by Maj Sjowall
“I wouldn’t drink it this way either,” Mård said. “Not if I had a steward or a mess boy to come running with lime and crushed ice as soon as I cleared my throat. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t sell the beer shop and get out of here and ship out from Panama or Liberia.”
Martin Beck sat down at the table.
“The only trouble is I’d never get my own command. At the very most, I’d get to be first mate to someone just like me. And I couldn’t stand that. I’d strangle the son of a bitch.”
Martin Beck still didn’t say anything.
“But at least I could drink myself to death on the open sea. I want Sigbrit and I want a ship. And now I haven’t got either one. And around here, I can’t even drink myself to death without every fucking busybody in sight sticking his nose in.”
He looked around the room.
“Do you think I want to live like this?” he said. “Do you think I like living in all this shit?”
He slammed his hand on the table so hard his glass nearly overturned.
“No, I know what you think,” he roared. “You think I did something to Sigbrit. But I didn’t. Can’t you get that through your heads? Goddam cops, you’re all the same, all over the world. Policemen are beach pigs, and all they’re good for is to come on board and take a little booze and cigarettes for not giving you any trouble. I remember one son of a bitch in Millwall when I worked that route. A regular ‘bobby.’ He’d be standing there like a statue every time we berthed, and he’d salute and say ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘Glad to see you, Captain,’ and by the time he’d leave he’d have such a load of tobacco and bottles he could hardly get down the gangplank. And it’s the same thing here.”
“I don’t want any of your liquor and tobacco.”
“Then what the fuck do you want?”
“I want to know what’s happened to your ex-wife. That’s why I’m asking you what she’s like. What sort of person.”
“Fine. She’s fine. What do you want me to say? I love her. But you’re out to get me. That cop in Anderslöv told you I beat her up a few times. Did you know he punched me out one time? I never would have thought he had the guts. I’ve only lost one fight in my whole life, and that was four against one. In Antwerp. But he was right, and I was wrong and I knew it.”
Martin Beck looked at Mård thoughtfully.
It was possible the man was trying to present himself in some sort of better light.
“You were married for a long time,” said Martin Beck.
“Yes. Sigbrit was only eighteen when we got hitched. Two months later I shipped out. And after that I was always at sea, but I’d come home for a month or two every year, and we had it good together.”
“Sexually?”
“Yes. She liked me. She used to say it was like being run over by a train.”
“And what about the rest of the year?”
“She said she was faithful, and I never had any cause to think otherwise. But I always thought it was kind of funny the way she was so damned horny for just one month and then went without completely for eleven. But she said there wasn’t any trick to that. Just don’t think about it.”
“What about you?”
“Well, of course, I’d go to a whorehouse whenever we got to port.”
“In a hundred and eight countries?”
“No, I never counted the whorehouses, but I guess there were quite a few. I can give you some addresses if you want. But in some countries there aren’t any whores. I remember one. Romania. I was stuck in Constanta for three months with some old tub, and there wasn’t a whore in town. I took the train to Bucharest. There weren’t any there either. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“So what did you do?”
“Went to Piraeus. Thousands of them. I drank and fucked and didn’t get out of bed for two weeks. Yes, by God …”
Mård stared into his glass but didn’t drink.
“And now what you’re thinking is that seamen do nothing but run to the cat house in every port, and that just shows one thing.”
“What?”
“That you don’t know much about seamen. I sailed with the same chief for seven years. He had a wife in Bergkvara. And I’ll take an oath he never touched a woman all those seven years. I think that’s pretty damned good. That’s the kind of man to be. And I knew a lot of others.”
“What did you tell her when you got home?”
“Sigbrit? Well naturally I told her I’d been faithful as hell, just waiting and waiting for my vacation. So all I had to do was be sure not to come home with crabs and the clap and teeth marks all over my body. Thank God for penicillin. But I told Sigbrit I never looked at another woman. I swore it up and down. And I wouldn’t admit it now, either, except that it’s too late. It doesn’t matter any more.”
