Cop Killer

by Maj Sjowall

  “Let him go, why not,” said Martin Beck with an involuntary yawn. “Maybe he’ll find something.”

  “And maybe we’ll have a dogfight,” Allwright said.

  “We’ll see.”

  Allwright released the dog, who immediately started nosing around on the ground.

  “Well, look who’s here to nip at our heels again,” said Evert Johansson a few moments later.

  He was one of the men working with the lab crew.

  “Yes, take care of anything he finds,” Allwright said.

  A little while later, Johansson walked over to where they were standing. He was wearing overalls and high rubber boots and moved slowly through the windfall.

  “She looks pretty awful,” he said.

  Martin Beck nodded. He had been through this far too many times to let it bother him. Sigbrit Mård’s remains were not the most appetizing sight he had ever seen, nor were they anywhere near the most repulsive.

  “You can move her as soon as the girl with the camera’s done,” said Martin Beck. “Then we’ll have a look at what the dogs have found.”

  “Timmy’s found something odd,” said Evert Johansson, extending a plastic bag full of something indescribable.

  “Yes, take along everything that doesn’t seem to be part of the natural vegetation,” said Martin Beck.

  “And I’ve just found this old rag,” said Allwright, pointing with the toe of his boot.

  “Bring it along.”

  They had walked around the woodpile and were approaching the rope barrier, where a few tireless reporters were on guard.

  “There’s one thing I would like to point out,” Allwright said. “And that is that I wouldn’t want to try and drive out here in Folke’s old station wagon. Not even if the weather was good and the ground was fairly dry.”

  “Well, what about in your own car, for example?”

  “Yes, I probably could have made it. Before the army tore up the road.”

  “Have you considered the fact that Bertil Mård must be familiar with this area too?”

  “Yes, it did occur to me,” Allwright said.

  They came to the cordon and climbed over the rope. Another of Allwright’s sergeants was keeping the reporters company on the other side.

  It was a very peaceful scene.

  “Haven’t you been up to take a look?” said one of the reporters.

  “Good Lord, no. Ugh,” said the policeman.

  Martin Beck smiled. It was a miserable and tragic situation, but there was something rural and idyllic about it nonetheless. As opposed to the usual grim atmosphere of heavy suspicion and threatening billy clubs.

  “Is she naked?” said the reporter to Martin Beck.

  “Not completely, as far as I could see.”

  “But she was murdered?”

  “Yes, it looks that way.”

  He looked at the reporters, who were ill-equipped for the terrain and the weather.

  “We can’t tell you much of interest until there’s been an autopsy,” he said. “There’s a dead human being over there. All the indications are that it’s Sigbrit Mård and that someone tried to hide her body. My personal impression was that she didn’t have much on and that she’d been violently attacked. If you stay here and freeze long enough, you’ll see us come by with a stretcher covered with a tarpaulin. And that’s pretty much the story.”

  “Thanks,” said one of the reporters and actually turned and started off with a shiver toward the line of cars parked several hundred yards away.

  And that was pretty much the story, even for Martin Beck.

  The lab report came through, and the results of the autopsy.

  Nothing much had been learned.

  Timmy had made the most curious discovery—a piece of smoked goose breast, which, however, could be traced to the lake hikers. The funniest part of that, it seemed to Martin Beck, was that the dog hadn’t eaten it.

  A cotton rag that couldn’t be traced anywhere.

  Sigbrit Mård herself, her clothes, and her pocketbook.

  Her wristwatch had a window for the date and had stopped at sixteen minutes, twenty-three seconds after 4 a.m. on October 18—as a result of not being wound.

  Sigbrit Mård had been strangled, and there were indications of violence directed at the lower abdomen. There was a contusion on the pelvis, as if from a very hard blow.

  The condition of her clothing was rather interesting.

  Her coat and blouse had been found in one piece beside the body. Her skirt and pants, on the other hand, were torn. Her sexual organs had been exposed and her brassiere partially removed.

  Martin Beck stayed on in Anderslöv, although the questioning was taking place in Trelleborg.

  He sat and studied the lab reports. They could be interpreted in various ways, of course. One thing seemed fairly obvious.

  Her coat and blouse were undamaged because she had removed them herself. This, in turn, might indicate that she had accompanied her murderer voluntarily.

  Exactly where she died could not be determined. Probably in the vicinity of the mudhole, but that would have to remain a guess.

  The contents of her handbag were not unusual.

  Most of the evidence indicated that shortly after leaving the post office, she accompanied someone to the isolated spot where she was later found and that she was killed somewhere in that immediate area.

  None of this made the outlook any brighter for Folke Bengtsson.

  Roseanna McGraw had died under very similar circumstances a little over nine years earlier.

  And Bengtsson continued to deny everything, apathetically, and without the least show of cooperation.

  The investigation was bogging down.

  The evidence was shoddy, but Bengtsson had public opinion against him and would probably be convicted.

  Martin Beck was not satisfied. There was something that didn’t fit, but what?

  Maybe something about Bertil Mård.

