Cop Killer (27 page)

In addition to the rolls, he had bought two hot dogs and a pack of cigarettes, but he still had nineteen kronor.

He went into a pastry shop on Ringvägen that he'd never been in before. He ordered coffee and two cheese sandwiches and sat down at a table next to a radiator.

As he lifted the cup to take his first sip of coffee, he heard a voice behind him.

'Well, if it isn't Caspar! What made you go get scalped like that? I almost didn't recognize you.'

He put down his cup and turned around, his face drawn with terror.

'Don't look so scared,' said the girl. 'It's only me. Maggie. You remember me, don't you?'

Of course he remembered her. Maggie had been his best friend's girl for several years, and he had met her the very first day he came to Stockholm, almost three years ago. She and his friend had broken up six months before, and his friend had gone to sea. Caspar hadn't seen Maggie since then.

But she was a terrific girl, and he liked her.

She moved over to his table, and they talked about old times for a while, and finally Caspar decided to tell her about his problem. He told her everything, exactly the way it had happened. Maggie had been reading the papers, and she realized right away what a fix he was in.

'Poor Caspar,' she said when he was through. 'What a rotten mess! I suppose I really ought to advise you to go to the cops and tell them the whole story, but I won't, because I don't trust those bastards.'

She thought for a while, and Caspar sat silently and waited.

‘You can stay at my place,' she said, finally. 'I've got a flat out at Midsommarkransen. My boyfriend isn't going to like it, of course, but he's not on such good terms with the cops himself, so he ought to understand. And he's a nice guy - deep down.'

Caspar's vocabulary wasn't really adequate to express his relief and gratitude. But he did his best.

'You're one hell of a terrific chick, Maggie. I always said so.'

Maggie even paid his bill and then walked down to Skeppsbron with him to get his car.

'In your shoes, you can't afford to get a ticket,' she said. 'And I've got money for petrol, so don't worry about that'

They drove out to Midsommarkransen with Maggie at the wheel, and Caspar sang at the top of his lungs the whole way there.

Herrgott Allwright reached behind his right ear with a thumb and two fingers and pushed his hat down over his left eye. It made him look like Huckleberry Finn, albeit thirty-five years older.

'Today we'll go out and shoot ourselves a pheasant. And then eat it. I'm one hell of a good cook. That's one of the advantages of being a bachelor.'

Martin Beck mumbled something.

He himself was one of the worst cooks in the world. Maybe that was the result of becoming a bachelor too late. But probably not. Whenever he tried to do any kind of housework, he always had a strong impression that all of his fingers were thumbs.

'And where are we going to shoot it? Do you own hunting land?'

'I've got friends,' Allwright said. 'We have what amounts to a standing invitation. You can borrow some boots from me. And a shotgun - I've got two.'

Allwright grinned and shuffled some papers on his desk.

'Unless, of course, you think it would be more interesting to refresh your soul in an exchange of views with Folke,' he added.

Martin Beck shook himself. "His conversations with Folke Bengtsson had now reached a state of total stagnation. Somewhat

like a chess game where each of the players has nothing but a king and a knight left on the board.

'I read an interesting thing in here,' Allwright said, picking up a foreign police journal. 'In Dayton, Ohio, a city roughly the same size as Malmö, there have been one hundred and five murders so far this year, which, on a per capita basis, is ten times as many as in New York. Detroit's the only city with dependable statistics that's worse. Seventy-one of those murders were committed with firearms. That must be worse than Stockholm.'

'Does it tell how many robberies and assaults they've had?'

'No, it doesn't. Now, to compare that with Trelleborg Division, we've had one murder here. And that's an unusually high figure.'

'One,' said Martin Beck. 'But it's enough to spoil my sleep. Last night I dreamed about Bengtsson again.'

Allwright laughed.

'About Folke? I wouldn't say anything if you dreamed about Sigbrit'

Allwright was touching on a psychological phenomenon that affected Martin Beck and, no doubt, a lot of other policemen in similar positions. Generally speaking, he could go out and inspect a massacred or mutilated corpse without turning a hair. Even if he did feel a certain inner discomfort, he was capable of throwing it aside like an old coat as soon as he got home. On the other hand, he was tormented by situations where he suspected that something wasn't right - like this matter, of Sigbrit Mård and Folke Bengtsson. A man who had been convicted in advance and who could not defend himself. It was somewhat like a lynching.

