Cop Killer

by Maj Sjowall

10

  It turned out to be a very elegant procession. They filed out of the Anderslöv police station at precisely 1 p.m. on November 6, 1973. A uniformed police sergeant led the way. Kollberg felt like Abbott and Costello rolled into one as he marched along behind Martin Beck and with Timmy sniffing at his heels. Allwright brought up the rear in his usual green rubber boots, the safari hat on the back of his head, and the dog straining at its leash. It occurred to him that they ought to be carrying little flags, since it was 341 years to the day since Gustav II Adolf fell at the battle of Lützen.

  “We’d better drive slowly, so we don’t lose anyone,” said Allwright with a grin.

  Kollberg and Martin Beck took their seats in the patrol car, while Allwright wedged the dog into his tomato-red Ascona and climbed behind the wheel to lead the expedition.

  But if Lennart Kollberg felt ridiculous, it was nothing to what certain other people had good cause to feel.

  No one had given it a thought in advance, but the hour they had chosen for their departure fell in the midst of what was, for most of the reporters, an almost ritual event.

  Lunch.

  Nevertheless, someone had obviously been standing watch, for the news spread like wildfire.

  Men and women came tumbling out of the inn dining room with their mouths full of herring salad or pork knuckles and mashed turnips. One of them had his camera in one hand and was still holding a long-stemmed glass of aquavit in the other. They were followed by confused waitresses wondering what this mass evasion of the check might mean, and by other guests, who probably thought the building was on fire. The confusion was compounded by the fact that some of them had their cars parked in the square and others in the long parking lot behind the inn garden.

  But Allwright took it exceedingly slow and easy, as promised, and when Kollberg looked around just as they passed the church, he saw no fewer than ten cars in line behind the patrol car. And he suspected all of them of containing members of what used to be called the Third Estate.

  There was only one vehicle that was conspicuous by its absence, and that was Åke Boman’s green Singer. The explanation was simple. In keeping with his promise of the day before, Kollberg had called Trelleborg and given him the schedule.

  Halfway to Domme, Allwright slowed down, drove off onto the shoulder, and stopped. He climbed out, jumped the ditch, and disappeared behind a little shed. He appeared again about a minute later, calmly closing his fly in full view of everyone in the line of cars, some of whom were obviously in a quandary as to whether or not they might be expected to follow suit.

  Without a trace of expression on his face, Allwright walked over to the patrol car and leaned down so he could talk through the window.

  “Merely a diversionary maneuver,” he said. “To be sure no one breaks ranks.”

  He studied the people in the following cars solemnly.

  Then he went back to his own car and drove on. Both Kollberg and Martin Beck could see his shoulders quivering. He was clearly up there having a good laugh all by himself.

  “Christ, how I envy Herrgott!” Kollberg said. “Talk about a sense of humor!”

  “Yes,” said the sergeant suddenly. “He’s an uncommonly funny man. It’s a real joy to work for him, although, for that matter, you never have the feeling of being a subordinate. I’m four salary grades below him, but nobody gives it a thought. No, he’s really all right—no pun intended.”

  Martin Beck knew the driver’s name—Evert Johansson—but that was all.

  “How long have you been a policeman?” he said.

  “Six years. It was the only job I could get. Maybe I shouldn’t say so, but I used to be on the force in Malmö and I thought it was sheer hell. People looked at me like I wasn’t human, and I noticed myself that I was starting to get funny. I was at a demonstration there in 1969, and we were beating people with our billy clubs. I hit a girl myself. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen, and what’s more, she had a little kid with her.”

  Martin Beck looked at Evert Johansson. A young man with a bright, open face.

  Kollberg sighed but said nothing.

  “I even saw myself on TV afterward. It was enough to make you want to go hang yourself. And I decided to quit that same evening, but …”

  “But what?”

  “Well, I happen to have an uncommonly good wife. She came up with the idea that I ought to apply for a transfer out in the country somewhere. And I was lucky. I got this job. Otherwise I’d never have been a policeman today.”

  Allwright turned off to the right, and they were there.

  The house was small and old, but looked well cared for. Åke Boman’s sportscar was parked near the gate. He himself was sitting behind the wheel reading a book.

  Folke Bengtsson was standing out by the hen house with a spade in his hand. He was wearing overalls and leather boots and had a checkered cap on his head.

  Allwright walked around to the trunk of his car and took out a white plastic Co-op shopping bag.

  Martin Beck wondered what he had inside.

  “You watch the dog, Evert,” Allwright said. “I know it’s a hell of an assignment, but ours isn’t going to be much fun either. And try to keep all those people off his land.”

  Then he opened the gate, and Martin Beck and Kollberg followed him through. Kollberg was very careful to close it behind him.

  Folke Bengtsson put down his spade and came over to meet them.

  “Hi, Folke,” Allwright said.

  “Hi,” said Folke Bengtsson.

  “Shall we go inside and talk?”

  “Talk?”

  “Yes,” Allwright said. “We’ve got all the papers and so forth. But you know me. I wouldn’t come if it weren’t necessary.”

  “Yes, well then, please come in.”

