The Locked Room. Майкл Коннелли

On the other hand there was no point in it. The old boy hardly owned a thing. A table, a chair, and a bed, I guess; and then a few bits of junk out in the kitchenette.’

      ‘But you looked around?’

      ‘Of course. I inspected everything before I gave them the go-ahead.’

      ‘For what?’

      ‘What? How do you mean?’

      ‘Before you gave the go-ahead for what?’

      ‘To take away the remains, of course. The old man had to have a post-mortem, didn't he? Even if he was a suicide, he still had to be dissected. It's regulations.’

      ‘Can you summarize your observations?’

      ‘Sure. Simple. The body was lying about three yards from the window.’

      ‘About?’

      ‘Yeah, the fact was I didn't have a yardstick on me. It looked about two months old; putrid, in other words. In the room were two chairs, a table, and a bed.’

      ‘Two chairs?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘Just now you said one.’

      ‘Oh? Yeah, well it was two anyway, I guess; and then there was a little shelf with some old newspapers and books, and in the kitchenette a couple of saucepans and a coffee pot, and then the usual.’

      ‘The usual?’

      ‘Yeah, a can opener, knives and forks, a rubbish bin, and so forth.’

      ‘I see. Was anything lying on the floor?’

      ‘Not a thing, apart from the body, I mean. I asked the constables and they said they hadn't found anything either.’

      ‘Was anyone else in the flat?’

      ‘Nope. I asked the boys, and they said not. No one else went in there, apart from me and these two. Then the guys with the van came and took the body away with them in a plastic bag.’

      ‘Since then we have come to know the cause of Svärd's death.’

      ‘Indeed. That's right. He shot himself. Incomprehensible, I say. And what did he do with the gun?’

      ‘You've no plausible explanation?’

      ‘None. The whole thing's as idiotic as can be. An insoluble case, like I said. Doesn't happen so often, eh?’

      ‘Did the constables have any opinion?’

      ‘No, all they saw was he was dead and that the place was all shut up. If there'd been a pistol, either they or I'd have found it. Anyway, it could only have been lying on the floor beside that dead old guy.’

      ‘Did you find out who the deceased was?’

      ‘Of course. His name was Svärd, wasn't it? It was even written up on the door. You could see at a glance the type of man he'd been.’

      ‘What type?’

      ‘Well, a social case. Old drunk, probably. That type often kill themselves; that is, if they don't drink themselves to death or get a heart attack or something.’

      ‘You've nothing else of interest to add?’

      ‘No, it's beyond comprehension, like I said. Pure mystery. I bet even you can't fix this one. Anyway there's other things more important.’

      ‘Maybe.’

      ‘Yes, I reckon so. Can I go now?’

      ‘Not quite yet,’ said Martin Beck.

      ‘I've no more to say,’ said Aldor Gustavsson, stubbing out his cigar in the ash tray.

      Martin Beck got up and walked over to the window, where he stood with his back to his visitor. ‘I've a few things to say,’ he said.

      ‘Oh? What?’

      ‘Quite a lot. Among other things the forensic team inspected the place last week. Though almost all traces had been destroyed, one large and two smaller bloodstains were immediately discovered on the carpet. Did you see any patches of blood?’

      ‘No. Not that I looked for any.’

      ‘Obviously not. What did you look for?’

      ‘Nothing special. The case seemed quite clear.’

      ‘If you failed to see those bloodstains, it's conceivable you missed other things.’

      ‘At any rate there was no firearm there.’

      ‘Did you notice how the dead man was dressed?’

      ‘No, not exactly. After all, he was completely putrid. Some kind of rags, I suppose. Besides, I didn't see it made any difference.’

      ‘What you did immediately notice was that the deceased had been a poor and lonely person. Not what you would call an eminent member of society.’

      ‘Of course. When you've seen as many alcoholics and welfare cases as I have …’

      ‘Then?’

      ‘Yes, well, then you know who's who and what's what.’

      Martin Beck wondered whether Gustavsson did. Aloud he said: ‘Supposing the deceased had been better adapted socially, perhaps you might have been more conscientious?’

      ‘Yes, in such cases one has to mind one's p's and q's. The fact is, we've one hell of a lot to attend to.’ He looked around. ‘Even if you don't realize it here, we're overworked. You can't start playing at Sherlock Holmes every time you come across a dead tramp. Was there anything else?’

      ‘Yes, one thing. I'd like to point out that your handling of this case has been atrocious.’

      ‘What?’ Gustavsson got up. All of a sudden it seemed to have dawned on him that Martin Beck was in a position to mar his career – perhaps seriously. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Just because I didn't see those bloodstains and a gun that wasn't there …’

      ‘Sins of omission aren't the worst ones,’ Martin Beck said. ‘Even if they, too, are unforgivable. To take an example: you called the police doctor and gave her instructions built on erroneous and preconceived ideas. Further, you fooled the two constables into thinking the case was so simple that you only had to walk into the room and look around for the whole matter to be cleared up. After declaring no criminological investigation was needed, you had the body carried away without even having any photos taken.’

      ‘But, my God,’ Gustavsson said. ‘The old guy must have taken his own life.’

      Martin Beck turned around and looked at him.

      ‘Are these official criticisms?’ said Gustavsson, alarmed.

      ‘Yes, in high degree. Good day.’

      ‘Wait a minute. I'll do all I can to help …’

      Martin Beck shook his head, and the man left. He seemed worried. But before the door had quite had time to close, Martin Beck heard him utter the words: ‘Old bastard …’

      Naturally Aldor Gustavsson ought never to have been a detective sergeant, nor even a policeman of any sort. He was untalented, impudent, conceited, and had completely the wrong approach to his job. The best of the uniformed force had always been recruited into the CID. And probably still were. If men like him had made the grade and become detectives even ten years ago, what were things going to be like in the future?

      Martin Beck felt his first working day was at an end. Tomorrow he'd go and have a look at this locked room himself. What was he to do tonight? Eat something, anything, and then sit leafing through books he knew he ought to read. Lie alone in his bed and wait for sleep. Feel shut in.

      In his own locked room.