“Because Sigbrit’s dead, you mean?”
If Martin Beck had expected the other man to break down, he was mistaken. Mård took a swallow of his drink, with a very steady hand.
“You’re just trying to draw me into some sort of a trap,” he said calmly. “But it won’t work. In the first place, I was on that train ferry, and in the second place, I don’t think Sigbrit is dead.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. But I do know certain things you never thought of.”
“For example?”
“Sigbrit’s some kind of snob. She thought it was terrific being the wife of a sea captain and having that nice house. And that worked fine on her own salary plus mine. Plus which, I always had a little money of my own. So then we separated, okay, but I didn’t figure she ought to get any money for kicking me out, so I didn’t give her any alimony or anything like that. So after the divorce I guess it was pretty hard times.”
“Why did you split up?”
“I couldn’t stand sitting around in that fucking jerkwater town without anything to do. So I just drank and yelled at her to shine my shoes and clean the house, and I beat her up a lot, and she got sick of it. I can see why. I was sorry as hell after. And now I can sit here all day and be sorry. I can also be sorry I drank two bottles of booze every day for fifteen years. Skoal!”
Mård downed his drink. It consisted of about ten ounces of 120-proof alcohol, and he poured it down like water, without so much as a sigh.
“I’d like to know something,” said Martin Beck.
“What’s that?”
“Have you had sexual relations with her since the divorce?”
“Sure. I’ve driven out and laid her a number of times. But it’s been a while now. A year and a half, at least.”
“What did she have to say about it then?”
“She still thought it was like being run over by an express train. Terrific. Her cunt just got bigger and wetter the older she got. I was still hoping we’d be able to patch things up, but now it’s too late.”
“Why?”
“Lots of reasons. Because I’m sick, for one thing. But also because there wasn’t really anything to patch up. A marriage built mostly on lies and cheating, what was it worth? Even if I was the only one who lied. And still I really do love Sigbrit.”
Martin Beck thought for a moment.
“Captain Mård,” he said, “from what you’ve said yourself, you seem to have considerable experience with women.”
“Yes, I guess you might put it that way. Good whores know one thing. They know how to fuck. What of it?”
“Was, or is, your wife an especially exciting woman sexually?”
“You bet your ass she is. It wasn’t just for laughs I sat around in Anderslöv for at least a month every goddam year.”
Martin Beck was uncertain. The longer the conversation went on, the less he knew what he ought to believe. He wasn’t even certain that he still disliked Mård.
“This business of one hundred and eight countries,” he said. “I’m impressed you can really remember …”
Märd stuck his hand in his back pocket and pulled something out. It was a little not
ebook bound in leather, almost as thick as a hymnal.
“I keep track of things, like I said. Look there.”
He flipped through the pages, which seemed to be partly filled with notes. The paper was lined, and the lines were very close together.
“Here,” Mård said. “Here’s the whole list. Starts with Sweden, Finland, Poland, Denmark, and ends with Ras Al Kaima, Malta, South Yemen, and Upper Volta. I’d been in Malta long before that, of course, but I didn’t put it on the list till it got its independence. This is a hell of a good notebook. I bought it in Singapore over twenty years ago, and I’ve never seen another one like it.”
He put the notebook back in his pocket.
“It’s sort of a log book of my life,” he said. “A little book like that’s all you need for a human life. A much smaller one would do for most people.”
Martin Beck stood up.
And so did Mård.
He was on his feet like a shot, holding out his huge paws.
“But if anyone’s done anything to Sigbrit, just let me take care of him. For that matter, no one better touch her. She belongs to me.”
His dark eyes flashed.
“I’ll tear him to pieces,” he said. “These hands have torn people to pieces before.”
Martin Beck looked at the hands.
“Maybe you should do a little thinking about what you were doing on the seventeenth, Captain Mård. That alibi of yours doesn’t seem to be worth much.”
