Murder on the Thirty-First Floor Read online

  ‘They’ve still got three-quarters of an hour.’

  Jensen looked at his watch.

  ‘Thirty-five minutes. But even if the charge is found, disarming it can take some time.’

  ‘And if there isn’t a bomb?’

  ‘I must still advise evacuation.’

  ‘Even if the risk is assessed as small?’

  ‘Yes. It may be that the threat won’t be carried out, that nothing will happen. But there are unfortunately instances where the opposite has occurred.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the history of crime.’

  Jensen clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on the balls of his feet.

  ‘That’s my professional assessment, anyway,’ he said.

  The publisher gave him a long look.

  ‘How much would it cost us for your assessment to turn out to be a different one?’ he said.

  Jensen regarded him stonily.

  The man at the desk appeared to resign himself.

  ‘Only joking, of course,’ he said grimly.

  He put his feet down, turned the chair to face the right way, rested his arms on the desktop in front of him and crumpled forward, his forehead slumping on to his clenched left hand. He pulled himself upright with a jerk.

  ‘We’ll have to confer with my cousin,’ he said, pressing a button on the intercom.

  Jensen checked the time. 13.27.

  The man in the silk tie had moved, silently, and was standing close beside him. He whispered:

  ‘With the boss, the top man, the head of the whole trust, the chairman of the board of the entire group.’

  The publisher had been mumbling a few quick words into the intercom. But his attention was back on them now, and he gave them a cold look. He pressed another button, leaned towards the microphone and spoke, in a rapid, businesslike fashion.

  ‘Site manager? Make the calculations for a fire drill. High-speed evacuation. We need the timings within three minutes. Report directly to me.’

  The chairman came into the room. He was blond, like his cousin, and about ten years his senior. His face was calm and handsome and earnest, his shoulders broad and his posture very upright. He wore a brown suit, and appeared simple and dignified. When he spoke, his voice was deep and its tone muted.

  ‘The new one, how old is she?’ he asked absent-mindedly, with the faintest of nods towards the door.

  ‘Sixteen,’ said his cousin.

  ‘Wow.’

  The director of publishing had drawn back towards the glass-fronted cabinet and looked as though he were standing on tiptoe, though he wasn’t.

  ‘This man’s a police officer,’ said the publisher. ‘His people are carrying out a search but not finding anything. He says we’ve got to evacuate.’

  The chairman went over to the window and stood motionless, looking out.

  ‘Spring’s here already,’ he said. ‘How beautiful it is.’

  You could have heard a pin drop in the room. Jensen looked at his watch. 13.29.

  ‘Move our cars,’ said the chairman out of the corner of his mouth.

  The director of publishing made for the door at a run.

  ‘They’re right beside the building,’ the chairman said softly. ‘How beautiful it is,’ he repeated.

  Thirty seconds of silence elapsed.

  There was a buzz, and a light flashed on the intercom.

  ‘Yes,’ said the publisher.

  ‘Eighteen to twenty minutes using all sets of stairs, the paternoster lift system and the automatic high-speed elevators.’

  ‘All floors?’

  ‘Not the thirty-first.’

  ‘So the … Special Department?’

  ‘Would take considerably longer.’

  The voice from the machine lost something of its efficient tone.

  ‘The spiral staircases are narrow,’ it said.

  ‘I know.’

  Click. Silence. 13.31.

  Jensen went over to one of the windows. Way below him he could see the parking area and the wide, six-lane road, now a deserted strip. He could also see that his men had blocked off the carriageway with bright yellow barriers about four hundred metres from the Skyscraper and one of the officers was busy diverting the traffic down a side street. In spite of the distance, he could clearly see the policemen’s green uniforms and the traffic constable’s white armbands.

  Two extremely large black cars were pulling out of the parking area. They were driven away, heading south, and followed by another one, which was white and presumably belonged to the director of publishing.

  The man had slipped back into the room and was standing by the wall. His smile was an anxious one and his head was drooping under the weight of his thoughts.

  ‘How many floors does this building have?’ said Jensen.

  ‘Thirty above ground,’ said the publisher. ‘Plus four below. We usually count it as thirty.’

  ‘I thought you mentioned a thirty-first?’

  ‘Well if I did, it must have been absent-mindedness.’

  ‘How many staff are there?’

  ‘Here? In the Skyscraper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Four thousand one hundred in the main building. About two thousand in the annexe.’

  ‘So over six thousand in total?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I must insist they are evacuated.’

  Silence. The publisher spun once round on his desk chair.

  The chairman stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out. He turned slowly to Jensen. His regular-featured face wore a grave expression.

  ‘Do you really consider it likely that there’s a bomb in the building?’

  ‘We have to allow for the possibility, at any rate.’

  ‘You’re a police inspector, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And have you ever come across a case like this before?’

  Jensen thought for a moment.

  ‘This is a very special case. But experience tells us that the claims made in anonymous letters do correspond with reality in eighty per cent of all known cases or are at the very least based on facts.’

