petrol fumes, the air felt clear and pure. On the pavements there were people who had temporarily left their cars. As ever, they were well-dressed and looked very much alike. They moved quickly and nervously, as if they couldn’t wait to get back to their cars. Once inside their vehicles, their sense of integrity was intensified. Since the cars were different in size, colour, shape and horsepower, they lent their owner an identity. What was more, they brought about a sense of group identity. Peoplewith the same cars unconsciously felt that they belonged to a peer group that was easier to grasp than society under the Accord in general.
Jensen had read this in a study commissioned by the Ministry for Social Affairs. It had been carried out by some state psychologists and had circulated to the top echelons of the police. Then it had been classified.
When he was on the south side of the square, just opposite the workers’ monument, he spotted a police car exactly like his own in his rearview mirror. He was pretty sure it belonged to an inspector from one of the neighbouring districts, most likely the fifteenth or seventeenth.
As he drove up to the Skyscraper he was half listening to the short-wave radio, which was issuing brief, cryptic messages at regular intervals from the radio control room to police vans and patrol cars. He knew the daily papers’ police correspondents had permission to listen to all this radio traffic. Apart from road accidents, however, there was hardly ever anything sensational or exciting to be snapped up.
He drove up to the forecourt and parked in the space between the bosses’ black cars and the director of publishing’s white one.
A guard in a white uniform with a red peaked cap came over at once. Inspector Jensen showed his ID and went into the building.
The high-speed lift stopped automatically on the eighteenth floor and nowhere else on the way, but it was almost twenty minutes before he was admitted. He whiled away the time studying the models of the two passenger liners, named after the Prime Minister and His Majesty the King.
He was shown in by a secretary in a green suit, her eyes dulland lifeless. The room was identical to the one he had visited two days before, apart from the fact that the cups and trophies in the glass-fronted cabinet were rather smaller and the view from the window was different.
The head of publishing stopped buffing his cuticles for a moment and invited him to sit down.
‘Has the matter been dealt with?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘To the extent that you may require assistance or additional information, I have been asked to give you all possible assistance. I am therefore at your disposal.’
Jensen nodded.
‘Though I must prepare you for the fact that I am a very busy man.’
Jensen looked at the trophies and said:
‘Were you a sportsman?’
‘I’m an outdoor person. Still active. Sailing, angling, archery, golf … Obviously not in the same class as …’
He gave a modest smile and gestured vaguely towards the door. A second or two later, the corners of his mouth fell again. He looked at his watch, which was large and elegant with a broad gold-link bracelet.
‘How can I help you?’
Inspector Jensen had long since formulated the questions he had come to ask.
‘Has anything happened that could provide a plausible explanation for the phrase “the murder committed in the building”?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You can’t explain it, link it to anything or any person?’
‘No, as I’ve told you, naturally I can’t. The imaginings of a lunatic. A lunatic, that’s the only conceivable explanation.’
‘Have there been any deaths?’
‘Not recently, at any rate. But on that point I recommend you ask the head of personnel. I’m really a journalist, responsible for the content and editorial layout of the magazines. And …’
‘Yes?’
‘And in any case, you’re on the wrong track. Can’t you see how absurd that line of
Jensen had read this in a study commissioned by the Ministry for Social Affairs. It had been carried out by some state psychologists and had circulated to the top echelons of the police. Then it had been classified.
When he was on the south side of the square, just opposite the workers’ monument, he spotted a police car exactly like his own in his rearview mirror. He was pretty sure it belonged to an inspector from one of the neighbouring districts, most likely the fifteenth or seventeenth.
As he drove up to the Skyscraper he was half listening to the short-wave radio, which was issuing brief, cryptic messages at regular intervals from the radio control room to police vans and patrol cars. He knew the daily papers’ police correspondents had permission to listen to all this radio traffic. Apart from road accidents, however, there was hardly ever anything sensational or exciting to be snapped up.
He drove up to the forecourt and parked in the space between the bosses’ black cars and the director of publishing’s white one.
A guard in a white uniform with a red peaked cap came over at once. Inspector Jensen showed his ID and went into the building.
The high-speed lift stopped automatically on the eighteenth floor and nowhere else on the way, but it was almost twenty minutes before he was admitted. He whiled away the time studying the models of the two passenger liners, named after the Prime Minister and His Majesty the King.
He was shown in by a secretary in a green suit, her eyes dulland lifeless. The room was identical to the one he had visited two days before, apart from the fact that the cups and trophies in the glass-fronted cabinet were rather smaller and the view from the window was different.
The head of publishing stopped buffing his cuticles for a moment and invited him to sit down.
‘Has the matter been dealt with?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘To the extent that you may require assistance or additional information, I have been asked to give you all possible assistance. I am therefore at your disposal.’
Jensen nodded.
‘Though I must prepare you for the fact that I am a very busy man.’
Jensen looked at the trophies and said:
‘Were you a sportsman?’
‘I’m an outdoor person. Still active. Sailing, angling, archery, golf … Obviously not in the same class as …’
He gave a modest smile and gestured vaguely towards the door. A second or two later, the corners of his mouth fell again. He looked at his watch, which was large and elegant with a broad gold-link bracelet.
‘How can I help you?’
Inspector Jensen had long since formulated the questions he had come to ask.
‘Has anything happened that could provide a plausible explanation for the phrase “the murder committed in the building”?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You can’t explain it, link it to anything or any person?’
‘No, as I’ve told you, naturally I can’t. The imaginings of a lunatic. A lunatic, that’s the only conceivable explanation.’
‘Have there been any deaths?’
‘Not recently, at any rate. But on that point I recommend you ask the head of personnel. I’m really a journalist, responsible for the content and editorial layout of the magazines. And …’
‘Yes?’
‘And in any case, you’re on the wrong track. Can’t you see how absurd that line of