Chapter 9 Chapter nine

When Martin Baker and Lehn returned to the crime scene, they saw blue and white flashing lights flashing in front of the hospital tent.Two more cars arrived, their headlights on, and they stopped at the U-turn. "Looks like the photographer has arrived," Lehn said. When the two got out of the car, the photographer walked towards them. He didn't have a camera bag on his back, but just held the camera and flash in one hand. The pockets were stuffed with rolls of negatives, flash guns and lenses.Martin Baker had seen this man before at crime scenes. "Wrong," he said to Lehn. "It seems that the people from the newspaper office arrived first."

The tabloid photographer came up to greet them and snapped a picture of the pair as they walked towards the door.A reporter from the same newspaper was standing at the foot of the steps, interviewing a patrolman. "Morning, Sergeant," said the reporter, as soon as he saw Martin Baker, "I guess I can't go in with you?" Martin Baker shook his head and followed Leen up the stairs. "At least tell me a few words." The reporter said after him. "Let's talk later." After Martin Baker finished speaking, he helped Lehn open the door, and when he closed the door, he almost missed the reporter's nose, and the latter grimaced.

A police photographer was also at the scene and was standing outside the deceased's room with a camera bag on his back. A little further down the hallway stood the doctor with the strange name and the plainclothes agent from the Fifth Precinct.Lehn walked into the ward with the photographer and asked the photographer to start working.Martin Baker walked up to the two men in the corridor. "How?" he asked. Same old problem. The plainclothes man named Hassoon scratched his neck. "We've talked to most of the patients in the hallway and no one has seen or heard anything. I'm asking Uke... Uk... Asking this doctor when we can talk to the other patients."

"Did you ask the people in the next room?" asked Martin Baker. "Yes," Hassoon said, "and all the wards, and no one heard anything, but the walls of this old building are very thick." "We can wait until it's time for them to eat breakfast," said Martin Baker. The doctor didn't say anything, apparently he didn't speak Swedish.After a while, he pointed to the office and said in English: "it's time to go." Ha Song nodded, and the curly-haired doctor in clogs walked away. "Do you know Neiman?" Martin Baker asked.

"I don't know him very well. I've never worked in his precinct, but we see each other a lot. He's been in the police force for a long time. When I was a novice twelve years ago, he was already a criminal police officer." "Do you know anyone who knows him well?" "Ask Clara," Hasson said. "He worked there before he got sick." Martin Baker nodded and looked at the clock above the bathroom door. It was four forty-five. "I'll probably go and have a look," he said. "I don't have anything else to do here anyway."

"Go," Hasson said, "I'll tell Lehn where you've been." Martin Baker went outside and took a deep breath. The cool night was fresh and clean. The reporters and photographers had disappeared, but the patrolman was still standing at the bottom of the steps. Martin Baker nodded at him and walked to the parking lot. In the past ten years, the center of Stockholm has undergone tremendous changes. The whole area has been razed and rebuilt, the streets have been widened, and the roads have been expanded.The purpose of urban construction is to exploit the value of land as much as possible, rather than to create an environment conducive to human life.Not only were 90% of the buildings in the city center demolished, but the original street design was completely changed, seriously destroying the natural terrain.

Residents of Stockholm watched with dismay as durable, irreplaceable old apartments were bulldozed and replaced with unsightly office buildings.They watched helplessly as the pleasant surroundings in which they had settled and worked were smashed into rubble and forced to relocate to distant suburbs. The city center became deafening, almost completely blocked by construction sites, and the new Stockholm slowly thrived from it, with loud and wide traffic arteries, shiny new glass buildings and steel buildings, hard and monotonous concrete exteriors, and the desolation of the city. Only the city's police stations seem to have been completely ignored in this frantic modernization.All inner-city police stations are old and dilapidated, and most of them are overcrowded by the gradual expansion of the police force.The fourth precinct on Riegeling Street, where Martin Baker was going, had a serious shortage of space.