  Martin Beck often thought about him and his notebook. It really was an exceptionally fine notebook. The best notebook Mård had been able to find in 108 countries. Had he really made a note of everything? Had he, for example, recorded the death of the Brazilian oiler in Trinidad-Tobago?

  Martin Beck had a strong feeling that he would have to talk to Mård once more. At least.

  He also thought about what Sigbrit Mård had had in her over-the-shoulder pocketbook. A singularly commonplace collection. Handkerchief, a tin box of aspirin, keys, some receipts, a comb, a ballpoint pen, a little bottle of saccharin tablets, a mirror, driver’s license, a coin purse with seventy-two crowns, and a make-up case containing powder, lipstick, mascara, eye shadow, and foundation cream. Plus a card of birth-control pills, one for each day of the week. She had taken the ones for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, but not for Thursday. On Thursday, of course, she was dead.

  Did the pills necessarily mean anything? Of course not.

  Sigbrit Mård had been thirty-eight years old and divorced. It was entirely possible that she went on taking the pill even though she had, in effect, stopped sleeping with men.

  But all the same …

  He thought about the almanac and the letters he had found in her house.

  And there was a key on her key ring that didn’t fit any of the locks he knew of.

  There were bound to be things Mård hadn’t told him. Martin Beck decided to go into Malmö and try to have another talk with him sometime when he’d be sober.

  Friday morning sounded like a good time. Early, before he’d had even his first drink of the day.

  If Martin Beck disliked the Sigbrit Mård case and the way it was developing, there was at least one other person who felt the same way.

  Kollberg.

  Lennart Kollberg bore his share of the investigation as if it had been a cross and the road to trial a veritable journey to Golgotha.

  The sessions with Folke Bengtsson were becoming more and more fruitless. They had a terribly hard time talk
ing to each other. The words seemed to vanish in the air between them, as if they lacked the buoyancy to make it across the table.

  Kollberg maintained that Bengtsson was psychologically somewhat odd, or, to put it more bluntly, stark raving mad, but he also found the threads linking Bengtsson to Sigbrit Mård more fragile and the whole situation more abstract. Than did Martin Beck. Kollberg had never been as deeply involved in the Roseanna case, nor had he ever attempted to force his way into Bengtsson’s head. At that time he was never in charge of the principal interrogation.

  And now he had the feeling more and more that he was merely tormenting a man who might be innocent, and who didn’t really understand what it was all about.

  Or perhaps he was tormenting himself. He would say something, and before it reached the other man, the words would dissolve and disperse in the air.

  Kollberg often had business at police headquarters in Trelleborg and as he came out of the building on Friday the sixteenth, he ran into someone he knew.

  Åke Boman.

  “Hi,” Kollberg said.

  “We probably shouldn’t talk to each other,” Boman said. “We might both lose our jobs.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” Kollberg said. “Do you know a good place to eat?”

  “Jönsson’s tavern, The Three Hearts. You can really stuff yourself.”

  “Then let me take you to lunch.”

  “Or the other way around.”

  “We’ll take each other to lunch. Fine and dandy. I see the Christmas madness has already begun,” said Kollberg with a glance around.

  Jönsson’s tavern was excellent. It was exactly suited to Kollberg’s intentions, i.e., to really stuff himself.

  “Can you get a lot of food here?”

  “Yes, you can eat till you burst. And it’s good.”

  “Fine.”

  They sat down, and Kollberg appraised the menu carefully before he ordered.

  “Don’t you want a drink?” Boman said.

  Kollberg looked at him. As usual, Boman had ordered mineral water.

  “Yes,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “A big son of a bitch. Miss, bring me a double aquavit.”

  His relationship to Boman required at least a big meal, a drink, and a talk.

  “I’ve often had the feeling we ought to have a little talk,” Boman said. “Just a few words.”

  “The same thing’s occurred to me,” Kollberg said. “Now especially.”

  “You did save my life,” Boman said. “The question is whether it was worth saving. I really did want to die that time. And many times since.”

  “I didn’t have any choice,” Kollberg said. “The way it happened, there was nothing else to be done. What were those pills you took?”

  “Vesparax.”

  “Right. I read somewhere that now they sell them only in suppository form. Very clever. As if people couldn’t kill themselves through the ass.”

  Boman smiled sadly.

  “There’s one question I want to ask you,” Kollberg said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You were damned close to getting away with it. You were just about to get married, to a fine woman. What were you going to do? Live with it? Forget?”

  “No,” said Boman. “When I killed Alf, I ruined my life. I could have escaped unpunished, but I never could have lived with it. I know that now.”

  “Boman,” said Kollberg.

  “Call me Gunnarsson. It doesn’t matter any more.”

  “You’re Åke Boman to me. I’ll tell you something. I killed a man once too. Not many people know about it. If you want me to, I’ll give you the details.”

  Åke Boman shook his head.

  “Okay. No details. I’d rather not, anyway. You know yourself how it feels. You can’t live with it. Everything seems changed. You never get over it. And I didn’t even get a reprimand. The Commissioner compared me to Charles the Twelfth.”

  He laughed hollowly.

