Cop Killer

4

Martin Beck was wide awake as soon as he opened his eyes. The room was spartan but pleasant. There were two beds, and a window facing north. The beds were parallel, three feet apart. His suitcase lay on one of them and he on the other. On the floor was the book of which he had read half a page and two picture captions before he fell asleep. It was a book in the series ‘Famous Passenger Liners of the Past’, and its title was The Turboelectric Quadruplescrew Liner: Normandie.

He looked at the clock. Seven-thirty. Scattered sounds came from outside – cars and voices. Somewhere in the building a toilet flushed. Something was different. He identified it right away. He had been sleeping in pyjamas, which he now only did when he was travelling.

Martin Beck got up, walked over to the window, and looked out. The weather looked fine. The sun was shining on the lawn behind the inn.

He washed and dressed quickly and went downstairs. For a moment he considered having breakfast, but he dismissed the thought. He had never liked eating in the morning, especially not as a child when his mother had forced cocoa and three sandwiches down his throat before he left home. He had often thrown up on his way to school.

Instead of breakfast, he located a one-krona piece in his trouser pocket and stuffed it into the slot machine that stood to the right of the entrance. Pulled the handle, got three cherries, and pocketed his winnings. Then he left the building, walked diagonally across the cobblestone square, past the state alcohol shop, which wasn't open yet, rounded two corners, and found himself at the police station. The volunteer fire department was apparently housed next door, for a fire engine had been backed up in front of the building. He practically had to crawl under the revolving ladder stage in order to get by. A man in greasy overalls was fixing something on the fire engine.

‘Hi, how are ya?’ he said cheerfully, and in defiance of all rules of Swedish formality.

Martin Beck was startled. This was clearly an unconventional town.

‘Hi,’ he said.

The police station door was locked, and taped to the glass was a piece of cardboard on which someone had written in ballpoint pen:

Office Hours

Weekdays 8.30 a.m. – 12 noon 1.00 p.m. – 2.30 p.m.

Thursdays also 6 p.m. – 7 p.m.

Closed Saturdays

Sundays were not mentioned. Crime had probably been discontinued on Sundays, perhaps even forbidden.

Martin Beck stared at the sign thoughtfully. To anyone coming from Stockholm, it was hard to imagine things could ever be like this.

Maybe he ought to have some breakfast after all.

‘Herrgott will be right back,’ said the man in overalls. ‘He went out with the dog ten minutes ago.’

Martin Beck nodded.

‘Are you the famous detective?’

It was a difficult question, and he didn't answer right away.

The man went on working with something on the fire engine.

‘No offence,’ he said, without turning his head. ‘But I heard there was supposed to be some famous cop at the inn. And then I didn't recognize you.’

‘Yes, I suppose that must be me,’ said Martin Beck uncertainly.

‘So that means Folke's going to jail.’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘Oh, everyone knows that.’

‘Really?’

‘It's too bad. His smoked herring were damned good.’

The man brought the conversation to a close by crawling in under the fire engine and disappearing.

If this was the general opinion, then clearly Allwright had not exaggerated.

Martin Beck stayed where he was, rubbing the edge of his scalp thoughtfully.

A minute or two later Herrgott Allwright appeared on the other side of the fire engine. He had the same lion-hunter's hat on the back of his head, and was otherwise dressed in a chequered flannel shirt, uniform trousers, and light suede shoes. A large grey dog strained at its leash. They edged under the ladder, and the dog rose up on its hind legs, put its front paws on Martin Beck's chest, and began to lick his face.

‘Down, Timmy!’ Allwright said. ‘Down, I said! What a dog!’

It was a heavy dog, and Martin Beck reeled back two steps.

‘Down, Timmy!’ Allwright said.

The dog dropped to the ground and turned around three times. Then it sat down reluctantly, looked at its master, and pricked up its ears.

‘Probably the world's worst police dog. But he has an excuse. No training. No obedience. But since I'm a policeman, that does make him a police dog. In a way.’

