Cop Killer

by Maj Sjowall

  “What did he invent?”

  “The only thing I heard about was that he applied for a patent for a potty with a luminous rim and for a nicotine detector that meowed if you dipped it in poisoned cabbage soup. That didn’t work out, so he tried to rebuild it into a mechanical cat that ran on batteries.”

  Allwright looked at his watch.

  “So that was point of interest number one. The bus stop. Plus the story of our witness Signe Persson and of a man who had his life ruined by a cigar-smoking cat. I must say, the thought of a case where Signe figures as the key witness does not make me happy. We’d better move on. The bus will be here pretty soon.”

  He put the car in gear and looked in the rear-view mirror.

  “We’ve got someone behind us,” he said. “A green Fiat with two men in it. They’ve been sitting back there ever since we stopped. Shall we show them around a little?”

  “Okay by me.”

  “Interesting to be shadowed,” Allwright said. “New experience for me.”

  He was driving at less than twenty miles an hour, but the other car made no attempt to pass.

  “Those buildings up there to the right, that’s Domme. That’s where Sigbrit Mård and Folke Bengtsson live. Do you want to drive up?”

  “Not right now. Has anyone done a proper crime lab job up there?”

  “At Sigbrit’s? No, I can’t say we have. We were there and had a look around, and I took that picture off the wall above her bed. And I suppose we left some fingerprints here and there.”

  “If she were dead …”

  Martin Beck stopped himself. It was a fairly stupid question.

  “And if I had killed her, what would I do with the body? I’ve thought about that myself. But there are just too many possibilities. Lots of marl pits and tumbledown old houses. And shacks and sheds. A long coastline on the Baltic, empty summer cottages. Woods and windfalls and thickets and ditches and every other damned thing.”

  “Woods?”

  “Yes, up by Börringe Lake. The police used to have a pistol match up there every year in a clearing on the east shore. Since the storm in sixty-eight, it’s such a mess up there you couldn’t get in with a tank. It’ll take a hundred years to get rid of the windfalls. Besides … By the way, there’s a map in the glove compartment.”

  Martin Beck took out the map and unfolded it.

  “We’re in Alstad now, on Highway 101 heading for Malmö. You can get your bearings from that.”

  “Are you planning to drive this slowly all the way?”

  “No. Jesus! Pure absentmindedness. Just wanted to be sure we didn’t lose those hotshots behind us.”

  Allwright swung off to the right. The green car followed.

  “Now we’ve left the Anderslöv police district,” he said. “But we’ll be right back in it.”

  “What were you going to say a minute ago? Besides … what?”

  “Oh yes. Besides, it’s the general belief that Sigbrit Mård was picked up by someone in a car. There’s even a witness who says so. If you look at the map you’ll see there are three main roads through the district. The old Highway, which we just left; Highway 10, which follows the coast from Trelleborg to Ystad and then goes on all the way to Simrishamn; and, in addition, a section of the new European Highway 14, which connects with the ferry from Poland in Ystad and then runs on through Malmö and God knows where all. And on top of that we’ve got a network of back roads that probably doesn’t have its equal anyplace else in the country.”

  “So I see,” said Martin Beck.

  True to form, he was beginning to get carsick.

  It did not, however, prevent him from studying the landscape they were traveling through. He had never been in this part of the country before and didn’t know much more about it than what he remembered from old Edvard Persson movies. The plains of Skåne have a soft, rolling beauty. This was more than a populous rural idyll, it was a singular piece of countryside with a kind of inherent harmony.

  He suddenly remembered a disconnected sentence from the general chorus of complaints about conditions in the country. “Sweden’s a rotten country, but it’s a very pretty rotten country.” Someone had said that or written it, but he couldn’t remember who.

  Allwright went on talking.

  “The Anderslöv district is sort of unusual. When we’re not pushing paper, we’re mostly concerned with traffic. For example, we put fifty thousand miles a year on the patrol car. We’ve got about a thousand people in town and maybe ten thousand in the whole district. But we’ve got over fifteen miles of beach, and in the summer the population grows to over thirty thousand. So you can imagine how many buildings are standing empty at this time of year. Now so far I’m talking about people we know, and pretty much know where we can find them. But I’d estimate there’s another five to six thousand people we don’t have any check on at all, people who live in old houses or campers and then move away and other people take their place.”

  Martin Beck turned to look at an unusually pretty whitewashed church. Allwright followed his gaze.

  “Dalköpinge,” he said. “If you’re interested in picturesque churches, I can supply at least thirty of them. In the whole district, of course.”

  They came to the coast road and turned east. The sea was calm and grayish-blue. Freighters stood along the horizon.

  “What I mean is, if Sigbrit’s dead, there are several hundred places she might be. And if someone gave her a ride, Folke or someone else, then there’s a pretty good chance she’s not in this district at all. In that case, the possibilities are in the thousands.”

  He looked out over the coastal landscape and said, “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

  He was clearly a man who was proud of his home.