  ‘That’s been statistically proven?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know what an evacuation would cost us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Our company has been wrestling with financial difficulties for the last thirty years. Our losses are increasing year on year. That is unfortunately also a statistical fact. We have only been able to continue publishing our titles at the cost of great personal sacrifice.’

  His voice had taken on a new ring, bitter and complaining.

  Jensen did not reply. 13.34.

  ‘Our operations here are entirely non-profit-making. We’re not businessmen. We’re book publishers.’

  ‘Book publishers?’

  ‘We view our magazines as books. They answer the need that the books of earlier times never succeeded in fulfilling.’

  He looked out of the window.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he mumbled. ‘When I walked through the park today, the first flowers were already in bloom. Snowdrops and winter aconites. Are you an outdoor person?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Everyone should be an outdoor person. It would make life richer. Richer still.’

  He turned back to Jensen.

  ‘Do you realise what you’re asking of us? The cost will be enormous. We’re under a lot of pressure. Even in our private lives. Since last year’s results were announced, we only use large boxes of matches at home. I mention that as just one little example.’

  ‘Large boxes of matches?’

  ‘Yes. We’re having to make savings wherever we can. Larger boxes work out considerably cheaper. It makes good economic sense.’

  The publisher was now sitting on the desk with his feet on the armrests of the chair. He looked at his cousin.

  ‘Maybe it would make good economic sense if there really were a bomb. We’re gro
wing out of the Skyscraper.’

  The chairman regarded him with a mournful expression.

  ‘The insurance will cover us,’ said the publisher.

  ‘And who’s going to cover the insurance company?’

  ‘The banks.’

  ‘And the banks?’

  The publisher said nothing.

  The chairman turned his attention back to Jensen.

  ‘I assume you’re bound by official secrecy?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The chief of police recommended you. I hope he knew what he was doing.’

  Jensen had no answer to that.

  ‘Presumably you haven’t got any uniformed officers inside the building?’

  ‘No.’

  The publisher pulled his legs up on to the desk and sat cross-legged, like a tailor.

  Jensen took a surreptitious look at his watch. 13.36.

  ‘If there really is a bomb here,’ said the publisher. ‘Six thousand people … Tell me, Mr Jensen, what would the percentage loss be?’

  ‘The percentage loss?’

  ‘Yes, of staff.’

  ‘That’s impossible to predict.’

  The publisher muttered something, apparently to himself.

  ‘We might be accused of blowing them sky high on purpose. It’s a question of prestige. Have you thought of the loss of prestige?’ he asked his cousin.

  The chairman’s veiled, blue-grey eyes looked out over the city, which was white and clean and cubic. Jet planes drew linear patterns in the spring sky.

  ‘Evacuate,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth.

  Jensen noted the time. 13.38.

  The publisher stretched out a hand to the intercom and put his mouth close to the microphone. His voice was clear and distinct.

  ‘Fire drill. Implement high-speed evacuation. The building is to be empty within eighteen minutes, with the exception of the Special Department. Begin ninety seconds from now.’

  The red light went out. The publisher stood up. He clarified:

  ‘It’s better for the people on the thirty-first floor to stay safely in their department than to be marching down the stairs. The power supply’s cut the moment the last lift reaches the ground floor.’

  ‘Who can wish us such harm?’ said the chairman sadly.

  He went out.

  The publisher started putting on his sandals.

  Jensen left the room with the head of publishing.

  As the door closed behind them, the corners of the director’s mouth fell, his expression grew stony and arrogant and his eyes sharp and searching. As they walked through the office the idle young women crouched over their desks.

  It was exactly 13.40 as Inspector Jensen stepped out of the lift and emerged into the lobby. He gestured to his men to follow him and went out through the revolving doors.

  The police left the building.

  Behind them, voices from loudspeakers were echoing between the concrete walls.

  CHAPTER 3

  The car was stationed right up against the wall of rock, halfway between the police roadblock and the car park.

  Inspector Jensen sat in the front seat, next to the driver. He had a stopwatch in his left hand and the radio microphone in his right. He issued an almost constant series of gruff, terse messages to the policemen in the radio patrol cars and at the roadblocks. His posture was straight-backed, the grey hair at the back of his neck neat and close-cropped.

  In the back seat sat the man with the silk tie and the variable smile. His forehead glistened with sweat and he shifted uneasily in his seat. Now, with neither superiors nor inferiors in the vicinity, his face was at rest. Its features were slack and apathetic, and a spongy, pink tongue occasionally flickered over his lips. He had presumably overlooked the fact that Jensen could see him in the rearview mirror.

  ‘There’s no need for you to stay here if you find it disagreeable, sir,’ said Jensen.

  ‘I’ve got to. The chairman and the publisher have both left. That leaves me in charge.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Is it dangerous?’

  ‘Scarcely.’

  ‘But if the whole building collapses?’