  “Thank you,” said Martin Beck.

  Kollberg was silent.

  As soon as they were inside, Allwright took a pair of shoes out of the plastic bag and left his boots by the door.

  Martin Beck felt chagrined.

  God, how little he knew about manners and customs in the country! Besides which, it didn’t say much for his powers of deduction. You go to visit someone wearing your boots. So, of course, you take along a pair of shoes.

  Folke Bengtsson took off his boots too.

  “We can sit in the living room,” he said tonelessly.

  Martin Beck glanced around at the room, which was spartan but neat. The only things that might be called luxuries were a large aquarium and a television set.

  From outside came the sounds of cars being parked, and, right afterward, the low murmur of conversation.

  Bengtsson had changed very little in nine years. In any case, if prison life had marked him it was not apparent.

  Martin Beck thought back to the summer of 1964.

  Bengtsson had been thirty-eight years old at that time and had seemed healthy, calm, and strong. Blue eyes, with a little gray in his hair. A tall, well-built man, rather handsome, he had made a clean, neat, pleasant impression.

  Now he was forty-seven and a little grayer.

  Otherwise, the difference was nil.

  Martin Beck ran his hand over his face. All at once it all came back to him. How terribly hard it had been to break through this man’s façade, to get him to let down his guard, or make a slip of the tongue or an admission.

  “Well now,” Allwright said. “I’m not the one who’s going to do the talking, but I suppose you know what this is all about.”

  Folke Bengtsson nodded. Possibly. In any case he made a slight movement with his head.

  “I think you know these gentlemen,” Allwright said.

  “Yes,” said Bengtsson. “I do indeed know Detective Chief Inspector Beck and Detective Kollberg. How are you?”

  “They’re superintendents now,” Allwright said. “If that makes any difference.”

  “Well,” said Kollberg, “technically, I’m just an acting superintendent. The correct title is actually Detect
ive Inspector. But as Herrgott says, it really doesn’t matter. Anyway, can’t we use first names?”

  “I’d be glad to,” Bengtsson said. “For that matter, everyone around here is very informal. I’ve noticed, for example, that the children call the priest by his first name.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Allwright said. “He comes steaming along in his vestments and everything, and the kids yell out ‘Hi, Karl.’ And he knows all their names, so he always yells right back. ‘Hi there, Jens,’ for example.”

  “Things were very informal in prison, too,” Bengtsson said.

  “Don’t you find it unpleasant to talk about that time?” said Martin Beck.

  “Not at all. I enjoyed myself in prison. An orderly, regular existence. Better than home, much of the time. I’ve no complaints with the penal system. It was a good life. No complications, so to speak.”

  Kollberg sat down on one of the straight-backed chairs by the round dining table and covered his face with both hands.

  The man is insane, he thought.

  And:

  Now this nightmare is going to begin again.

  “Yes, well, let’s sit down,” Bengtsson said.

  Martin Beck sat down, and so did Allwright.

  None of them stopped to think that there were only three chairs.

  “It’s about Sigbrit Mård,” said Martin Beck.

  “I see.”

  “You know her, don’t you Mr.… Folke?”

  “Yes, of course. She lives only a few hundred yards from here, on the other side of the driveway.”

  “She’s missing.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “No one has seen her since just after one o’clock on the seventeenth of last month. That was a Wednesday.”

  “Yes, that’s just what I’ve been told.”

  “She had gone to the post office in Anderslöv. And then she was going to take the bus to the end of the driveway down here.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that too.”

  “There are witnesses who say the two of you spoke to each other at the post office.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “She wanted to buy some eggs on Friday, if I had any.”

  “And?”

  “I said I was fairly certain she could have a dozen.”

  “Yes?”

  “That was what she wanted. A dozen.”

  “And what did she say then?”

  “ ‘Thank you very much.’ Or something to that effect. I don’t remember exactly what she said, as a matter of fact.”

  “Sigbrit Mård didn’t have her car that day.”

  “No, so I’ve heard.”

  “Now tell me … Folke, did you know she didn’t have her car? When you ran into her at the post office?”

  Folke Bengtsson said nothing for a very long time.

  “Yes,” he said finally.

  “How did you happen to know that?”

  “When you live like this, you notice things about your neighbors, whether you want to or not.”

  “But you had your station wagon with you in Anderslöv?”

  “Yes, it was parked right out in front of the post office.”

  “You know, Folke, that’s actually a no-parking zone,” said Allwright with a mischievous look.

  “I really didn’t know that.”

  “There’s a sign,” Allwright said.

  “I never noticed it, really.”

  Allwright took out an old silver pocket watch and snapped open the case.

  “Sigbrit Mård would have been standing at the bus stop right about now,” he said. “Unless, of course, someone gave her a lift.”

  Folke Bengtsson looked at his wristwatch.

  “Yes,” he said. “That sounds right. And it agrees with what I’ve been told.”

  “And with what was in the papers,” said Martin Beck. “Right?”

  “I never read periodicals,” said Folke Bengtsson.

  “Not even magazines? Men’s magazines, or the sports papers?”

