Murder on the Thirty-First Floor by Per Wahlöö Page B

when two police officers in green uniforms dragged in the first blind drunk arrest of the day. A while later, the man who had been making investigations at the post office rang.
    ‘Where are you?’
    ‘In the central newspaper archive.’
    ‘Any results to report?’
    ‘Not yet. Shall I carry on?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Inspector Jensen.
    The head of the plainclothes patrol returned just over an hour later.
    ‘Well?’
    ‘Age twenty-six. Son of a well-known businessman. The family’s thought to be wealthy. Occasionally works as a journalist on a weekly magazine. Well educated. Unmarried. Seen as enjoying the protection of his bosses, apparently because of family connections. Temperament …’
    The police officer frowned and studied the sheet of paper as if finding it hard to decipher his own handwriting.
    ‘Unstable, spontaneous, charming, sense of humour. Given to reckless pranks. Poor nerves, not very reliable, lacks stamina. Seven convictions for drunkenness, two periods of treatment in the alcohol addiction clinic. Sounds like the black sheep of the family,’ concluded the head of the plainclothes patrol.
    ‘That will do,’ said Inspector Jensen.
    At half past twelve he had lunch sent up from the canteen: two soft-boiled eggs, a cup of tea and three wheaten rusks.
    When he had finished his meal he stood up, put on his hat and coat, went down to the car and drove south.
    He found the address he had been given on the second floor of an ordinary block of flats, but no one answered when he rang the bell. He listened, and thought he could make out a vague musical sound from inside the flat. After a minute or two, he tried the handle. The door was unlocked and he went in.
    It was a standard flat with a hall, kitchen and two other rooms. The walls in the first room were bare and there were no curtains at the windows. In the middle of the floor stood a wooden chair, and beside it an empty cognac bottle. On the chair sat a naked male figure, playing the guitar.
    He put his head on one side and surveyed his visitor, but did not stop playing or say anything.
    Inspector Jensen went on into the next room. That had no proper furniture either, and no carpet or curtains, but on the floor there were some bottles and a heap of clothes. On a mattress in one corner a woman was asleep in a tangle of sheets and blankets with her head buried in a pillow. She had one arm resting on the floor, where cigarettes, a brown PVC bag and an ashtray were within easy reach.
    The air was thick and stale, smelling of alcohol, tobacco smoke and naked human bodies. Inspector Jensen opened the window.
    The woman lifted her head from the pillow and gave him a blank stare.
    ‘Who the hell are you?’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’
    ‘It’s the detective we’ve been waiting for all day, darling,’ called the guitar player from the outer room. ‘The great detective who’s come to expose us.’
    ‘Go to hell,’ said the woman, her head sinking back on to the pillow.
    Jensen went over to the mattress.
    ‘Show me your ID card,’ he said.
    ‘Go to hell,’ she said in a muffled, sleepy voice.
    He bent down, opened her handbag and rummaged around until he found the card. He glanced through the personal details. She was nineteen. In the top right-hand corner therewere two red marks, fully visible even though someone had tried to blot them out. That meant two arrests for drinking. A third would mean immediate admittance to an alcohol abuse clinic.
    Inspector Jensen left the flat. He stopped at the door and turned to the guitar player.
    ‘I’ll be back in five minutes. Make sure you’re dressed.’
    He went down to the car and called for an emergency vehicle. It arrived within three minutes, and he took two constables with him up to the flat. The guitar man had put on a shirt and trousers and was sitting on the windowsill, smoking. The woman was still asleep.
    One of the constables produced a breath test kit, raised her head from the pillow