by Maj Sjowall
“I’ll tell him.”
“Fine,” Malm said. “By the way, congratulations.”
“For what?”
“For the way you’ve virtually wrapped up this sex murder. As quickly as ever.”
“I don’t even know if it is a sex murder,” said Martin Beck. “The results of the autopsy aren’t clear on that point.”
“Your record of cases solved is masterful,” Malm said. “Except when they involve locked rooms.”
He laughed good-naturedly at his own little joke.
Martin Beck found it unusually easy to control his laughter when he saw Kollberg’s suspicious glance.
“And you’ll give Kollberg his orders … I mean, the message.”
“I’ll speak to him.”
“Fine. Bye.”
“Goodbye,” said Martin Beck.
He hung up.
“What does that ass want now?” Kollberg asked.
Martin Beck looked at him thoughtfully.
“Well, I’ll give you the good news first,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“You won’t have to deal with Folke Bengtsson any more.”
Kollberg’s gaze became even more suspicious.
“Oh,” he said. “And what’s the bad news?”
“Two policemen were shot down toward Falsterbo early yesterday morning. And a third was injured some other way.”
“I know.”
“You’re to report to Malmö.”
“How come?”
“They’re setting up a task force there. Månsson’s coordinating.”
“Well that’s something.”
“There’s one little catch. You’re not going to like it.”
“The National Commissioner,” said Kollberg, with something like horror written on his well-fed face.
“Not quite as bad as that.”
“How bad?”
“Malm.”
“Christ.”
“He’s in charge of the tactical command.”
“The tactical command?”
“Yes, that’s what he said.”
“What the hell is a tactical command?”
“Sounds military. They’re turning us into some sort of a militia.”
Kollberg frowned.
“There was a time when I liked being a cop. But that’s a hell of a long time ago. Was there anything else?”
“Not really. You’re supposed to get over to Malmö on the double.”
Kollberg shook his head.
“Malm,” he said. “What an asshole. Policemen shot. And that clown heading something called the tactical command. Terrific. I guess there’s nothing to do but pack up my things and get out of here.”
“What do you think about Folke Bengtsson? Your personal opinion?”
“Frankly, I think he’s innocent,” Kollberg said. “He’s not all there, but this time he didn’t do it.”
They said goodbye a few minutes later.
“Now don’t get all depressed,” said Martin Beck.
“I’ll try,” Kollberg said. “So long.”
“So long.”
Martin Beck sat by himself for a while and tried to collect his thoughts.
He trusted Kollberg’s judgment as much as he did his own.
Kollberg didn’t believe Folke Bengtsson had strangled Sigbrit Mård.
Martin Beck didn’t think so either. But he wasn’t sure. Bengtsson was so damned odd.
On the other hand, Martin Beck did know one thing. Bertil Mård was innocent. Benny Skacke had checked on those ships. No easy task, per se, but not impossible for an energetic policeman with ambition and a pleasant telephone voice.
Mård’s log was accurate. That detail about the Faroese freighter could be called decisive.
Allwright walked into the room, threw his hat on the desk and himself in the desk chair.
Timmy rose up on his hind legs and started licking Martin Beck on the face.
Martin Beck shoved the dog aside.
“Herrgott,” he said. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t know anyone named Clark, with a wife they call Sissy? Who’s small and frail but suntanned? Who has wavy white hair and glasses?”
“There’s no such person in the Anderslöv district,” Allwright said. “You think that’s the man who did away with Sigbrit?”
“Yes,” said Martin Beck. “As a matter of fact, I think it’s starting to look that way.”
“Lie down, Timmy!” Allwright said.
The dog actually lay down beside his chair.
He scratched it behind the ears.
“Well, it would be nice if it weren’t Bengtsson. People seem to miss him and his smoked herring. Besides, I’d rather it were someone who didn’t live in Anderslöv.”
20
He drove all day Sunday, and in the evening he came to a place called Malexander.
He had avoided the main highways. In principle, he was headed for Stockholm, and he followed the signs as well as he could. But his knowledge of geography was sketchy, and he had no map, so he often went wrong. Sometimes he had the feeling he had passed through an area twice, driving south on one road where he had just driven north on another.
What had happened seemed abstract and unreal. He tried to recall the whole chain of events, but all he could call to mind were individual moments, like pictures frozen in a film.
At first he had been terrified, but the fear had subsided, and he had driven away without thinking.
He drove through Malexander, turned off onto a small road leading down to a lake, and parked the car. Then he lay down in the back seat and pulled his collar up over his ears, put his hands between his knees, and fell instantly asleep.
The mist rose from the lake and covered the car with a dull film of moisture.
He was awakened by the cold. He didn’t know where he was at first, but then he remembered, and his fear came rushing back.
It was still dark. He crawled over into the front seat, turned on the headlights, and started the engine. Then he made one shivering circuit of the car to loosen up his stiff joints. He stopped in front of the radiator, looked at the license plate, and decided he’d better change them as soon as he got a chance.