Allwright laughed, without much cause, as far as Martin Beck could see.

‘When HSC were here I took him to the game.’

‘HSC?’

‘Helsingborg Sports Club. Football team. You're not a football fan, are you?’

‘Not really.’

‘Well, he got away from me, of course, and ran out on the field. Took the ball away from one of the Anderslöv players. Almost caused a riot. And I got a telling off from the referee. It's the most dramatic thing that's happened around here for years. Until now, of course. What was I supposed to do? Arrest the referee? From a purely legal point of view, I have no idea what the status of a football referee might be.’

He laughed again.

‘I walk out on the field and collar the ref. “Allwright?” I say. “Police Inspector. Come along with me, please – interfering with an officer in the performance of his duties.” It wouldn't wash. So I just stood there like an idiot.’

Allwright laughed, and Martin Beck couldn't help asking him why.

‘Well, I was thinking – what if Timmy had scored a goal? What would have happened then?’

Martin Beck was completely lost for words.

‘Oh, hi there,’ Allwright said.

‘Morning, Herrgott,’ said a sepulchral voice from underneath the fire engine.

‘Say, Jöns, do you have to park that crate right in front of police headquarters?’

‘You're not even open yet,’ said Jöns.

His voice sounded muffled.

‘But I'm about to.’

Allwright rattled his keys, and the dog jumped to its feet.

Allwright opened the door and threw a quick glance at Martin Beck.

‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘to the Anderslöv local station house, Trelleborg Division. This is actually the village hall. Social security office, police station, library. I live upstairs. It's all brand new and spic and span, as they say. Terrific jail. Got to use it twice last year. Here's my office. Come on in.’

It was a pleasant room, with a desk and two easy chairs for visitors. The large windows looked out on a kind of patio. The dog lay down under the desk.

Behind the desk were shelves full of large volumes. The Swedish Statutes, mostly, but a lot of other books as well.

‘They've been on the phone from Trelleborg already,’ Allwright said. ‘The Superintendent. The Police Commissioner too. Seemed disappointed you were staying here.’

He sat down at his desk and shook out a cigarette.

Martin Beck took a seat in one of the easy chairs.

Allwright crossed his legs and poked at his hat, which he'd put down on the desk.

‘They'll be driving up today, for sure. At least the Superintendent will. Unless we drag ourselves down to Trelleborg.’

‘I think I'd prefer to stay here.’

‘Okay.’

He shuffled among the papers on his desk.

‘Here's the report. Want to look?’

Martin Beck thought for a moment.

‘Can you give it to me verbally?’ he said.

‘Love to.’

Martin Beck felt comfortable. He liked Allwright. Everything was going to work out fine.

‘How many people do you have here?’

‘Five. One secretary. Nice girl. Three constables, when there aren't any vacancies. One patrol car. By the way, have you had any breakfast?’

‘No.’

‘Want some?’

‘Yes.’

He was actually starting to feel a little hungry.

‘Good,’ said Allwright. ‘Now how shall we do this? Let's go up to my place. Britta will come and open up at eight-thirty. If anything special happens, she'll call up and let us know. I've got coffee and tea and bread and butter and cheese and marmalade and eggs. I don't know what all. You want coffee?’

‘I'd rather have tea.’

‘I drink tea myself. So I'll take the report with me, and we'll go on upstairs. Okay?’

The flat upstairs was pleasant and full of character, neatly arranged, but not for family life. It was immediately apparent that whoever lived there was a bachelor, with a bachelor's habits, and had been for some time, perhaps his whole life. There were two hunting rifles and an old police sabre hanging on the wall. Allwright's service pistol, a Walther 7.65, lay disassembled on a piece of oilcloth on what was presumably the dining-room table.

Guns were clearly one of his hobbies.

‘I like to shoot,’ he said.

He laughed.

‘But not at people,’ he added. ‘I never have shot a person. In fact, I've never even aimed at anyone. For that matter, I never carry it on me. I've got a revolver, too, a competition model. But that's locked in the vault downstairs.’