“Alibi,” said Mård in disgust. “For what?”
He took a couple of long strides across the room and threw open the door outside.
“Now go to hell,” he said. “And quick, before I get really mad.”
“Goodbye, Captain Mård,” said Martin Beck politely.
When he saw the man’s face in the light, he noticed that the whites of his eyes were yellow.
“Beach pig,” said Mård.
And slammed the door with a bang.
Martin Beck walked up toward town for about 100 yards.
Then he turned and walked down toward the harbor. When he came to the Savoy, he went into the bar and sat down.
“Good afternoon,” the bartender said.
Martin Beck nodded.
“Whisky,” he said.
“Ice water on the side as usual?”
Martin Beck nodded again.
It was over four years since the last time he had been in this bar. People with good memories clearly did exist.
He sat with his drink for a long time and thought.
He didn’t really know what to make of the man. He almost thought Mård had tricked him in some way, but he couldn’t really imagine how.
Mård had been either recklessly honest or thoroughly cunning. In either case, he had talked a little too much about killing people.
After a while he began to think about other things. He had a number of memories of this hotel, and at least one of them was pleasant.
He ordered another whisky.
When he had finished it, he paid and left, crossed the canal, and walked up to the row of taxis in front of the railroad station. He climbed into the car at the head of the line.
“Anderslöv,” he said.
By cab, the trip took exactly twenty-nine minutes.
8
Kollberg called that evening from a place called Jät.
“I’ve been trying to get you all day. Where have you been?”
“In Malmö.”
“At Per Månsson’s?”
“For a while. Where are you?”
“I ran into an old buddy of mine in Växjö. He’s got a summer house here on Lake Åsnen, with a beach and a sauna and the whole works. Would you be very disappointed if I didn’t show up till tomorrow?”
“You stay there and have a sauna,” said Martin Beck. “Can you still swim in Åsnen? At this time of year?”
“Well, I’m planning to give it a try after the sauna. And guess what we’re going to have for dinner afterwards.”
Martin Beck smiled.
“I give up,” he said, not quite truthfully. “What?”
“Crayfish.”
Kollberg sounded like a child on Christmas Eve.
“He sounds like a good buddy to have,” said Martin Beck. “Good night. See you in the morning.”
He hung up the receiver and went back to his room. He stood in the window alcove and looked down into the garden, at the lights from the dining room falling on the gravel paths and the lawn beneath him. He wasn’t hungry and had no desire to go down. Allwright was at his brother’s in Källstorp, and he didn’t know anyone else in Anderslöv to spend the evening with. Folke Bengtsson could wait until Kollberg arrived, and anyway, he had talked enough for one day. Rhea was visiting friends in the country, she’d said, so he couldn’t call her, and a walk through the village didn’t sound inviting. He decided on the only alternative that seemed to remain—bed, and his book about the Normandie.
Kollberg didn’t show up until late Sunday afternoon, with the quite acceptable explanation that the crayfish had been accompanied by more than a little aquavit, which had to be driven from the body with steam and cold water before he could get behind the wheel of his car again with a clean conscience and a bloodstream free of alcohol.
In the evening, they all fixed dinner together at Allwright’s place, and, as Martin Beck had expected, Allwright and Kollberg liked one another at once.
Early Monday morning, Allwright enthusiastically resumed his role as local tour conductor, and Kollberg did not disguise his delight at their loquacious guide and at his captivating native district. Martin Beck sat in the back seat with Timmy and struggled with car sickness. He was amazed at Allwright’s ability to describe the same things they had seen on their earlier excursions without actually repeating himself, and at his inexhaustible supply of anecdotes about the area and the people who lived there.
In Domme, they drove up to Folke Bengtsson’s house. His station wagon was not there, and no one answered when they knocked at the door.
“He’s down fishing,” Allwright said. “Or driving around to his customers. He’ll probably be back this evening.”