'There's another piece of news from the lab today,' Allwright said. 'That rag that I found near the body when we were examining the scene of the crime. To tell the truth, I had completely and utterly forgotten about it'

He laughed.

'What did they find?' said Martin Beck.

'They subjected it to a complete battery of tests,' Allwright said. 'Here's the report. It contained cotton fibre, gravel, soil, clay, fat, oil, and nickel shavings. The gravel and soil had exactly the same composition as the sample we took from the mudhole where we found Sigbrit. But the ground where I picked it up, on the other hand, was of a completely different type. So we can advance the theory that whoever murdered Sigbrit used it to dry off his boots. Assuming he was wearing boots, and he must have been.'

'Nickel shavings?' said Martin Beck. 'That's a bit out of the ordinary.'

'Yes, I thought so. In any case, it is not the sort of evidence that links Folke to the crime.'

But Folke Bengtsson is going to be convicted, thought Martin Beck. Unless...

'Enough of that. Come on, let's go hunting,' Allwright said.

The hunt was a peculiar experience for Martin Beck, who, as a matter of fact, had never been hunting before. Wearing jeans, a duffle coat, a cap knitted by Evert Johansson's wife, and Allwright's extra boots, he stalked across the meadows alongside Allwright, who held Timmy straining at his leash. Martin Beck had the shotgun - Allwright's extra - crooked in his left elbow, which was the way he had seen real hunters do it, probably in the movies.

'You get the first shot,' Allwright said. 'You're the guest, after all. I'll take the second.'

The meadow was soft and springy underfoot, and the grass was tall and frosty after a cold night. Stubborn flowers defied the hastily approaching winter, and in several places there were great clumps of bluish mushrooms.

'Blue legs,' Allwright said. 'Highly edible. We can pick some on the way back. Give dinner a little je ne sais quoi. Is that the right expression?'

The caps of the mushrooms were frozen, completely or in part, but for being so late in the year, it was a magnificent day. Martin Beck walked along in silence. He had heard that hunters were supposed to be quiet. And he gave very little thought to strangled divorcees, paroled sex criminals, keys that fit no locks, and rags containing nickel shavings.

The air was clean and pure, and the sky was blue with occasional ragged clouds. A glorious day.

Then they flushed their first bird, from a point about twelve inches from his feet Martin Beck was taken completely by surprise, jumped back, fired, and the bird flew away as if shot from a catapult.

'Jesus,' Allwright said, and laughed. 'I wouldn't want you on my clay-pigeon-shooting team. Damn nice of you not to shoot Timmy or me.'

Martin Beck laughed too. He had warned him that his experience in these matters was, to put it mildly, limited.

The next pheasant flew up about forty minutes later, and Allwright shot it with such perfect ease that was almost like something he had done in passing.

On the way back, Martin Beck devoted himself to picking mushrooms.

'Yes, mushrooms are easier,' Allwright said. 'They stand still.'

They walked on back to Allwright's tomato-coloured car.

'Nickel shavings,' said Martin Beck when they reached it. 'Where could they have come from?'

'Some sort of specialized machine shop, I suppose. How do I know?'

'It might be important'

'Could be,' Allwright said.

He seemed to be thinking only about dinner.

Which turned out to be singularly delicious. Martin Beck had a hard time remembering when he'd had a better meal.

Even though Rhea Nielsen was a good cook - and proved it eagerly and often.

Allwright proved to have all sorts of odd things in his freezer. Morels, for example, that he had picked himself, and a wonderfully tasty mixture of blueberries, blackberries, and wild raspberries. It made a splendid dessert, especially with whipped cream, which, as Allwright put it, was 'untouched by anything but human hands'.

They had just wiped their mouths when the telephone rang.

'Allwright?... Is that right? ... Well, that was really well done. Tell me about it... How? In a letter?... I'll pass it on. We'll probably be down sometime in the morning... If you keep that up you might even get a transfer to Anderslöv... You don't? That's the silliest thing I ever heard of... Okay, so long.'

