wife on the telephone. He was a Detective Inspector with the Malmö police force, and although he was married, he lived as a bachelor five days of the week. For more than ten years he'd spent every free weekend with his wife – an arrangement which had so far satisfied them both.
He cradled the receiver with his left shoulder while he mixed a Gripenberger with his right hand. It was his favourite drink, consisting simply of a jigger of gin, crushed ice and grape juice in a big tumbler.
His wife, who'd been to the movies, was telling him the plot of Gone With the Wind.
It took some time, but Månsson listened patiently, because as soon as she had finished the story he planned to ward off their usual weekend get-together with the excuse that he had to work. Which was a lie.
It was twenty minutes after nine in the evening.
Månsson was sweating in spite of his light clothing – a string vest and chequered shorts. He had closed the balcony door at the beginning of the conversation so that he wouldn't be disturbed by the rumble of traffic from the street. Although the sun had long ago sunk behind the roofs of the buildings across the street, it was very warm in the room.
He stirred his drink with a fork, which he was embarrassed to admit had been either stolen or taken by accident from a restaurant called Översten. Månsson wondered if a person could take a fork by accident and said, ‘Yes, I see. It was Leslie Howard then who … No, huh? Clark Gable? Uh-hmm …’
Five minutes later she'd got to the end. He delivered his white lie and hung up.
The telephone rang. Månsson didn't answer immediately. He was off work and wanted to keep it that way. He slowly drained his Gripenberger. Watching the evening sky darken, he lifted the receiver and answered, ‘Månsson.’
‘This is Nilsson. That was one hell of a long conversation. I've been trying to get you for half an hour.’
Nilsson was an assistant detective, on duty that night at the central police station on Davidshall Square. Månsson sighed.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘What's up?’
‘A man has been shot in the dining room at the Savoy. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to get over there.’
The glass was empty but still cold. Månsson picked it up and rolled it against his forehead with the palm of his hand.
‘Is he dead?’ he