Cop Killer (11 page)

An automatic answering machine referred all telephone calls to the police in Trelleborg, where switchboard duty was no longer much of a pleasure.

The inn was full of reporters.

For safety's sake, Allwright had pulled the jack on his private phone.

They studied the telex tape.

The police in Trinidad-Tobago reported that Bertil Mård had been arrested on 6 February 1965, for beating to death an oiler of Brazilian nationality. He was brought before a police court that same day and found guilty of disturbing the peace and of what the report called 'justifiable homicide', which was not a punishable offence in Trinidad-Tobago. For disturbing the peace, however, he was fined four pounds. The oiler had made advances to a woman in Mård's company and was thus considered to have caused the incident himself. Mård had left the country the following day.

'Fifty kronor,' Kollberg said. 'That's pretty cheap for killing a man.'

'"Justifiable homicide",' Allwright said. 'How do you say that in Swedish? Of course, we have the plea of self-defence. That's the same thing in principle. But it's not a translation.'

'It's untranslatable,' said Martin Beck.

'There is no such concept,' Kollberg said.

'You're wrong about that,' Allwright said, and laughed. 'They've got it in the States, believe you me. Just let a policeman shoot somebody, and it's always "justifiable homicide". Legitimate murder, or whatever we'd call it in Swedish. It happens every day.'

There was a dead silence in the room.

Kollberg pushed away the plate with his half-eaten sandwich in distaste.

His eyes were vacant, and he sank down on his chair with his forearms resting on his thighs and his hands hanging between his knees.

'What happened?' Allwright said.

'You laughed in the wrong place,' said Martin Beck.

Allwright didn't understand what he had done wrong, but he did realize that he shouldn't say anything more. Not right away, in any case.

Martin Beck kept a close and anxious eye on his old friend, but he too was silent.

Allwright finished his cigarette. He lit another one and smoked it too. Then he did nothing at all for a while.

Martin Beck continued to look at Kollberg.

At long last, Kollberg shrugged his fleshy shoulders and straightened up.

'Sorry, Herrgott,' he said. 'I get like that sometimes. It's a little bit like epilepsy. I just can't help it.'

He took a big drink from his glass of beer and wiped away the froth with the back of his hand.

'Now where were we?' he said. 'Mård's got a rotten alibi, or, rather, no alibi at all. And he has a history of violence. But does he have a motive?'

'Jealousy,' said Martin Beck.

'Of whom?'

'Bertil Mård could be jealous of the cat,' Allwright said, and laughed experimentally. 'And so, sure enough, they didn't have a cat' 'Not much to go on,' Kollberg said.

'Whoops,' said Allwright as Timmy took the ham sandwich out of his hand and gulped it down. Martin Beck burst out laughing.

'Down, Timmy!' Allwright said. 'What a police dog! It's a world

record. Did you see that? He just walked up and swiped my sand-

wich. Are you a football fan, Lennart?'          

'No,' said Kollberg, laughing so hard his stomach was bouncing up and down.

'Well, then I'll skip that story,' Allwright said. 'And so that brings us to Folke.'

'Folke Bengtsson has no alibi at all and has a history of violence. But does he have a motive?'

"The motive would be that he's not all there,' Allwright said.

'In the case of the murder of Roseanna McGraw, the motive was very deep-rooted and complex,' said Martin Beck.

'Nonsense, Martin,' Kollberg said. 'There's something you and I never have discussed, but I've thought about a lot. You're convinced that Folke Bengtsson was guilty. I'm convinced of it too. But what sort of proof did we have? He confessed to you, of course, after I'd broken his arm, and after we'd lured him in like mad and trapped him. In the courtroom, he denied it. The only thing we could really prove was that he tried to rape, or possibly - but remember, possibly - strangle an undercover policewoman we had instructed to entice and seduce him, and who was practically naked when he entered her flat. I've always thought that in a society of laws, Folke Bengtsson would never have been convicted of the Roseanna murder. The evidence just wasn't good enough. Moreover, he was a mental case, but they didn't send him to a hospital, they put him in prison.'

'What are you getting at?'

'Don't you see? You and I and several other people, the judge who convicted him for one, were convinced that he was a murderer, but we didn't have any real proof. There's a hell of a difference.’

'He had her sunglasses, among other things.'

'A good defence lawyer would have made mincemeat out of our evidence. And a real court would have dismissed the case. In a society of laws...'

Kollberg stopped.

'Maybe Trinidad-Tobago is a society of laws,' Allwright said. 'No doubt,' Kollberg said.

'In any event, tomorrow we have to talk to Folke Bengtsson,' said Martin Beck, as if to change the subject to something more pleasant.

'Yes,' Allwright said. 'I reckon it's about time.'

'I think we'll have to hold some kind of press conference too,' Kollberg said. 'However dreadful that may sound.'

Martin Beck nodded gloomily.

'Press conference,' Allwright said. 'I've never held one of those before. And how are we going to handle Folke? Shall I ask him to come in here?'

'I'd rather talk to him in his own home,' said Martin Beck. 'And drive out there with a trail of reporters behind us?' Kollberg said.

'Yes, well, I suppose it can't be avoided,' said Martin Beck. 'Do we hold the press conference before or after?' 'After, I'd say.'

'And how do we know when Bengtsson will decide to be at home?' Kollberg said.

'I can tell you that,' said Allwright 'He leaves home at six in the morning and comes back at one in the afternoon. Then he goes out in the evening again and sets out his nets. He sticks to a schedule.'

'Okay, then we'll drive out there at one-fifteen,' Kollberg said. 'And we'll talk to the papers at three o'clock.'

Allwright appeared to be looking forward to an interesting and downright exciting day.

Martin Beck and Kollberg thought they knew better.

'You think we dare sneak over and go to bed?' said Kollberg, yawning.

"The restaurant's been closed for hours,' said Martin Beck optimistically. 'The ones who are still awake are probably having a card game somewhere.'

It turned out to be a very elegant procession. They filed out of the Anderslöv police station at precisely 1 p.m. on 6 November 1973. A uniformed police sergeant led the way. Kollberg felt like Abbott and Costello rolled into one as he marched along behind Martin Beck 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 bill 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 car park 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 Fourth 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 on to 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 manoeuvre,' 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 humour!'

'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 truncheons. 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 afterwards. It was enough to make you want to go and 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 chequered cap on his head.

Allwright walked around to the boot 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, immediately afterwards, 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 grey 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 greyer.

Otherwise, the difference was nil.

Martin Beck ran his hand over his face. All at once it came back to him. How terribly hard it had been to break through this man's facade, to get him to lower 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?'