Murder on the Thirty-First Floor by Per Wahlöö

dreadful, as dreadful as this day, today.’
    ‘You took early retirement?’
    ‘Yes. They made me. Out of pure goodwill, of course. I even got a doctor’s certificate. They thought of everything. Heart defect, they said, heart defect sounds good. There was nothing wrong with me at all, needless to say.’
    ‘And what did your pension amount to?’
    ‘I got full pay, and have been getting it ever since. Good God, it’s peanuts to them, compared to what they have to pay their tax experts. And anyway, they could stop paying it whenever they wanted to: I’d signed the papers.’
    ‘What papers?’
    ‘The statement, as they called it. The confession: I assume you’ve read it? And the transfer of this property and my assets. They only needed them pro forma, they said, not to make use of them unless it proved necessary. Well, I’ve never been under any illusion, I just didn’t think it would prove necessary so soon. And there were long periods when I tried to convince myself that they wouldn’t report me, that they really didn’t dare expose themselves to the scandal of a public trial and all the talk. They had me on a hook, after all; I mean to say, all this –’ he made a sweeping gesture – ‘compensates them for their losses, even if it did look a large sum.’
    ‘How large?’
    ‘Nearly a million. Look, must you put me through the torture of repeating this all over again? Verbally. And here … at home?’
    ‘Was it all in cash?’
    ‘No, barely half. And it was spread over many years. The rest …’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘The rest was materials, mostly building materials, transport, labour, paper, envelopes. He had it all on his list down to the last paper clip and rubber band and pot of glue, the devil.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘That devil in charge of their investigation. Their favourite Rottweiler, the head of publishing. I didn’t see them in person, not even once. They didn’t want to dirty their hands with a thing like that, he said. And nobody was to know anything about it. It would do irreparable damage to the group, he said. There was an election coming up straight afterwards. I suspected they’d just wait until it was over.’
    He was constantly mopping his face with his handkerchief, which was already grey and sodden.
    ‘What … What are you going to do with me?’
    ‘When you stopped work, were you given some kind of diploma, a farewell letter?’
    The man in the smoking jacket shuddered.
    ‘Yes,’ he said flatly.
    ‘Please show it to me.’
    ‘Now?’
    ‘Yes, at once.’
    The man got unsteadily to his feet, tried to adjust his expression, and went out of the room. A few minutes later he was back with the diploma. It was under glass in a frame with a broad gold edge. The message was signed by the chairman and the publisher.
    ‘There were two more sheets to it, a pair of blank pages. What have you done with them?’
    The man regarded Jensen in bewilderment.
    ‘Don’t know. Threw them away, I suppose. I think I cut that bit off before I went to the framing shop.’
    ‘You don’t remember for sure?’
    ‘No, but I must have thrown them away. I remember cutting them off.’
    ‘With scissors?’
    ‘Er, yes, I’m sure of it.’
    He stared at the frame and shook it.
    ‘What a charade,’ he muttered. ‘What hypocrisy, what bloody hypocrisy.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Inspector Jensen.
    He closed his notebook, put it in his pocket and got up.
    ‘Goodbye,’ he said.
    The man stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘When … when are you coming back?’
    ‘Don’t know,’ said Inspector Jensen.
    The youth in the hall was still sitting in the same position, but was now studying the horoscope in one of the magazines with a faint glimmer of interest.
    It was already dark by the time Inspector Jensen drove back, and in the decaying dormitory towns, the tower blocks were massed like queues of black ghosts in the scrubby woodland.
    He didn’t bother to go to the office but drove straight home. On the