rested. The honey water had not satisfied his hunger, however, and the hollow feeling in his diaphragm showed no sign of abating.
‘I shall have to eat a cooked meal soon. Tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.’
He said this to himself as he went down the stairs. It was very rare for him to talk to himself.
Light rain towards morning had dissolved the covering of snow. The temperature was now a degree or so above freezing, the clouds had dispersed and the sunlight was white and cold.
In the station in the Sixteenth District they still hadn’t completed the early-morning chores. Outside the entrance to the arrest area stood the metallic grey van that was to take those who were on their third arrest for drinking to clinics and work camps, and down in the basement the staff were just bundling their dishevelled charges out of the cells. The officers looked washed out by night duty and exhaustion. At the door, those who had been released waited in a long, silent queue tofile past the inspection desk and be given their pre-discharge injections.
Inspector Jensen stopped at the doctor’s desk.
‘What sort of night’s it been?’
‘Normal. That’s to say, a bit worse than the night before.’
Jensen nodded.
‘We had another sudden death last night, a woman.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘She even told us in advance. Said she’d only been drinking to get her courage up, and the police had interrupted her. And even so I wasn’t able to stop her.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Threw herself against the cell wall and smashed her skull. Pretty difficult to achieve, but plainly it is possible.’
The doctor looked at Jensen. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, and there was a faint smell of alcohol that did not seem to be coming from the man he was just injecting.
‘That takes strength and a heck of a lot of willpower,’ said the doctor. ‘And you have to tear the soundproof padding off the wall first.’
Most of those who had just been released were standing there with hands in pockets and heads hanging apathetically. There was no terror or despair in their faces any longer, just emptiness.
Inspector Jensen went up to his office, got out one of his cards and made two notes.
Better wall padding.
New doctor.
The room held nothing of interest for him this time, either, and he left it almost immediately.
It was twenty past eight.
CHAPTER 18
The suburb was twenty kilometres or so south of the city, and in the category the experts at the Ministry for Social Affairs liked to call ‘self-clearance areas’.
It had been built at the time of the big housing shortage and consisted of about thirty tower blocks, ranged symmetrically round a bus station and a so-called shopping centre. The bus route had been axed and nearly all the shops were boarded up. The big, paved piazza was used as a car graveyard, and only about twenty per cent of the flats in the tower blocks were occupied.
Inspector Jensen located the address he was looking for with some difficulty, parked the car and got out. The block of flats was fourteen storeys high, and in the places where the plaster had peeled away the walls were black with damp. The paving in front of the main entrance was strewn with broken glass, and the vegetation of scrubby trees and bushes had pushed its way right up to the concrete base of the building. Their roots would eventually undermine the foundations.
The lift wasn’t working and he had to walk up to the ninth floor. The stairwell was cold and dirty and badly lit. Some of the doors were open, revealing rooms just as people had left them, littered and draughty, with long cracks in ceilings and walls. It was apparent from the smell of frying food and the boom of presenters’ voices from morning TV programmes thatsome of the flats were still lived in. The walls and double floors seemed to have no soundproofing effect at all.
Inspector Jensen was breathing quite heavily after five sets of stairs, and by the time he got right
‘I shall have to eat a cooked meal soon. Tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.’
He said this to himself as he went down the stairs. It was very rare for him to talk to himself.
Light rain towards morning had dissolved the covering of snow. The temperature was now a degree or so above freezing, the clouds had dispersed and the sunlight was white and cold.
In the station in the Sixteenth District they still hadn’t completed the early-morning chores. Outside the entrance to the arrest area stood the metallic grey van that was to take those who were on their third arrest for drinking to clinics and work camps, and down in the basement the staff were just bundling their dishevelled charges out of the cells. The officers looked washed out by night duty and exhaustion. At the door, those who had been released waited in a long, silent queue tofile past the inspection desk and be given their pre-discharge injections.
Inspector Jensen stopped at the doctor’s desk.
‘What sort of night’s it been?’
‘Normal. That’s to say, a bit worse than the night before.’
Jensen nodded.
‘We had another sudden death last night, a woman.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘She even told us in advance. Said she’d only been drinking to get her courage up, and the police had interrupted her. And even so I wasn’t able to stop her.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Threw herself against the cell wall and smashed her skull. Pretty difficult to achieve, but plainly it is possible.’
The doctor looked at Jensen. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, and there was a faint smell of alcohol that did not seem to be coming from the man he was just injecting.
‘That takes strength and a heck of a lot of willpower,’ said the doctor. ‘And you have to tear the soundproof padding off the wall first.’
Most of those who had just been released were standing there with hands in pockets and heads hanging apathetically. There was no terror or despair in their faces any longer, just emptiness.
Inspector Jensen went up to his office, got out one of his cards and made two notes.
Better wall padding.
New doctor.
The room held nothing of interest for him this time, either, and he left it almost immediately.
It was twenty past eight.
CHAPTER 18
The suburb was twenty kilometres or so south of the city, and in the category the experts at the Ministry for Social Affairs liked to call ‘self-clearance areas’.
It had been built at the time of the big housing shortage and consisted of about thirty tower blocks, ranged symmetrically round a bus station and a so-called shopping centre. The bus route had been axed and nearly all the shops were boarded up. The big, paved piazza was used as a car graveyard, and only about twenty per cent of the flats in the tower blocks were occupied.
Inspector Jensen located the address he was looking for with some difficulty, parked the car and got out. The block of flats was fourteen storeys high, and in the places where the plaster had peeled away the walls were black with damp. The paving in front of the main entrance was strewn with broken glass, and the vegetation of scrubby trees and bushes had pushed its way right up to the concrete base of the building. Their roots would eventually undermine the foundations.
The lift wasn’t working and he had to walk up to the ninth floor. The stairwell was cold and dirty and badly lit. Some of the doors were open, revealing rooms just as people had left them, littered and draughty, with long cracks in ceilings and walls. It was apparent from the smell of frying food and the boom of presenters’ voices from morning TV programmes thatsome of the flats were still lived in. The walls and double floors seemed to have no soundproofing effect at all.
Inspector Jensen was breathing quite heavily after five sets of stairs, and by the time he got right
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