The Abominable Man. Maj Sjowall

is it that's actually happened?’ she asked in a voice that was much too shrill.

      Rönn took out his handkerchief and began to polish his florid nose, thoroughly and at length. But Martin Beck hadn't expected any help from that quarter.

      ‘If you have anything to calm your nerves, Mrs Nyman – pills, I mean – I think it would be wise to take a couple now,’ he said.

      The boy, who had taken a seat on the piano stool, stood up.

      ‘Papa has … There's a bottle of Restenil in the cabinet in the bathroom,’ he said. ‘Shall I get it?’

      Martin Beck nodded and the boy went out to the bathroom and came back with the tablets and a glass of water. Martin Beck looked at the label, shook out two tablets into the lid of the bottle and handed them to Mrs Nyman, who obediently swallowed them with a gulp of water.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now please tell me what it is you want. Stig is dead, and neither you nor I can do anything about that.’

      She pressed the handkerchief to her mouth, and her voice was stifled when she spoke.

      ‘Why wasn't I allowed to go to him? He's my husband after all. What have they done to him there at the hospital? That doctor … he sounded so odd …’

      Her son went over and sat on the arm of her chair. He put his arm around her shoulders.

      Martin Beck twisted in his chair so that he sat directly facing her, then he threw a glance at Rönn, sitting silently on the sofa.

      ‘Mrs Nyman,’ he said, ‘your husband did not die of his illness. Someone entered his room and killed him.’

      The woman stared at him and he could see in her eyes that several seconds passed before she understood the significance of what he'd said. She lowered the hand with the handkerchief and pressed it to her breast. She was very pale.

      ‘Killed? Someone killed him? I don't understand …’

      The son had gone white around the nostrils and his grip around his mother's shoulders tightened.

      ‘Who?’ he said.

      ‘We don't know. A nurse found him on the floor of his room just after two o'clock. Someone had come in through the window and killed him with a bayonet. It must have happened in the course of a few seconds, I don't think he had time to realize what was happening.’

      Said Martin Beck. The giver of comfort.

      ‘Everything indicates he was taken by surprise,’ Rönn said. ‘If he'd had time to react he would have tried to protect himself or ward off the blows, but there's no sign that he did.’

      The woman now stared at Rönn.

      ‘But why?’ she said.

      ‘We don't know,’ Rönn said.

      That was all he said.

      ‘Mrs Nyman, maybe you can help us find out,’ said Martin Beck. ‘We don't want to cause you unnecessary pain, but we have to ask you a few questions. First of all, can you think of anyone who might have done it?’

      The woman shook her head hopelessly.

      ‘Do you know if your husband had ever received any threats? Or if there was anyone who thought he had reason to want to see him dead? Anyone who threatened him?’

      She went on shaking her head.

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘Why should anyone threaten him?’

      ‘Anyone who hated him?’

      ‘Why should anyone hate him?’

      ‘Think carefully,’ Martin Beck said. ‘Wasn't there anyone who thought your husband had treated him badly? He was a policeman, after all, and making enemies is part of the job. Did he ever say someone was out to get him or had threatened him?’

      The widow looked in confusion first at her son, then at Rönn, and then back at Martin Beck.

      ‘Not that I can recall. And I'd certainly remember if he'd said anything like that.’

      ‘Papa didn't talk much about his job,’ Stefan said. ‘You'd better ask at the station.’

      ‘We'll ask there too,’ said Martin Beck. ‘How long had he been sick?’

      ‘A long time, I don't remember exactly,’ the boy said, and looked at his mother.

      ‘Since June of last year,’ she said. ‘He got sick just before midsummer, an awful pain in his stomach, and he went to the doctor right after the holiday. The doctor thought it was an ulcer and had him go on sick leave. He's been on sick leave ever since, and he's been to several different doctors and they all say different things and prescribe different medicines. Then three weeks ago he went into Sabbath and they've been examining him and doing a lot of tests ever since, but they couldn't find out what it was.’

      Talking seemed to distract her attention and help her repress the shock.

      ‘Papa thought it was cancer,’ the boy said. ‘The doctors said it wasn't. But he was terribly sick all the time.’

      ‘What did he do all this time? Hasn't he worked at all since last summer?’

      ‘No,’ Mrs Nyman said. ‘He was really very ill. Had attacks of pain that lasted several days in a row when all he could do was lie in bed. He took a lot of pills, but they didn't help much. He went down to the station a few times last autumn to see how things were going, as he said, but he couldn't work.’

      ‘Mrs Nyman, can't you remember anything he said or did that might have some connection with what's happened?’ asked Martin Beck.

      She shook her head and started sobbing dryly. Her eyes glided on past Martin Beck and she stared straight ahead at nothing.

      ‘Do you have any brothers and sisters?’ Rönn asked the boy.

      ‘Yes, a sister, but she's married and lives in Malmö.’

      Rönn glanced inquiringly at Martin Beck, who was rolling a cigarette thoughtfully back and forth between his fingers as he looked at the two people in front of him.

      ‘We'll be going now,’ he said to the boy. ‘I'm sure you can take care of your mother, but I think the best thing would be if you could get a doctor to come over and give her something to make her sleep. Is there any doctor you can call at this time of night?’

      The boy stood up and nodded.

      ‘Doctor Blomberg,’ he said. ‘He usually comes when someone in the family's sick.’

      He went out in the hall and they heard him dial a number and after a while someone seemed to answer.

      The conversation was short and he came back and stood beside his mother. He looked more like an adult now than he had when they first saw him down in the doorway.

      ‘He's coming,’ the boy said. ‘You don't need to wait. It won't take him long.’

      They stood up and Rönn went over and put his hand on the woman's shoulder. She didn't move, and when they said good-bye she didn't respond.

      The boy went with them to the door.

      ‘We may have to come back,’ said Martin Beck. ‘We'll call you first to find out how your mother's doing.’

      When they were out on the street he turned to Rönn.

      ‘I suppose you knew Nyman?’ he said.

      ‘Not especially well,’ said Rönn evasively.

       9

      The blue-white light of a flashbulb lit the dirty yellow façade of the hospital pavilion for an instant as Martin Beck and Rönn returned to