The Man Who Went Up in Smoke. Val McDermidЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Yes, to get my goat. Annoy me. About Hitler.’
‘Uh-huh. Well, had you given him any cause to talk like that?’
‘I'd told him my old lady was German. That was before.’
‘Before you began drinking?’
‘Yes. Then he just said it didn't matter what kind of mother a guy had.’
‘And when he was about to go out into the kitchen, you took the bottle and hit him from behind?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he fall?’
‘He sort of fell to his knees. And began bleeding. And then he said, “You bloody little Nazi runt, you, now you're in for it.” ’
‘And so you went on hitting him?’
‘I was … afraid. He was bigger than me and … you don't know what it feels like … everything just goes round and round and goes red … I didn't seem to know what I was doing.’
The man's shoulders were shaking violently.
‘That's enough,’ said Kollberg, switching off the tape recorder. ‘Give him something to eat and ask the doctor if he can have a sedative.’
The policeman by the door rose, put his cap on and led the murderer out, holding him loosely by the arm.
‘Bye for now. See you tomorrow,’ said Kollberg absently.
At the same time he was writing mechanically on the paper in front of him, ‘Confessed in tears.’
‘Quite a character,’ he said.
‘Five previous convictions for assault,’ said Melander. ‘In spite of his denying it every time. I remember him very well.’
‘Said the walking card file,’ Kollberg commented.
He rose heavily and stared at Martin Beck.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said. ‘Go take your holiday and let us look after the criminal ways of the lower classes. Where are you going, by the way? To the islands?’
Martin Beck nodded.
‘Smart,’ said Kollberg. ‘I went to Rumania first and got fried-in Mamaia. Then I come home and get boiled. Great. And you don't have any telephone out there?’
‘No.’
‘Excellent. I'm going to take a shower now anyhow. Come on. Run along now.’
Martin Beck thought it over. The suggestion had its advantages. Among other things, he would get away a day earlier. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘I'm leaving. Bye, boys. See you in a month.’
Most people's holidays were already over and Stockholm's August-hot streets had begun to fill with people who had spent a few rainy July weeks in tents and trailers and country boarding-houses. During the last few days, the subway had once again become crowded, but it was now the middle of the working day and Martin Beck was almost alone in the car. He sat looking at the dusty greenery outside and was glad that his eagerly awaited holiday had at last begun.
His family had already been out in the archipelago for a month. This summer they had had the good fortune to rent a cottage from a distant relative of his wife's, a cottage situated all by itself on a little island in the central part of the archipelago. The relative had gone abroad and the cottage was theirs, until the children went back to school.
Martin Beck let himself into his empty flat, went straight into the kitchen and took a beer out of the refrigerator. He took a few gulps standing by the sink, then carried the bottle with him into the bedroom. He undressed and walked out onto the balcony in nothing but his shorts. He sat for a while in the sun, his feet on the balcony rail as he finished off the beer. The heat out there was almost intolerable and when the bottle was empty, he got up and went back into the relative cool of the flat.
He looked at his watch. The boat would be leaving in two hours. The island was located in an area of the archipelago where transportation to and from the city was still maintained by one of the few remaining old steamers. This, thought Martin Beck, was just about the best part of their summer holiday find.
He went out into the kitchen and put the empty bottle down on the pantry floor. The pantry had already been cleared of everything that might spoil, but for safety's sake he looked around to see if he had forgotten anything before he shut the pantry door. Then he pulled the refrigerator plug out of the wall, put the ice trays in the sink and looked around the kitchen before shutting the door and going into the bedroom to pack.
Most of what he needed for himself he had already taken out to the island on the weekend he had already spent there. His wife had given him a list of things which she and the children wanted brought out, and by the time he had included everything, he had two bags full. As he also had to pick up a box of food from the supermarket, he decided to take a taxi to the boat.
There was plenty of room on board and when Martin Beck had put his bags down, he went up on deck and sat down.
The heat was trembling over the city and it was almost dead calm. The foliage in Karl XII Square had lost its freshness and the flags on the Grand Hotel were drooping. Martin Beck looked at his watch and waited impatiently for the men down there to pull in the gangplank.
When he felt the first vibrations from the engine, he got up and walked to the stern. The boat backed away from the quay and he leaned over the railing, watching the propellers whipping up the water into a whitish-green foam. The steam whistle sounded hoarsely, and as the boat began to turn toward Saltsjön, its hull shuddering, Martin Beck stood by the railing and turned his face towards the cool breeze. He suddenly felt free and untroubled; for a brief moment he seemed to relive the feeling he had had as a boy on the first day of the summer holidays.
He had dinner in the dining saloon, then went out and sat on deck again. Before approaching the jetty where he was to land, the boat passed his island, and he saw the cottage and some gaily coloured garden chairs and his wife down on the shore. She was crouching at the water's edge, and he guessed she was scrubbing potatoes. She rose and waved, but he was not certain she could see him at such a distance with the afternoon sun in her eyes.
The children came out to meet him in the rowboat. Martin Beck liked rowing, and ignoring his son's protests, he took the oars and rowed across the bay between the steamer jetty and the island. His daughter – whose name was Ingrid, but who was called Baby although she would be fifteen in a few days – sat in the stern talking about a barn dance. Rolf, who was thirteen and despised girls, was talking about a pike he had landed. Martin listened absently, enjoying the rowing.
After he had taken off his city clothes, he took a brief swim by the rock before pulling on his blue trousers and sweater. After dinner he sat chatting with his wife outside the cottage, watching the sun go down behind the islands on the other side of the mirror-smooth bay. He went to bed early, after setting out some nets with his son.
For the first time in a very long time, he fell asleep immediately.
When he woke, the sun was still low and there was dew on the grass as he padded out and sat down on a rock outside the cottage. It looked as if the day would be as fine as the previous one, but the sun had not yet begun to grow warm, and he was cold in his pyjamas. After a while he went in again and sat down on the veranda with a cup of coffee. When it was seven, he dressed and woke his son, who got up reluctantly. They rowed out and hauled in the nets, which contained nothing but a mass of seaweed and water plants. When they got back, the other two were up and breakfast was on the table.
After breakfast Martin Beck went down to the shed and began to hang up and clean the nets. It was work that tried his patience and he decided that in the future he ought to make his