They separated outside the police station. Allwright had his routine duties to attend to. Martin Beck and Kollberg strolled leisurely down toward the highway. The air was clear and fresh, and the sun was warm.
“It’s almost enough to make you envy Herrgott,” Kollberg said. “What a difference from Stockholm.”
“Maybe you should apply for duty in some small town,” said Martin Beck.
Kollberg squinted at the sun and shook his head.
“It wouldn’t work,” he said. “It seems like a good idea when you look at Herrgott, but I’d go stir crazy in two weeks in a hole like this. You’re the same way, so you ought to know what I mean. Besides, Gun wants to start working, or at least go on studying if she can’t find a job.”
Kollberg had been married to Gun for seven years. They had two children, a girl six and a boy three, and Martin Beck had always looked on their marriage as ideal. Before he himself met Rhea Nielsen, he had envied Kollberg. Gun was clever and full of vitality; she had warmth and a sense of humor and was a good companion and, as far as he could see, a marvelous mother. Moreover, she was pretty and looked younger than her thirty-five years. He could imagine Gun running courses in Spanish or jazz ballet or whatever she and the other wives in a place like Anderslöv might think up. She would undoubtedly find something to occupy her time, but, like Kollberg, she wouldn’t be happy. She too was a dyed-in-the-wool Stockholmer.
A yellow distribution truck with KVÄLLSPOSTEN in red letters on the side swung away from the curb in front of the Co-op. As it drove on up the hill, a woman came out of the newspaper kiosk and put up a newsbill with the headlines.
Half the placard was taken up by the words WOMAN MURDERED on two lines, and under that, in smaller type, it said: in Anderslöv?
Kollberg took Martin Beck by the arm and stepped out into the st
reet, but Martin Beck nodded toward the newspaper truck, which had now stopped outside the pharmacy across the street from the inn.
“I usually buy the paper at the tobacconist in the square,” he said.
“Usually?” Kollberg said. “Have you already developed habits around here?”
“Well it’s a nice store,” said Martin Beck. “A country store, well stocked. They’ve even got toys, if you want to buy something for Bodil and Joakim.”
The shop owner was standing behind the counter with the newsbill in her hand.
“So you’ve found Sigbrit,” she said.
Martin Beck was already well known.
“Poor thing,” she said.
“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” Kollberg said. “She’s still only missing. There is a question mark down there, as a matter of fact, although it’s pretty small.”
“Well, can you beat that,” the woman said. “The way the newspapers are these days, a person hardly wants to sell them. Nothing but lies and filth and misery.”
They bought Kvällsposten and Trelleborgs Allehando, and Kollberg had a look at the toy department, which really was well stocked. He found a couple of things he had never seen at NK, PUB, Åhléns, or any of the other big department stores in Stockholm, and decided to come back later and buy them for his children.
Next to Kollberg’s car stood an open sportscar, parked with its rear end toward the state liquor store. It was an older model, with clean, straight lines. It looked well cared for, and the bottle-green enamel sparkled in the sun. Martin Beck, who was not usually the least bit interested in cars, stopped to look.
“A Singer,” Kollberg said. “At least twenty-five years old. Nice car, but cold as hell in the winter.”
Kollberg’s specialty was knowing almost everything.
They went into the dining room at the inn. It was lunchtime, and several tables were occupied. They sat down at a corner table near the veranda and opened their papers.
Trelleborgs Allehanda had a brief two-column story on the front page about the disappearance of Sigbrit Mård. The text was objective and accurate and bore the impress of Allwright’s temperate statements to the press. The article contained only the names of the missing woman, Allwright, and Martin Beck. Although the lead and the body of the text both reported that the National Homicide Squad had been called in on the case, the reporter had taken pains not to present his readers with any presuppositions, and the words “murdered” and “murderer” were not mentioned. The story was illustrated with the passport photo, and the caption was a request for information from anyone who might have seen the woman since the time of her disappearance.