Cop Killer (12 page)

'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 Detective 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, Kalle." 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 feet.' '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 five like this, you notice things about your neighbours, whether you want to or not.'

'But you had your car 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 gready. 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? Puritanical zeal?

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 of 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.'

'Were you driving so slowly that you actually stopped?'

'No, I didn't stop.'

'Might it have looked as if you stopped?'

'I don't know. I really don't. All I know is that I didn't stop.'

Martin Beck turned to Allwright.

'Didn't he say a moment ago that he tried to drive faster when he was late?'

'Yes,''Allwright said. 'That's right'

Martin Beck turned back to the murderer. Damn. He actually thought that word. Murderer.

'Wouldn't your visit to the post office have made you late?' he said. 'So that you'd be hurrying afterwards?'

'I always go to the post office on Wednesdays,' said Folke Bengtsson calmly. 'I always send a letter to my mother in Södertälje, for one thing, and there are usually other matters to attend to.'

'Sigbrit Mård did not get into the car?'

'No. She did not'

It had been a leading question, but not quite in the right direction.

'Did Sigbrit Mård get into your car?' 'No. Absolutely not I didn't stop.'

'Another thing. Did Sigbrit Mård wave or signal to you in any other way?'

And then there was another of those painful, incomprehensible pauses.

Bengtsson didn't answer. He looked Martin Beck in the eye but said nothing.

'Did Sigbrit Mård make any sort of signal when she saw your car?'

Another few moments of their lives elapsed in silence. Martin Beck thought about women, and how those few moments might have been spent.

Once again, Allwright broke the silence. He laughed.

'Why on earth won't you answer him, Folke?' he said. 'Did Sigbrit wave to you or didn't she?'

'I don't know,' Bengtsson said.

So softly it was almost inaudible.

'You don't know?' said Martin Beck.

'No, I don't know.'

Kollberg gave Martin Beck a resigned look.

He didn't have to say it

Give up, Martin.

But there were more questions.

Hard questions.

'I remember when we were sitting at Kristineberg nine years ago,' said Martin Beck. 'So do I.'

'We talked a lot about women. Certain viewpoints were aired. Some of them were rather peculiar.' 'I didn't think so.'

"They seemed peculiar to me. Do you still have the same ideas about women, Mr Bengtsson?' A long silence..

'I try not to think about them.' Them.

'You know Sigbrit Mård, don't you, Mr Bengtsson?'

'She's one of my steady customers. She's my closest neighbour. But I try not to think of her as a woman.'

'Try? What do you mean by "try", Mr Bengtsson?'

Allwright shook himself. He looked more distressed and unhappy than ever before in their six-day acquaintance. Which was not to say that he looked distressed or unhappy. Just a little less cheerful.

'Why don't you call him Folke? It sounds so damned formal.' 'I can't,' said Martin Beck.

It was true. He couldn't At the same time, he was glad he could be honest about it

'I see,' said Allwright 'Well then, there's nothing to discuss. Truth can be blamed, but it can't be shamed.'

Kollberg looked a bit startled.

'Local saying,' Allwright said, and laughed.

Folke Bengtsson didn't laugh.

'In any case, you know Sigbrit Mård. And sometimes you must think of her as a woman. I want to ask you a question, Mr Bengtsson, and I want an honest answer. What do you think of her? As a woman?'

Silence.

'Answer him,' Allwright said. 'Folke, you have to answer him. Be honest'

'Sometimes I see her as a woman. But not often.' 'And?' said Martin Beck. 'I think she's...' 'She's what?'

Folke Bengtsson and Martin Beck looked into each other's eyes. Bengtsson's were blue. Martin Beck's were greyish blue. He remembered that from before.

'Disgusting,' said Folke Bengtsson. 'Indecent. Like an animal.

She smells. But I see her often, and I've only thought that two or three times.'

Insane, Kollberg thought.

'Lay off, Martin.'

'That's what you wanted me to say? said Folke Bengtsson. 'Isn't it?' 'Did you deliver the eggs?' said Martin Beck. 'No. I knew she was gone.'

Gone.

They sat in silence for a while.

'You're tormenting me,' said Folke Bengtsson. 'But I don't dislike you. It's just your job. My job is selling fish and eggs.'

'Yes,' said Kollberg gloomily. ‘We've tormented you before, and now we're doing it again. I broke your shoulder once. Unnecessarily.'

'Oh, it mended quite fast. I'm completely recovered, really. Are you going to take me with you now?' Martin Beck had one last idea. 'Have you ever seen Sigbrit Mård's ex-husband?' *Yes. Twice. He drove up in a beige Volvo.' Allwright made a mysterious face but said nothing. 'Shall we call it "a day?' Kollberg said. Martin Beck stood up.