  And not without reason, Martin Beck thought.

  They passed Smygehuk.

  The green Fiat was following them faithfully.

  “Smygehamn,” Allwright said. “In my day it was called East Torp.”

  The villages lay close together. Beddinge Beach. Skateholm. Fishing villages, partially converted to seaside resorts, but still pretty. No high rise and no fancy hotels.

  “Skateholm,” Allwright said. “This is where my territory ends. Now we’re coming into the Ystad police district. I’ll take you to Abbekås. This is Dybeck. Swampy and miserable. Worst part of the whole coast. Maybe she’s out there in the mud. Okay, this is Abbekås.”

  Allwright drove slowly through the village.

  “Yes, this is where she lived,” he said. “The woman who got me to give up women. Do you want to have a look at the harbor?”

  Martin Beck didn’t bother to answer.

  There was a little harbor with some benches for telling fish stories and a few old men in Vega caps. Three fishing boats. Stacks of herring boxes, and some nets hung up to dry.

  They got out and sat down on separate bollards. Gulls screamed above the breakwater.

  The green Fiat had stopped sixty feet away. The two men stayed in the front seat.

  “Do you know them?” said Martin Beck.

  “No,” said Allwright. “They’re just boys. If they want anything, they can come over here and talk. Must be awful damned dull just sitting there staring.”

  Martin Beck said nothing. He got older and older himself, while the reporters got younger and younger. Their relations grew worse and worse every year. Besides, the police weren’t popular any more, assuming they ever had been. Personally, Martin Beck didn’t feel he had to be ashamed of his job, but he knew a lot of men who were, and still more who really ought to be.

  “What was all that about me and women?” Allwright asked.

  “It occurred to me that we know very little about Sigbrit Mård. We know what she looks like and where she works, and we know she has never made trouble. We know she’s divorced and doesn’t have any children. And that’s about all. Have you considered the fact that she’s at an age when a lot of women feel frustrated, especially if they don’t have any children
or family or any special interests? When they’re approaching menopause and starting to feel old? They feel like their lives have gone wrong, their sex lives in particular, and they often do dumb things. They’re attracted to younger men, they get involved in stupid affairs. And they often get taken, financially or emotionally.”

  “Thanks for the lecture,” Allwright said.

  He picked up a board from the ground and threw it in the water. The dog splashed in immediately to retrieve it.

  “Terrific,” Allwright said. “Now he’ll make an even worse mess in the back seat. And so you think maybe Sigbrit had a secret sex life or something.”

  “I think it’s possible. I mean we have to look into her private life. As much as we can. I mean maybe, after all, there is a chance, just maybe, that she’s simply run off with some man who’s seven or eight years younger. Just run away from everything in order to be happy for a while. Even if it’s only two weeks or a couple of months.”

  “Get herself good and laid,” Allwright said.

  “Or get a chance to talk to someone she thinks she can relate to.”

  Allwright put his head on one side and grinned.

  “That’s one theory,” he said. “But I don’t believe it.”

  “Because it doesn’t fit.”

  “Right. It doesn’t fit at all. Do you have a plan? Or is that a presumptuous question?”

  “I’m planning to wait until Lennart gets here. And then I think it’s time for an informal chat with Folke Bengtsson and Bertil Mård.”

  “I’d be happy to come along.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  Allwright laughed. Then he stood up, walked over to the green car, and rapped on the side window. The driver, a young man with a red beard, rolled it down and looked out at him questioningly.

  “We’re going back to Anderslöv now,” Allwright said. “I’ll be driving through Källstorp to pick up some eggs from my brother. But you can save your paper some money if you take the road through Skivarp.”

  The Fiat followed them and supervised the egg pickup.

  “They clearly don’t trust the police,” Allwright said.

  Otherwise nothing much happened that day, which was Friday, November 2.

  Martin Beck made his obligatory visit to Trelleborg and met the Commissioner and the Superintendent who was head of the criminal division. He envied the police chief his office, because it had a view of the harbor.

  No one had anything to say about the case.

  Sigbrit Mård had been missing for seventeen days, and all anyone knew was what was gossip in Anderslöv.

  On the other hand, gossip is often well-founded.

  Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

  That evening, he got a call from Kollberg, who said he hated driving and was planning to spend the night in Växjö.

  “And how are things in Anderstorp?” he said.

  “The name is Anderslöv.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And it’s very pleasant here, but the reporters are after us already.”

  “Put your uniform on, you’ll get more respect.”

  “None of your wisecracks!” said Martin Beck.

  Then he called Rhea, but there was no answer.

  He tried again an hour later and once more just before he went to bed.

  This time she was home.

  “I’ve been trying to get you all evening,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “What have you been up to?”

  “None of your business,” she said cheerfully. “How’s it going?”

  “I don’t know for sure. There’s a woman who’s disappeared.”

  “People can’t disappear. You ought to know that, you’re a detective.”

  “I think I love you.”

  “I know you do,” she said happily. “I went to the movies, and then I went to Butler’s for something to eat.”