When Martin Baker got out of the taxi in front of the Clara police station, the dawn was beginning to break, and the sun was about to rise.There is not a trace of cloud in the sky. It seems that although it is cold today, it should be quite sunny. He walked up the stone steps and opened the door. On the right was the switchboard. No one could be seen at the moment, and an old gray-haired police officer stood behind another counter.The police officer spread out the morning newspaper and was reading it on his stomach.Seeing Martin Baker come in, the old policeman sat up straight and took off his glasses.

"It's Officer Baker, busy so early." He said, "I'm looking for the news of Captain Nieman in the newspaper. It sounds scary." He put on his glasses again, licked his thumb wet, flipped through the newspaper and continued: "They don't seem to have had time to report it." "Yeah," said Martin Baker, "I think they're too late." Stockholm's morning papers were in print early, perhaps ready to be dispatched before Nyman was killed. Martin Baker walked across the counter into the duty room, which was empty, with the morning newspaper, two stuffed ashtrays and a few coffee cups on the table.From the window of the interrogation room, he saw the police officer on duty sitting and questioning a young woman with long blond hair.When the officer saw Martin Baker, he stood up and said _ to the woman, said a few words, then walked out of the small interrogation room and closed the door.

"Hi," he said, "do you want to see me?" Martin Baker sat down at the table, held the ashtray in front of him, and lit a cigarette. "I'm not looking for anyone in particular," he said. "Do you have a few minutes?" "Wait a minute, please?" said the police officer. "I'll transfer this woman to the Criminal Unit." He ran away, returned a few minutes later with a patrolman, picked up an envelope from the table, and handed it to the patrolman.The woman stood up and threw the purse over her shoulder, then walked decisively towards the door.

"Come on, boy," she said without looking back, "let's go for a drive." The patrolman looked at the officer, who shrugged and smiled.The patrolman put on his hat and followed the woman out. "She seems to make this her home," said Martin Baker. "Yeah, this is not the first time she has come, and it certainly won't be the last time." The sergeant sat down at the table and began to clear the ashes from the pipe into the ashtray. "What happened to Nieman was terrible," he said. "What the hell is going on?" Martin Baker outlined the situation. "Well," said the sergeant, "it's the madness of a man who does this kind of thing, but why pick on Nieman?" "You know Nyman, don't you?" Martin Baker asked. "Not very familiar, he is not the kind of person who laughs and laughs with others." "He was specially assigned here? When did he arrive at the Fourth Precinct?" "They gave him an inquiry three years ago, in February 1968." "What was he like?" asked Martin Baker. The inspector filled his pipe and lit it before answering. "I really don't know how to describe him. I think you know him too. He is very ambitious, very stubborn, has no sense of humor, and his views are very conservative. Although the younger colleagues have no contact with him, they are all a little scared. He. Nieman was tough, but as I said, I don't really know him very well." "Has he any good friends at the Bureau?" "Not in the Fourth Precinct. He doesn't get on well with our officers. I don't know the rest." The officer thought for a moment, then looked at Martin Baker mysteriously and oddly. "Well..." he said. "What's wrong?" "I suppose he still has friends at HQ?" Instead of answering, Martin Baker asked another question. "Where's the enemy?" "I don't know, maybe there is. But there shouldn't be any here, and even if there were, I wouldn't want to put him in—" "Do you know if he's ever been threatened?" "I don't know, he wouldn't tell me that, and—" "And what?" "And it's impossible for someone like Nieman to allow others to threaten him." The phone in the interrogation room rang, and the officer went in to answer it, and Martin Baker walked over and stood by the window with his hands in his pockets.The police station is very quiet, the only sounds that can be heard are the police officer's phone conversation and the dry cough of the old police officer on the switchboard—maybe the arrest team downstairs will be busy. Martin Baker was suddenly tired, his eyes were sore from lack of sleep, and his throat was dry from too much smoking. It seemed that this phone call would take a long time. Martin Baker yawned and flipped through the morning paper, reading the headlines, occasionally glancing at the photo commentary, but he didn't pay attention to it.Finally he closed the newspaper and went to the interrogation room and knocked on the window.The police officer who was still on the phone looked up. Martin Baker signaled that he was leaving. The officer waved his hand and continued on the phone. Martin Baker lit another cigarette, thinking absently that this should be his fiftieth in the twenty-four hours since yesterday morning.