  “Men’s magazines have changed. I find them very tasteless these days. And the sports papers no longer exist. Anyway, magazines are so expensive.”

  “Well, now … Folke, since you happened to run into each other at the post office, and since she didn’t have a car, wouldn’t it be only natural for you to give her a ride? You were going the same way.”

  With rising irritation, Martin Beck noticed that he was having a hard time calling Bengtsson by his first name.

  Once again there was a long pause.

  “Yes,” said Bengtsson finally. “I suppose that would seem natural, but that isn’t what happened.”

  “Did she ask for a ride?”

  This time Bengtsson paused so long before answering that Martin Beck finally felt he had to repeat the question.

  “Did Sigbrit Mård say anything to you about getting a ride home in your car?”

  “I don’t recall anything of that kind.”

  “Is it possible that she did?”

  “I don’t know. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Martin Beck looked at Allwright, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Maybe it was the other way around, and you offered her a ride?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Bengtsson immediately.

  Here, clearly, he was on firmer ground.

  “So there’s no doubt at all on that point?”

  “No,” said Folke Bengtsson. “I never pick up hitchhikers. Every time I have ever given anyone a ride, it was always someone directly connected with my work. And that has only happened a few times.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes, really.”

  Martin Beck again looked at Allwright, who made another face. His stock of facial expressions was clearly inexhaustible. The Anderslöv Chief of Police would undoubtedly have made a good mime.

  “So we can rule out that possibility.”

  “Completely,” Bengtsson said. “It’s utterly unthinkable.”

  “Why should it be so utterly unthinkable?”

  “Because of my disposition, I suppose.”

  Martin Beck thought about Folke Bengtsson’s disposition for a moment. It was a subject that would bear some thought.

  But this was not the time for brooding.

  “How so?” said Martin Beck.

  “I’m the kind of person for whom a regular routine is almost a necessity. For example, my customers can tell you that I am very particular about punctuality. If something holds me up, I try to hurry so as to get back on schedule.”

  Martin Beck looked at Allwright, who made a face that might almost have been worthy of Harpo Marx. Bengtsson’s punctuality was clearly not in doubt.

  “It irritates me when something disturbs the rhythm of my life. I must say, for example, that this conversation upsets me greatly. Nothing personal, of course, but a whole list of small tasks will suffer.”

  “I understand.”

  “So, as I said, I never pick up hitchhikers. Especially not women.”

  Kollberg took his hands away from his face.

  “Why?” he said.

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Why do you say ‘especially not women’?”

  Bengtsson’s expression changed and grew more serious. He no longer looked indifferent. But what was it in his eyes? Hate? Aversion? Desire? Severity?

  Madness perhaps.

  “Answer me, Folke,” Kollberg said.

  “Women have caused me a great deal of unpleasantness.”

  “We know. But that doesn’t mean you can ignore the fact that more than half of all the people in the world are women.”

  “There are different kinds of women,” Bengtsson said. “Almost all the ones I’ve met have been bad.”

  “Bad?”

  “Exactly. Simply bad human beings. Unworthy of their sex.”

  Kollberg looked out the window in resignation. The man
was insane. But what did that prove? For that matter, could the newspaper photographer who was hanging like a spider monkey from a pear tree fifty feet from the house be considered entirely sane? Presumably.

  Kollberg sighed deeply and collapsed like a punctured weather balloon.

  Martin Beck resumed his famous systematic questioning.

  “Let’s leave that subject for the moment.”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Folke Bengtsson.

  “Instead of speculation, we’ll stick to facts. The two of you left the post office only a few minutes apart, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I got my car and drove home.”

  “Directly?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right … Mr. Bengtsson, now we come to the next question.”

  “Yes?”

  Martin Beck was disgusted with himself. Why couldn’t he make himself say “Folke”? Kollberg had said it, and for Allwright it was apparently the easiest thing in the world.

  “You must have passed Sigbrit Mård in your car, either at the bus stop or very close to it.”

  There was no reply, and Martin Beck heard himself say:

  “Answer me, Mr. Bengtsson. Was Mrs. Mård visible at that time?”

  Terrific. The best answer, of course, would be “No, she was invisible.”

  But Folke Bengtsson didn’t seem to be aware of Inspector Beck’s embarrassment. He said nothing at all, just stared vacantly at his big, sunburned hands.

  Martin Beck was at a loss. The way he had asked it, the question was too idiotic to be repeated.

  Finally Allwright came to his rescue.

  “That’s a pretty damn simple question, Folke. Did you see Sigbrit or didn’t you?”

  At long last Bengtsson said, “I saw her.”

  “A little louder, please,” said Martin Beck.

  “I saw her.”

  “Where, exactly?”

  “At the bus stop. Maybe a few feet away.”

  “There is a witness who maintains that your car slowed down at that point. Maybe even stopped.”

  Seconds went by. Time passed. They all grew one minute older. Finally Bengtsson answered, softly.

  “I saw her, and it’s possible that I slowed down. She was walking along the right side of the road. I’m a very careful driver, and I usually slow down when I pass pedestrians. Maybe I was meeting another car. I don’t remember.”