‘Are you good?’

‘Oh, you know. Win once in a while. That is to say, rarely. I've got the badge, of course.’

That could mean only one thing. The gold badge. Which only elite shots ever won.

For his own part, Martin Beck was a lousy shot. There had never been any question of a gold badge. Or any other kind. On the other hand, he had aimed at people, and shot at them, too. But never killed anyone. There was always a silver lining.

‘I could clear off the table,’ said Allwright without any particular enthusiasm. ‘I mostly just eat in the kitchen.’

‘So do I,’ said Martin Beck.

‘Are you a bachelor too?’

‘More or less.’

‘I see.’

Allwright didn't seem interested.

Martin Beck was divorced and had two grown children – a daughter who was twenty-two and a son of eighteen.

‘More or less’ meant that for the past year he'd had a woman living with him pretty regularly. Her name was Rhea Nielsen, and he was probably in love with her. Having her around had changed his home – for the better, it seemed to him.

But that was no concern of Allwright's, who seemed to be utterly indifferent to how the chief of the National Murder Squad had arranged his private life.

The kitchen was practical and efficient, with all the modern conveniences. Allwright put a pot of water on the hob, took four eggs from the refrigerator, and made tea in the coffee pot – that is, he heated water in it and put the teabags in the cups. An effective method, though not one to satisfy the connoisseur.

With a feeling that he ought to be doing something useful, Martin Beck put two pieces of sliced bread in the electric toaster.

‘They make some really good bread around here,’ Allwright said. ‘But I usually just buy Co-op. I like the Co-op.’

Martin Beck did not like the Co-op, but he didn't say so.

‘It's so close,’ Allwright said. ‘Everything's close around here. I've got an idea that Anderslöv has the highest commercial concentration in Sweden. Or pretty near anyway.’

They ate. Washed the dishes. Went back to the living room.

Allwright took the folded report out of his back pocket.

‘Papers,’ he said. ‘I'm sick of paper. This has turned into a paper job – nothing but applications and licences and copies and crap. In the old days, being a policeman here was dangerous. Twice a year, at beet season. There'd be all sorts of people here. Some of them used to drink and fight like you wouldn't believe. And sometimes you'd have to go in and break it up. And that meant being quick with your fists, if you wanted to save your looks. It was tough, but it was fun too, in a way. Now it's different. Automated, mechanical.’

He paused.

‘But that isn't what I was going to talk about. For that matter, I don't need the report. The facts are pretty damned simple. The woman in question is named Sigbrit Mård. She's thirty-eight years old and works in a pastry shop in Trelleborg. Divorced, no children, lives alone in a little house in Domme. That's out on the road towards Malmö.’

Allwright looked at Martin Beck. His expression was grim, but still full of humour.

‘Towards Malmö,’ he repeated. ‘That is to say, west of here on Route 101.’

‘You don't have much faith in my sense of direction,’ said Martin Beck.

‘You wouldn't be the first person to get lost on the Skåne plains,’ Allwright said. ‘Speaking of which…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, the last time I was in Stockholm – and I hope to heaven it was the last time – I was looking for the National Police Administration and wandered into Communist Party Headquarters instead. Ran into the head of the Party himself on the stairs and wondered what the hell he was doing at the NPA. But he was very nice. Took me where I wanted to go. Walked his bicycle the whole way.’

Martin Beck laughed.

Allwright took the opportunity of joining in.

‘But that wasn't all. The next day I thought I'd go up and say hello to your Commissioner. The old one, the one who used to be in Malmö. I don't know the new one, thank God. So I went to the City Hall, and some sort of guard tried to give me a tour of the Blue Gallery. When I finally managed to tell him what I wanted, he sent me over to Scheelegatan and I wandered into the courthouse. The guard wanted to know which room my case was coming up in and what I was on trial for. By the time I finally got to the police building on Agnegatan, Lüning had gone for the day. So that took care of that. I took the night train home. Had a wonderful time all the way south. Three hundred and fifty miles. What a difference.’

