Cop Killer

by Maj Sjowall

  Rhea had called that morning and cheered him up. As always. In one year she had changed his life and given him more satisfaction than twenty years of marriage to a person he had actually loved once, a person who had presented him with two children and many a joyful moment. Just count them. For that matter, “presented” was a lousy word. They had been in it together, hadn’t they? Well maybe so, but he had never had that feeling.

  With Rhea Nielsen, everything was different. They had a free and open relationship, of course. Perhaps a little too free and open, it seemed to him every once in a while. But first and foremost, there was a sense of community that stretched far beyond his love for this curiously perfect woman. Together with her, he had begun to mix with people in a manner that had never been possible for him before. Her building in Stockholm was quite different from the ordinary average apartment house. You might almost call it a commune, though with none of the negative connotations—often warranted but just as often imaginary—of that discredited term. People in communes smoked pot and screwed around like rabbits. The rest of the time they talked a lot of bullshit and ate macrobiotic food, and none of them worked and they all lived on welfare. The commune members considered themselves the victims of an evil social system. They often took LSD and thought they could fly, or drove a stiletto into their best friend’s belly for the enrichment of the experience, or else they killed themselves.

  It wasn’t so very long since he had thought that way himself, at least in part and at times. And certainly there was grain of truth there, or rather a whole wheatfield.

  Martin Beck’s position gave him the doubtful pleasure of reading confidential reports. Most of them were political, and he threw them directly into the Out basket for secret papers, to be passed on to the next bureaucrat with a clearance. But he usually read the ones that seemed to have some connection with his own job. Suicide, for example, was a subject that had begun to interest him more and more. And secret memoranda on the subject cropped up with increasing regularity. The point of departure was always the same: Sweden led the world by a margin that seemed to grow larger from one report to the next, but, as with so many other things, the National Commissioner had decreed that nothing must get out. On the other hand, the explanation varied. Other countries cheated on their statistics. For a long time it had been popular to single out the Catholic countries, but then the Archbishop and some religious bigwigs within the police department had begun to complain, so then countries with a socialist form of government had had to take their place.

  But Swedish intelligence had immediately made difficulties, on the grounds that they could no longer use priests as spies. Since the secret activities of the Security Police fell into the category of things that always, inevitably, got out, a sigh of relief was heaved at National Police Administration Headquarters. Rumor had it that the National Commissioner himself had expressed certain misgivings at the suggestion that Swedish priests, some of whom were outright card-carrying Reds, would be able to spy on Swedish Communists or bring so formidable an opponent as the Soviet Union to its knees.

  But as usual, all of this was unconfirmed rumor. Out must nothing get, as they sometimes put it—for a joke, or at least for the sake of putting it some different way. But the faithful would tolerate no deviation. “Nothing must get out” was the proper expression.

  And that was that.

  The gist of the latest suicide manifesto was as follows: Since most people neither shoot themselves nor jump off Vaster Bridge but get good and drunk instead and then swallow a bottle of sleeping pills, they could be written off as cases of accidental poisoning and completely eliminated from the statistics, which would thus suddenly become amazingly auspicious.

  Martin Beck thought about these things a lot.

  Månsson poured some more grapefruit soda in his Gripenberger.

  He had not spoken for some time, and to judge by his clothing he wasn’t planning to go anywhere.

  He was wearing a nightshirt, flannel pants, and terry-cloth slippers, plus a bathrobe that seemed to be part of the ensemble.

  “The wife will be here in a little while,” he said. “Usually shows up toward three o’clock.”

  Månsson had apparently gone back to his life as five-sevenths bachelor, in that he spent five days of the week alone and the weekends with his wife.

  They had separate apartments.

  “It’s a good system,” he said. “It’s true, I did have a girlfriend in Copenhagen for a year or so. And she was terrific, but it got to be too much of a good thing. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  Martin Beck thought for a moment about what the other man had said.

  True, Månsson was older than he was, but not by more than a couple of years.

  “But she was damned good for me as long as it lasted. Her name was Nadja. I don’t know if you ever met her.”

  “No,” Martin Beck said.

  He suddenly wanted to change the subject.

  “By the way, how’s Benny Skacke doing?”

  “Not bad. He’s an inspector now, and married to his physiotherapist. They had a little girl last spring. She was born on a Sunday, a little ahead of schedule, and he was in Minnesberg playing soccer when it happened. He claims all the important things in his life happen while he’s playing soccer. God knows what he means.”

  Martin Beck knew quite well what Skacke was referring to, but he didn’t say anything.

  “In any case, he’s a good policeman,” Månsson said. “And there’s getting to be a shortage of those. Unfortunately, I get the feeling he’s not happy here. He can’t get used to this city, somehow. He’s been here almost five years, but I think he’s still homesick for Stockholm.”

  “Of all godforsaken places,” he added philosophically and emptied his glass.

  Then he looked demonstratively at his watch.

  “I guess I’d better be going now,” said Martin Beck.

  “Yes,” Månsson said. “I was about to say that was a good idea if you wanted to catch Mård sober. But that’s not the real reason.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. If you stay another fifteen minutes you’ll meet my wife. And in that case, I’d have to get dressed. She’s sort of conventional, and she’d never stand for the idea of my sitting around with prominent police chiefs in this getup. Shall I call you a cab?”