He hung up the phone and peered at Martin Beck.

'Who was that?'

'One of the boys in Trelleborg. They've found the flat that belongs to that key in Sigbrit's purse.'

Martin Beck was astounded and didn't bother to hide it

'How the hell did they manage that?' he said.

'There's a saying in these parts that goes, "The dumbest farmer gets the biggest beets." Now you might suppose that would apply to a case such as this. But you'd be wrong.'

Allwright started clearing the table as he talked.

'The fact is that some of the boys in Trelleborg made up their minds that, by George, they'd find that door if it was in Trelleborg to be found. They made a lot of copies of the key and put in a lot of overtime, and of course when you get down to it, Trelleborg's not Stockholm or Dayton, Ohio, to take a couple of examples. It isn't a hell of a big city, and if you're just pertinacious enough, you generally get where you're going.'

He paused and chuckled under his breath. Martin Beck had pulled himself together and was helping with the clearing and the dishes.

'And there's another thing that I'd say was an important factor. Some of the boys down there are good. The Chief has a chance to pick them by hand. He doesn't have to take just anyone, like in Stockholm or Malmö.'

Since coming to Anderslöv, Martin Beck had been made unusually conscious of the fact that there really were quite a few good policemen among the innumerable mediocrities and the frighteningly large number of complete incompetents.

'So the boys thought they'd show the big guns from Stockholm - you mostly - that they can do the job even down here south of the motorway. And they kept at it till they found the right door. This afternoon. If I know them, they would have stayed with it until they could swear that there was no such lock in Trelleborg.'

'Did you get any details?'

'Sure. The address, for example. And some other things. They haven't touched anything, just looked. A little one-room flat, not much furniture. Rented by Sigbrit under her maiden name, which happened to be Jonsson. The rent was paid in cash in a stamped envelope with a typewritten address on the first of every month for three and a half years. For that matter, it was paid for this month too, although Sigbrit was dead then and could hardly have paid it herself. So someone eke must have taken care of it.'

'Clark.'

'Maybe.'

'I feel almost certain of it'

'There were always two words and a letter typed on the back of the envelope - Rent S. Jonsson.’

'We'll have to go down and have a look in the morning.' 'With pleasure. They've sealed the door.' 'Clark,' said Martin Beck to himself. 'Hardly Folke Bengtsson.' 'Why not?'

'He's too tight,' said Martin Beck.

'Well, the rent wasn't much. Seventy-five kronor. Always the exact amount in the envelope, according to the landlord.' Martin Beck shook his head.

'Not Bengtsson,' he said. 'Wrong man. It just doesn't fit his behaviour pattern.'

'Well, Folke's a creature of habit,' Allwright said.

'It doesn't fit in with his attitude towards women. His view of the so-called opposite sex is different'

'Opposite sex,' Allwright said. ‘You can say that again. Did I tell you about my lady friend in Abbekås? The flesh-eating plant?'

Martin Beck nodded.

'Speaking of Clark, he's a very shadowy figure,' Allwright said. 'He doesn't live here in this district. I can say that with ninety-nine per cent certainty. And I happen to know that the boys in Trelleborg have given this Clark business all they've got the description and everything. In their opinion, there's no such person in the entire Trelleborg Division.'

'Mmm,' said Martin Beck.

'So the possibility remains that Folke made up the whole thing about this man and his car in order to distract attention from himself.'

'That's possible,' said Martin Beck. But he didn't believe it.

They drove to Trelleborg the next day and studied the premises.       

The flat was in a rather small building behind an old block of flats that looked worn but not rundown. The building was on a side street that appeared to be very quiet.

Sigbrit Mård's secret retreat was one flight up, on the second floor, as they say in South Sweden. .

Martin Beck let Allwright break the seal. He had the feeling Allwright thought it would be fun, somehow.

It wasn't much of a flat.

It smelled musty and probably hadn't been aired out for over a month.

There was some post lying on the floor in the hall under the letter box - various kinds of ads and notices addressed to Occupant

The name on the door consisted of detachable white plastic letters forming the pseudonym S. JONSSON.