He looked thoughtful.

‘Stockholm,’ he said. ‘What a miserable city. But then, of course, you like it.’

‘Lived there all my life,’ said Martin Beck.

‘Malmö's better,’ Allwright said. ‘Though not much. I wouldn't want to work there, unless they made me Commissioner or something. But let's not even talk about Stockholm.’

He laughed loudly.

‘Sigbrit Mård,’ said Martin Beck.

‘Sigbrit had the day off that day. And she'd left her car to be fixed, so she took the bus to Anderslöv. Ran some errands. Went to the bank and the post office. And then disappeared. She didn't take the bus. The driver knows her, and he knows she wasn't on board. No one's seen her since. That was the seventeenth of October. It was about one o'clock when she left the post office. Her car, a VW, is still at the garage. There's nothing there. I went over it myself. And we took some samples and sent them to the lab in Helsingborg. All negative. Not a clue, as it were.’

‘Do you know her? Personally?’

‘Yes, sure. Until this back-to-nature fad got started, I knew every soul in the district. It's not so easy any more. People live in old abandoned houses and dilapidated outbuildings. They don't register in the township, and when you drive out there, often as not they've already moved. And someone else has moved in. The only thing left is the goat and the macrobiotic vegetable garden.’

‘But Sigbrit Mård is different?’

‘Yes, indeed. She's one of the ordinary types. She's lived here for twenty years. She comes from Trelleborg, originally. She seems like a stable sort of person. Always held down a job, and all that. Highly normal. Maybe a little frustrated.’

He lit a cigarette, after inspecting it thoughtfully.

‘But then, that's normal in this country,’ he went on. ‘For example, I smoke too much. That's probably frustration too.’

‘So she could simply have run away.’

Allwright bent down and scratched the dog behind the ears.

‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘That's a possibility. But I don't believe it. This isn't the sort of place you can run away from just like that, without anyone's noticing. And people don't leave their homes completely intact. I went over the house with the detectives from Trelleborg. Everything was still there, all her papers and personal property. Jewellery and all that sort of thing. The coffee pot and her cup were still on the table. It looked as if she'd gone out for a while and expected to be right back.’

‘Then what do you believe?’

This time Allwright's answer was even longer in coming. He held his cigarette in his left hand and let the dog chew playfully on his right. Every trace of laughter was gone from his face.

‘I believe she's dead,’ he said.

And that was all he said on the subject.

From a distance came the sound of heavy traffic thundering along the main road.

Allwright looked up.

‘Most of the big lorries still take this road from Malmö to Ystad,’ he said. ‘Even though the new Route 11 is a lot faster. Lorry drivers are creatures of habit.’

‘And this business with Bengtsson?’ said Martin Beck.

‘You ought to know more about him than I do.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. We got him for a sex murder almost ten years ago. After a lot of ifs and buts. He was an odd man. But what happened to him afterwards, I don't know.’

‘I know,’ Allwright said. ‘Everyone in town here knows. They declared him sane, and he spent seven and a half years in prison. Eventually he moved down here and bought a little house. He had some money, apparently, because he also got hold of a boat and an old estate car. He makes a living smoking fish. Catches some of it himself and buys some of it from people who do a little fishing on the side – non-union. It's not popular with the professional fishermen, but it's not actually illegal, either. At least not as far as I can see. Then he drives around and sells smoked herring and fresh eggs, mostly to a few steady customers. The people around here have accepted Folke as a decent person. He's never done anyone any harm. Doesn't talk much and keeps mostly to himself. Retiring type. The times I've run into him, it always seems as if he wanted to apologize for simply existing. But …’

‘Yes?’

‘But everybody knows he's a murderer. Tried and convicted. It was apparently a pretty ugly murder, too. Some harmless foreign woman.’

‘Roseanna McGraw was her name. And it really was revolting. Sick. But he was sexually provoked. The way he saw it. And we had to provoke him again in order to catch him. Myself, I can't imagine how he ever passed the psychiatric examination.’