  “I’d rather walk.”

  He’d been in Malmö many times before, and he knew his way around, at least in the inner city.

  Besides, it was a pretty day, and he wanted to organize his thoughts before he talked to Bertil Mård.

  He was conscious of the fact that Månsson had furnished him with a presupposition.

  This was clearly going to be a case where presuppositions played an important part.

  Presuppositions were never good. Letting them affect your judgment was as dangerous as ignoring them. You always had to remember that a supposition could be right even if it was preconceived.

  Martin Beck was eager to form his own opinion of Mård. He knew they would soon be face to face.

  The beer shop was closed for the holiday, and Månsson had gone to the trouble of assigning a police recruit to watch the house on Mäster Johansgatan and had instructed him to give the alarm if Mård left home.

  7

  The police recruit would have been a great success on TV doing a parody of someone trying not to look as if he were watching a house. In addition, the house was very small, and the buildings on either side had been torn down. He was standing across the street with his hands behind his back, gazing out into empty space but casting continuous sidelong glances at the door behind which the object of his attentions was supposed to lurk.

  Martin Beck stopped some distance off and watched. A minute or so went by and then the recruit walked slowly across the street and inspected the door in detail. And poked at the nameplate. Then he ambled back to his post with studied nonchalance and then spun around to be sure nothing improper had occurred behind his b
ack. Like so many other policemen out on confidential or delicate assignments, he was wearing black shoes, dark blue socks, the pants to his uniform, a light blue shirt, and a dark blue tie. To this he had added a yellow stocking cap, a leather jacket with big shiny buttons and red and yellow embroidery on the sleeves, and, around his neck, a scarf in colors that even Martin Beck recognized as being those of the Malmö Soccer Club—white and sky blue. His jacket bulged on the right side as if he had a pint of liquor in his pocket.

  When Martin Beck walked up to him he jumped as if bitten by a snake and immediately raised his hand to the nonexistent peak of his cap and delivered his report.

  “No one has left the building, Inspector.”

  Martin Beck stood silently for a moment in his amazement at being recognized. Then he reached out and took a corner of the scarf between thumb and forefinger.

  “Did your mother knit this for you?”

  “No, sir,” said the young man, blushing. “She didn’t. It was my little sister’s boyfriend. His name is Enok Jansson, sir, and he’s a terrific knitter, although he actually works at the post office and everything. He can even knit while he’s watching TV.”

  “What if Mård’s gone out the back way?”

  The recruit blushed still harder.

  “What?” he said. “But that’s impossible.”

  “It is?”

  “Well, sir, I can’t stand in front of the house and behind it at the same time, after all. It can’t be done. You … Sir, you’re not going to report me for this?”

  Martin Beck shook his head. He crossed the street, wondering where the police force managed to find all these odd young men.

  “It’s the right house, anyway,” the boy said, following him. “I went over three times to check it out. It says Mård on the door.”

  “And it didn’t change?”

  “No, sir. Shall I go in with you? I mean, I have a gun and everything if we need it. And I’ve got my radio stuffed in my shirt—so no one could see it, I mean.”

  “Goodbye,” said Martin Beck, putting his finger on the bell.

  Bertil Mård opened the door almost before the bell had had a chance to ring.

  He too was wearing the pants to a uniform, black ones, plus an undershirt and wooden clogs. The stink of last night’s liquor surrounded him like a wall, but it was mixed with the odor of aftershave, and in one of his huge hands he was holding a bottle of Florida Water and an open straight razor, which he waved in the direction of the recruit.

  “Who the hell is this goddam clown,” he yelled, “who’s been standing here staring at the house for two hours?”

  “That’s insulting an officer of the law,” the recruit said cockily.

  “I lay eyes on you one more time, you little plainclothes bastard, and I’ll cut your ears off,” Mård bellowed.

  “And that’s threatening an officer …”

  “Not at all,” said Martin Beck, closing the door behind him. “Not at all …”

  “What do you mean, ‘not at all’?” Mård said. “What the hell is this all about?”

  “Take it easy for a minute.”

  “I won’t take it easy. I want to be left alone. And I don’t want any damn kids in costumes spying on me. What’s more, I’m in the habit of getting what I want. And who the hell are you? The head fucking cop himself?”

  “Exactly,” said Martin Beck.

  He took a couple of steps past Mård and glanced around the room. It smelled as if fifty people had slept there, and hardly as if they had been human. There were old quilts with grease spots and ragged stuffing nailed up in front of the windows, and they let in a very sparse light. But it was possible to turn up the corners and peer out. Against one wall was a bed that had obviously not been made for weeks, maybe months. Other than that, the furnishings consisted of four chairs, a table, and a large wardrobe. On the table was a glass and two bottles of 120-proof smuggled Russian vodka with blue labels, one of them empty and one of them half full. There was a very large pile of dirty laundry in one corner, and through the rear door he could see out into the kitchen, where the mess was indescribable, and on into the bathroom, where an electric bulb was burning and where Mård had apparently just been shaving.