Then he got back in the car and continued north.
The boy called Caspar was short and delicate, with slender limbs, and the light hair that fell in waves to his shoulders accentuated the soft, childish lines of his face. He was often asked for his driver’s license when he drove a car. It was hard for anyone to believe that he was eighteen years old. It annoyed him just as much every time it happened, and he hoped that by sticking to back roads he would avoid running into a patrol car.
His driver’s license was okay. It was in the back pocket of his jeans, made out to Ronnie Casparsson, born 9/16/54.
He wondered what had happened to his friend. When he saw him collapse on the highway he’d been certain he was dead, but now he wasn’t so sure any more. He’d been standing there in the middle of the road and had called out “Get in the car, Caspar,” as he took aim at one of the policemen. Then suddenly he’d been shot himself. Maybe he’d managed to kill one or two of the cops first, Caspar didn’t know. He’d been scared and had driven away. He hadn’t even known the other boy was armed.
Maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe he was squealing to the cops right now. But what could he squeal? He didn’t even know Caspar’s right name. Just as Caspar knew nothing about him, except what he was called.
They had met Friday evening in Malmö.
Caspar had come from Copenhagen that morning. He had really meant to go straight back to Stockholm, but his money was gone, and he hadn’t been able to hitch a ride. So he had drifted around Malmö all day trying to think of some way to get some cash. Malmö was a strange city to him. He didn’t know anyone there, and he didn’t know where to go.
Finally he came to a park and ran into some other boys, who offered him a beer. That was how he had met Christer.
The other bo
ys had gone off somewhere, and Christer and Caspar had sat on the bench and shared a beer. Christer hadn’t had any money either, but he did have a car. It was not clear that the car was his own, but at least he had the keys to it. He lived in Malmö, and he knew where there were summer houses that could be broken into.
They had spent Friday night and Saturday morning driving around in the car and had made an unsuccessful attempt to get into a villa just outside of town. In the end they had broken into a summer cottage that appeared to be closed up for the winter. They found some cans of food and ate some of it, and then they had slept for a couple of hours. There was nothing of value in the house, but they took a couple of pictures and a plaster of Paris figurine on a pedestal.
They had driven back to Malmö, and Christer had stolen some LP’s from a music store. Christer, who knew the city, managed to sell the records right away, and they had bought beer and a bottle of wine with the money. They sat in the park and drove around in the car until it got dark.
“Tonight we’ll drive down to a place where there’s nothing but rich people,” Christer had said.
The place was called Ljunghusen, and they had been able to see from the houses that it was a wealthy neighborhood. They broke into a couple of villas and took things that would be easy to sell. A TV set and a transistor radio and a couple of rugs that Christer had insisted were genuine orientals. In one of the houses they had broken open a bar and taken a few bottles of liquor. They had even found some cash—some thirty newly minted five-crown pieces in a piggy bank that they shattered.
It had been a successful night’s work right up until the patrol car appeared out of nowhere.
Caspar went over the chain of events in his mind, as he had done he didn’t know how many times before. First the young cop, who had suddenly been standing there with a gun in his hand, then the older one who had grabbed Christer, and then the shots, which Caspar had first thought were coming from the young policeman’s gun. Then he had seen the one policeman fall, and, right afterward, the other, and he had realized it was Christer who was shooting.
After that, everything had happened very fast. Caspar had been scared and had driven away without finding out whether Christer was dead or only wounded.
He had driven back toward Malmö the way they had come, but when he came to the expressway he had taken a different road.
He had realized that the alarm must already have gone out and that police cars and ambulances would be on their way from the city.
And then suddenly he had run out of gas.
Christer and he had just been talking about finding a car to siphon some gas from when the patrol car appeared. And then when he sped away in panic he completely forgot that the tank was as good as empty.
He had rolled the car down a short hill and parked it behind some dilapidated sheds. He left the things they’d stolen in the car.
Then he had walked down the side of the road until he came to a small community. He had heard the police sirens wailing in the distance, and the sound had made him desperate with fear. He had tried several cars before he found one he could take. It had been standing outside a large house, parked in an open carport, and its doors had been unlocked.
Caspar had been aware of the risks. The car’s owner might suddenly have come out of the house. But it was Sunday, and still early in the morning, and it had only taken him a couple of minutes to get the motor started.
Since then he had been driving north.
Home. Toward Stockholm.
Caspar had lived in Stockholm all of his nineteen years, although he had never actually lived in the city itself. He was born and raised in a suburb, where he had lived with his parents and where he had gone to school until three years ago. Since then he had been looking for a job, somewhat halfheartedly, he had to admit. His parents had moved away two years before. They had bought a house outside Södertälje, and when he didn’t want to move with them he had begun living a somewhat hand-to-mouth existence in the capital.