  ‘It seems unlikely.’

  Jensen looked at the stopwatch: 13.51.

  Then he looked back to the Skyscraper. Even from this distance, more than three hundred metres away, it looked awe-inspiring, overwhelming in its magnificent height and solidity. The white sunlight was reflected in four hundred and fifty panes of glass, set in identically uniform metal frames, and the blue facing of the walls looked cold, smooth and uncaring. It crossed his mind that the building really ought to collapse even without explosive charges, under its own enormous weight, or that the walls ought to explode from the sheer pressure compressed within them.

  Out through the front entrance pushed an apparently endless column of people. It wound its way in a slow, wide loop between the rows of cars in the parking area, continued through the metal-barred gates in the tall wire-mesh fence, down the slope and diagonally over the grey concrete apron of the lorry depot. At the far side of the loading platforms and long, squat rows of warehouses it broke apart and dispersed into a diffuse grey mass, a fog bank of people. Despite the distance, Jensen could see that about two-thirds of the employees appeared to be women and that most of them were wearing green. Presumably it was this spring’s colour.

  Two large red trucks equipped with hose reels and turntable ladders drove on to the forecourt and pulled up a short distance from the entrance doors. The firefighters sat in rows along the sides and their steel helmets glinted in the sun. Not a sound had been heard from their sirens or alarm bells.

  By 13.57 the stream of people was thinning out, and a minute after that, only a few stray individuals were emerging through the glass doors.

  A few moments later, just a single figure, a man, was to be seen at the entrance. Straining his eyes, Jensen recognised him. It was the head of the plainclothes patrol.

  Jensen looked at the stopwatch. 13.59.

  Behind him he could hear the nervous movements of the director of publishing.

  The firefighters remained in their seats. The solitary policeman had vanished. The building was empty.

  Jensen took a final glance at the stopwatch. Then he stared at the Skyscraper and started the countdown.

  Past fifteen, the seconds seemed to stretch and get longer.

  Fourteen … thirteen … twelve … eleven … ten … nine … eight … seven … six … five … four … three … two … one …

  ‘Zero,’ said Inspector Jensen.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘This is an unprecedented crime,’ said the chief of police over the telephone.

  ‘But there was no bomb. Nothing happened, nothing at all. After an hour the fire drill was called off and the staff went back to work. By four o’clock or earlier, everything was back to normal again.’

  ‘None the less, it is an unprecedented crime,’ said the chief of police.

  His voice was insistent, with a hint of entreaty, as if he was trying to convince not only the person he was addressing but also himself.

  ‘The perpetrator must be caught,’ he said.

  ‘The investigation will naturally continue.’

  ‘This can’t be any old routine investigation. You’ve got to find the culprit.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now listen here a moment. I don’t want to criticise the steps you took, of course.’

  ‘I did the only thing possible. The risk was too great. It could have meant the loss of hundreds of lives, maybe even more. If fire had broken out in the building as a result of an explosion there wasn’t much we could have done. The fire brigade’s ladders only reach the seventh or eighth floor. The firefighters would have had to attack it from below and the fire would have carried on spreading upwards. What’s more, the building’s a hundred and twenty metres tall and at heights above thirty metres the jumping nets are useless.’

  ‘Of co
urse, I understand all that. And I’m not criticising you, as I said. But they’re very upset. The shutdown allegedly cost them nearly two million. The chairman’s been in personal touch with the Minister for the Interior. He didn’t exactly lodge a complaint.’

  Pause.

  ‘Thank God, no official complaint.’

  Jensen said nothing.

  ‘But he was very upset, as I say. By both the financial cost and the chicanery they’ve been exposed to. That was his precise word: chicanery.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They demand that the perpetrator be apprehended at once.’

  ‘It may take time. The letter’s our only lead.’

  ‘I know that. But this matter’s got to be cleared up.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a very sensitive investigation, and not only that but also, as I say, extremely urgent. I want you to clear your desk of everything else right away. Whatever else you’re busy with can be considered non-essential.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Today’s Monday. You’ve got a week, no more. Seven days, Jensen.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘I’m putting you in personal charge of this. Naturally you’ll get all the technical support staff you need, but don’t give them any details about the case. If you need to confer with anyone, come straight to me.’

  ‘I dare say the plainclothes patrol already has a fair idea what’s been going on.’

  ‘Yes, that’s very unfortunate. You must insist on their complete discretion.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You must conduct any essential interviews yourself.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘One other thing: they don’t want to be disturbed by the investigation while it’s in progress. Their time is at a premium. If you consider it absolutely vital to ask them for information, they prefer to communicate it to you through their chief executive, the director of publishing.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jensen?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ve got to pull this off. Not least for your own sake.’

  Inspector Jensen hung up. He rested his elbows on his green blotter and put his head in his hands. His short grey hair was rough and bristly to the touch of his fingertips. He had been on duty now for fifteen hours, it was 10 p.m. and he was very tired.