  “I’ve been in one hundred and eight countries,” Mård said. “And I’ve never seen such a load of shit. The cops are after you. The health insurance is after you. Or the tax collector or the temperance board or the welfare office or whatever the fuck it’s called. Or the power company or the customs or the national registration or the public health. Even the fucking post office, and I don’t want any mail.”

  Martin Beck took a closer look at Mård. He was a big man, a good six two, with a fighting weight of at least 275 pounds. He had black hair and dark brown, brutal eyes.

  “Tell me, Mård, how do you know it’s exactly one hundred and eight countries?” Martin Beck asked.

  “Don’t call me Mård. I don’t want everyone treating me like an old buddy. Call me ‘mister’ at least, or ‘sir.’ How I know? Because I keep track of course. The one hundred and eighth country was Upper Volta. I flew there from Casablanca. The one hundred and seventh was South Yemen. But I swear this one takes the fucking cake. I’ve been in the hospital in North Korea and Honduras, and in Macao and the Dominican Republic, and in Pakistan, and in Ecuador. But I’ve never seen one any worse than the one right here in Malmö last summer. I was crammed into a ward that must have been built in 1890. There were twenty-nine of us in there, and seventeen had just come out of surgery. And then the fucking social workers come along and wonder what we’re bitching about. We’re supposed to keep our mouths shut—after all, it’s free. Free! When the tax collector’s on your tail like a wolf. Can you explain to me how the fucking government stays in power? I’ve been in a lot of places where they hang people for things like that.”

  Mård looked around.

  “It’s a mess in here,” he said. “I’m no good at cleaning. Don’t know how.”

  He picked up the empty vodka bottle and carried it out to the kitchen.

  “There,” he said. “That’s better. Now I want to ask you a question. What the fuck is going on here? Why is that idiot out there scratching on my door while I shave? I always shave twice a day, six in the morning and three in the afternoon. And I always shave myself. And I like a straight razor. It gives a better shave.”

  Martin Beck was silent.

  “I asked a question,” Mård said. “And I didn’t get an answer. Who are you, for example? And what the fuck are you doing in my home?”

  “My name is Martin Beck, and I’m a policeman. A Detective Chief Inspector, to be exact, and head of something called the National Homicide Squad.”

  “When were you born?”

  “September twenty-fifth, nineteen twenty-two.”

  “All right. It’s fun to ask the fucking questions for a change. What do you want?”

  “Your wife’s been missing since the seventeenth of October.”

  “And?”

  “We wonder where she is.”

  “Fine. But I have already said, for Christ’s sake, that I don’t know. And on the seventeenth I was sitting on the train ferry Malmöhus having a few drinks. Okay, getting drunk. She’s the only decent boat in the city. A man can’t exist in this country, so I mostly sit on the Copenhagen boats and drink.”

  “You operate some sort of restaurant, don’t you, Captain Mård?”

  “Yes. I’ve got a couple of women who run it for me. And, by God, the place is clean and the brass is polished or else I’d kick ’em in the harbor. I go the rounds there every so often. And they never know when I’m coming.”

  “I see.”

  “You mumbled something about homicide.”

  “Yes, it’s a possibility. It looks like someone abducted her. And you’ve got a poor alibi.”

  “I’ve got a damn good alibi. I was on the Malmöhus. But there’s a sex maniac next door to her. If he’s done anything to Sigbrit, I’ll st
rangle her with my own hands.”

  Martin Beck looked at Mård’s hands. They were formidable hands. He could probably strangle a bear.

  “You said ‘her.’ You would strangle ‘her.’ ”

  “That isn’t what I meant. I love Sigbrit.”

  Suddenly Martin Beck understood a great deal. Bertil Mård was a dangerous man, with an unpredictable temper. For many years now, he’d been used to giving orders and doing very little himself. He was probably a very good seaman and was having a hard time adjusting to life ashore. He had to be considered capable of anything, including, presumably, the worst.

  “The tragedy of my life was being born in the goddam city of Trelleborg,” Mård said. “With a citizenship I never wanted. In a country I’ve never been able to stand for more than a month at a time, or two at the most. Even at that, everything was fine until I got sick. But I liked Sigbrit, and I’d come home to see her almost every year.

  We had it good together. And then I’d be off again. And then this damned thing. My liver gave out, and finally they wouldn’t pass me on the physical.”

  He stood there silently for a minute.

  “Go away now,” he said suddenly. “Otherwise I’ll get mad and break your jaw.”

  “Okay,” said Martin Beck. “If I come back it will probably be to take you in.”

  “Go to hell,” Mård said.

  “What’s your wife like? What sort of person is she?”

  “That’s none of your business. Out.”

  Martin Beck took a step toward the door.

  “Goodbye, Captain Mård,” he said.

  “Wait,” said Mård suddenly.

  He put down the Florida Water and folded up the razor.

  “I changed my mind,” he said. “Why, I don’t know.”

  He sat down and poured himself a glass of vodka.

  “Do you drink?”

  “Yes,” said Martin Beck. “But not right now, and definitely not lukewarm vodka with no mixer.”