Getting an apartment of his own had been out of the question. He lived on unemployment and welfare and stayed mostly with friends or temporary girlfriends, young divorced women with apartments and bed space.
He had gradually come to move in circles that lived by the rule that crime does pay, so long as you run a small-scale operation and are clever enough not to get caught. He had taken part in burglaries, committed petty larcenies on his own, dabbled in car theft, and dealt a little in stolen goods, and for a couple of months he had lived on the income of a girl who frequented Malmskillnadsgatan and brought home customers while he sat in her kitchen drinking vodka and Pommac. He had two principles in regard to criminal activity—never deal in drugs and never carry a weapon. His childish appearance had often come to his aid, and he had been caught and convicted only once.
He stopped for gas near Katrineholm. He paid with shiny five-crown pieces, and the man at the filling station looked at them before putting them away in a special compartment in the cash register.
“Don’t you hate to spend those things?”
Caspar shrugged his shoulders and thought about giving some sort of explanation, but he let it go.
He suddenly realized how hungry he was and went into the cafeteria next door. He had the special of the day, some kind of ground meat with a pasty, tasteless sauce, a dab of lingonberry jam, and four over-boiled potatoes. The food was bad and not even warm, but he was too starved to care.
After driving on for a while, he stopped at a kiosk and bought a pack of cigarettes, some gum, and a newspaper. On the way back to the car he saw the headlines on the front page.
He put it down on the seat beside him and drove into a side road, where he stopped the car and opened the paper over the wheel.
Christer was dead, but the three policemen were still alive. He himself was being sought by the police in a manhunt that covered the country. The newspaper article called him a “gangster,” a “desperado,” and a “cop-killer.” He re-read the beginning of the story, where it told about the condition of the policemen. A couple of them were apparently in critical condition, but as far as he could see, none of them was dead. So how could they put “cop-killer”? Besides, he hadn’t even been armed.
He read through the story carefully. Neither he nor Christer was identified, and they had not found the car. For the time being, the police were still searching for the big green Chevvy, but he hadn’t been able to hide it very well, so they were sure to find it before very long.
When he had read the paper, he sat for a long time and tried to collect his thoughts. The fear that had started to go away took hold of him again. He tried to think clearly and calmly.
All he was guilty of was a couple of burglaries and a car theft. It wasn’t he who had done the shooting. Even if they caught him, they would have to prove it, and the penalty for what he had done couldn’t be so severe. But at the moment the odds were still on his side, and if he just stayed cool, he had a chance of getting away.
After a while he wadded up the paper, threw it in the ditch, and drove on. He had decided what he would do.
He stopped at a department store and bought the makings of two license plates of the old type. He drove out of town, and on a little road through the woods he put together two plates, and then unscrewed the ones that were on the car and buried them in the trees. He screwed on the false plates and drove on toward Södertälje.
He parked the car in the garage of his parents’ house. With luck, he could leave it there for several days. His father was a traveling salesman and was often gone, with his car, for days at a time.
He was in luck. His mother was at home, but his father wouldn’t be back until the end of the week. He told his mother he’d borrowed the car from a friend.
She was happy to see him and still happier when he said he thought he’d stay for a few days.
For dinner she fixed his favorite foods—steak with onions, fried potatoes, and apple cake with vanilla sauce.
He
went to bed early in his father’s bed and, as he fell asleep, felt relatively safe.
21
On the morning of November 21, Gustav Borglund died in the isolation ward at Malmö General Hospital. He had arrived at the hospital too late, and the doctors had about as much chance as a snowball in hell.
But Emil Elofsson and David Hector survived, thanks in great part to surgical acumen. They were given prompt, first-class medical attention and were treated as privileged patients.
They were both in bad shape, of course, especially Elofsson, who had taken a bullet through the liver and another in the vicinity of his pancreas. Surgery had made great strides, however, since the days of the ill-fated James Garfield, and the doctors really knew their business, even if they were overworked and chronically exhausted.
Elofsson and Hector were in no condition to be questioned on Monday or Tuesday, and Borglund didn’t know anything, not even that he was dying.
The tactical command had made exactly as much headway as might have been expected. The getaway car had not been found, and the person who had been shot to death had not been identified.
Borglund crowned his long career of relatively good-natured fiascoes with a last sigh at about four o’clock Wednesday morning. He had not been a bad man. Once he had even encouraged Elofsson to give a Yugoslavian child a cough drop, in spite of the complications it might have caused.
In the course of a few hours, the news of his death made its way to the National Police Administration, where it produced a major paroxysm and provoked an immediate series of telephone conversations from Stig Malm to the Chief of Police in Malmö. The potentate himself stood behind Malm’s back as he talked, and it was a wonder the wires didn’t disintegrate from the vibrations.
What the National Police Administration wanted to see was activity.
What the National Police Administration meant by “activity” was the movement of busloads of policemen wearing bulletproof vests and helmets with adjustable plexiglass facemasks.