  “The truth is I hate being a policeman. And I won’t be for very much longer, I’m afraid. You can quote me. What saved me is a good wife and two fine kids.”

  “I’ve considered something along those lines,” Boman said. “But I don’t really dare.”

  The herring and potatoes arrived.

  Kollberg dug into it.

  Boman did not have the same size appetite, but he seemed to be inspired by his companion.

  “Do you want my opinion?” Kollberg said.

  “Yes and no.”

  “Well here it is, free of charge. I think Bengtsson’s insane, but I think he’s innocent. Write that if you want to. I’m almost convinced.”

  “Do you think we might be friends?” Boman said.

  “We are already,” Kollberg said.

  He lifted his glass of aquavit.

  “Skoal!”

  Boman took a drink of his mineral water.

  It was a long lunch. Kollberg had nothing more to drink, but they talked for a long time.

  About all sorts of things.

  They sat there across the table from one another. A killer and a policeman who had killed.

  They understood each other.

  Maybe they would be friends.

  “You saved my life,” Boman said.

  “I guess I did. What was I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you want to, you can write every word I’ve said.”

  “You’ll be in a mess if I do.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” Kollberg said. “Take my word for it.”

  He had a sudden feeling of freedom.

  He ate an order of ice cream with chocolate sauce.

  “I’m too damned fat,” Kollberg said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re too thin.”

  “Maybe. I feel pretty good sometimes, in spite of everything.”

  “In spite of everything,” Kollberg said.

  “I’ve got a little apartment nearby,” Boman said. “Do you want to come up for a while? It’s only five minutes from here.”

  “Okay,” Kollberg said.

  “We’ll both be fired,” Boman said.

  “Who cares?” Kollberg said.

  Boman’s apartment was pleasant.

  On the table next to the telephone was a framed photograph.

  He recognized it immediately.

  An outdoor shot. Her head was thrown back, and she was laughing at the photographer. The wind tore at her ruffled blond hair.

  “Anne-Louise, right?”

  “The best thing that ever happened to me. She’s married now. Nice guy, I understand. Two kids. A boy and a girl.

  “Shit,” he said suddenly.

  They talked for a couple of hours.

  About all sorts of things.

  Two men who had killed.

  16

  Nothing much had changed at Bertil Mård’s. There was the same stink of liquor and unwashed bedclothes. The same semidarkness in the shabby little house. Mård was even wearing the same clothes he had worn the last time—an undershirt and an old pair of ship’s captain’s pants.

  The only innovation was an old kerosene stove that smoked and did nothing to improve the general atmosphere of squalor and decay.

  But in any case, Mård was sober.

  “Good morning, Captain Mård,” said Martin Beck politely.

  “Good morning,” Mård said.

  He peered at his visitor, and the whites of his eyes were covered with an unhealthy, yellow film. But his brown gaze was raw and murderous.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to talk to you for a little while.”

  “I don’t want to talk.”

  Mård kicked the smoking kerosene stove.

  “Maybe you can fix this thing for me,” he said. “It doesn’t work right, and at night it gets colder than nigger hell in here. I never was any good with machinery.”

  Martin Beck inspected the heating device, which looked to be
ancient. It was years since he had seen anything like it. In principle, it seemed to be constructed like a primus stove.

  “I think you ought to get yourself something newer and better,” he said.

  “Maybe so,” said Mård absently. “Well, what the hell do you want to talk about?”

  Martin Beck didn’t say anything right away. He sat down on one of the chairs and almost expected a protest, but Mård only sighed heavily and sat down himself.

  “Do you want a drink?” he said.

  Martin Beck shook his head. The liquor was the same merchandise as the time before. Illegal Russian vodka of devastating potency. But there was only one bottle on the table, and it had not even been opened.

  “No, that’s right,” Mård said.

  “Where do you get that stuff?” said Martin Beck with a glance at the bottle with its blue label.

  “That’s none of your business,” Mård said.

  “No, I guess it isn’t.”

  “It’s hard to live in a country where a fifth of whisky costs fifteen dollars,” said Mård philosophically.

  “I suppose you’ve heard that we found your ex-wife?”

  “Yes,” Mård said. “That information reached me.”

  He unscrewed the cap of the bottle with a practiced motion and threw it on the floor.

  Poured up half a tumbler and stared at it for a long time, as if it had been a living being or a flame.

  “The funny thing is, I don’t want any either,” he said.

  He took a small swig.

  “And it hurts like hell,” he said. “Can’t even fucking drink yourself to death but it has to hurt. I guess that’s the drinker’s curse.”

  “So you know about Sigbrit?”

  “Yes. Not that anyone exactly bothered to inform me. But the women at the beer shop read the papers, thank God.”

  “Are you sorry?” asked Martin Beck.

  “What?”

  “Are you sorry? Are you in mourning?”

  Mård shook his head slowly.

  “No,” he said finally. “You can’t mourn something you haven’t had for such a long time. But …”

  “Yes?”

  “But it does seem funny that she’s not there any more. I never thought Sigbrit would kick off before I did. And I know someone else who didn’t think so either.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Sigbrit herself. She’s been acting pretty much as if I were dead for a long time now.”