  “Good night.”

  “Was that all you wanted?”

  “No, but it can wait.”

  “Sleep well, darling,” she said, and hung up.

  Martin Beck hummed as he brushed his teeth. If anyone had been there to hear it, it would probably have sounded odd.

  The next day was a holiday. All Saints’ Day. He could always spoil it for someone. Månsson in Malmö, for example.

  6

  “I’ve met a lot of gorillas in my day,” Per Månsson said. “But Bertil Mård is one of the worst.”

  They were sitting on Månsson’s balcony overlooking Regementsgatan, enjoying a lovely day.

  Martin Beck had taken the bus to Malmö, mostly for the fun of it and so he could say that he had actually traveled the stretch that Sigbrit Mård apparently had not.

  He had also tried to question the bus driver, to no avail, since the man was a substitute and had not been driving on the day in question.

  Månsson was a large, leisurely man, who took life easy and was seldom guilty of an overstatement. But now he said:

  “The man struck me as a bully.”

  “Lots of sea captains get a little funny,” said Martin Beck. “They’re often very lonely men, and if they’re the overbearing type they tend to get tough and autocratic. They turn into gorillas, as you said. The only person they’ll talk to is their chief.”

  “Their chief?”

  “The Chief Engineer.”

  “Oh.”

  “A lot of them drink too much and tyrannize their crews. Or else they pretend they don’t even exist. Won’t even speak to their mates.”

  “You know a lot about ships.”

  “Yes, it’s my hobby. I had a case once on a ship. Murder. In the Indian Ocean. On a freighter. One of the most interesting cases I ever had.”

  “Well, I know the skipper of the Malmöhus. He’s a decent fellow.”

  “Passenger ships are usually a different matter. The owners put on a different kind of officer. After all, the captains have to socialize with the passengers. On the big ships, they have a captain’s table.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The captain’s own table in the dining room. For entertaining prominent first-class passengers.”

  “I see.”

  “But Mård sailed on tramp steamers. And there’s a certain difference.”

  “Yes, he was pretty damned arrogant,” Månsson said. “Yelled at me and cursed his old lady. Nasty son of a bitch. He thought he was something special. Rude and arrogant. I’m pretty easygoing, but I damned near lost my temper. That takes some doing.”

  “How does he make a living?”

  “He’s got a beer shop in Limhamn. You know the story. He drank his liver to pieces in Ecuador or Venezuela. They had him in the hospital out there for a while. Then the shipping company flew him home. They wouldn’t give him a clean bill of health, so he couldn’t ship out again. He moved home to his wife in Anderslöv, but that didn’t work out at all. He boozed it up and beat her. She wanted out. He didn’t. But she got her divorce, no sweat.”

  “Allwright says he’s got an alibi for the seventeenth.”

  “Yes, sort of. He took the train ferry over to Copenhagen to tie one on. But it’s a rotten alibi. Seems to me. Claims he sat in the forward saloon. The ferry sails at a quarter to twelve these days—it used to sail at noon. He says he was alone in the saloon, and the waiter was hung over. And there was one crewman standing in there playing the slot machine. I often take that boat myself. The waiter, whose name is Sture, is always hung over, with bags under his eyes. And that same crewman is generally standing there stuffing one-crown pieces in the slot machine.”

  Månsson took a noisy sip of his drink. He always drank the same thing, a mixture of gin and grapefruit soda. It is a Finland-Swedish specialty, called a Gripenberger after some obscure officer and nobleman.

  The weather was nice in Malmö. The city seemed almost inhabitable.

  “I think you ought to talk to Bertil Mård yourself,” Månsson said.

  Martin Beck nodded.
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  “The witness on the ferry identified him,” Månsson said. “He’s got the kind of looks you don’t forget. The only trouble is that all those things happen every day. The ferry leaves here at the same hour, usually with the same passengers. You can’t count on the crew remembering someone a couple of weeks later, and you can’t be sure they’d have the right day. Talk to him yourself and see what you think.”

  “But you have already questioned him?”

  “Yes, and I wasn’t specially convinced.”

  “Does he have a car?”

  “Yes. He lives on the West Side, a stone’s throw from here if you’ve got a hell of a good arm. Mäster Johansgatan Twenty-Three. Takes him half an hour to drive to Anderslöv. Roughly.”

  “What makes you point that out?”

  “Well, he seems to have made the trip now and then.”

  Martin Beck let the question drop.

  It was November 3, a Saturday, and still almost summer. It was also a holiday—All Saints’ Day—but Martin Beck was planning to disturb Captain Mård’s tranquillity in spite of it. The chances were he wasn’t a religious man.

  There had been no word from Kollberg. Perhaps he had found Växjö fascinating and decided to stay over for a day. But in what way fascinating? Perhaps someone had seduced him with illegal fresh crayfish. Of course, frozen crayfish were now available, but Kollberg was not easily deceived. Least of all in the matter of crayfish.