Cop Killer (14 page)

It was only in Anderslöv that no one had seen her.

Seven callers had seen her with Folke Bengtsson, in the most unlikely places, but not one of them could describe what she had been wearing. In other words, the police had not released this information, and every newspaper that had its own reporters on the case published completely misleading and mutually contradictory details of her attire, which ranged from red trousers and a white parka to a black dress, black stockings, and black shoes. And indeed this latter paper referred to her as 'the woman in black'.

But everyone agreed on the description of Folke Bengtsson. Actually, only the more unrestrained newspapers named him by name and proffered newly taken photographs. For the others, he was 'the man in the cap' or 'the sex murderer turned herring monger'.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, Martin Beck was sitting in Allwright's flat with a headache. He had just stirred up a great commotion by going to the chemist's for aspirin, and he could already see tomorrow's headlines in his mind's eye. HEADACHE IN ANDERSLÖV, for example. He had also been on the verge of going to the shop for a pint of whisky, but had refrained because of the comments such an act would undoubtedly call forth.

HANGOVER IN ANDERSLÖV?

And now the telephone rang. The infernal telephone.

With which he couldn't seem to manage to reach Rhea, not this morning and not the night before either.

'Allwright? ... What?... No, I haven't seen him all afternoon.'

The police inspector in Anderslöv was not unfamiliar with the administration of an occasional white lie.

But this time it didn't work.

'Excuse me?... Who?... Yes, just a moment, I'll see if I can find him.'

Allwright covered the receiver with his hand.

'It's a Superintendent Malm from the National Police Administration. Do you want to talk to him?'

Lord Jesus, thought Martin Beck, although he was not a religious man.

Malm was to him what the red flag is said to be to the bull.

'Okay,' he said. ‘I’ll take it.'

What else was a poor civil servant to do?

'Yes, Beck here.'

'Hi, Martin. How's it going?'

How's it going?

'For the time being, very badly.' Malm instantly changed his tone.

'I'll tell you something, Martin. This is turning into an outright scandal. I was just talking to the Commissioner.'

They were probably sitting in the same room. The National Police Commissioner was known for not liking to talk to people who were capable of asking questions or talking back.

He especially disliked talking to Martin Beck, who had acquired a little too much prestige over the years.

In addition, the Commissioner suffered from acute paranoia. For a long time now, he had been convinced that the increasing unpopularity of the police force and its continuing stagnation were a result of the fact that 'certain elements' did not like the National Police Commissioner personally. He now had the idea that such elements existed even within the police force itself.

'Have you arrested the murderer?'

'No.'

'But the whole force is becoming a laughing-stock.' How true.

'Our ablest detectives are in charge of the case. And nothing happens. The murderer strolls around giving interviews, while the police fawn all over him. The papers even have pictures of the place where the body is buried.'

What Malm knew about the case was what he had read in the tabloids, just as surely as what he knew about practical police work was what he had seen in the movies.

'What?' said Malm. 'Oh yes. I can tell you that no effort has

been spared from our side. We consider you to be our ablest homicide detective since Herbert Söderström.'

'Herbert Söderström?'

'Yes, or whatever his name was.'

Malm was presumably referring to Harry Söderman, a famous Swedish criminologist who ended his days as the Chief of Police in Tangier and who once offered to shoot Hitler in an attempt to put a stop to World War II.  .

There was more whispering in the background, and Malm mumbled something with his mouth turned away from the receiver. And then he was back, as shrill as ever.

'The police look ridiculous. The murderer is telling his life story in the newspapers. The next thing we know he'll be writing a book about how he tricked the Murder Squad. We've got enough troubles as it is.'

At least the last part was true. The police did have troubles.

By and large, the difficulties began in 1965, when the police force was nationalized. Since then, it had begun to develop into a state within the state, and to become less and less popular with private citizens. During these eight years of national administration, the resources of the police force had increased several times over, which meant that the police had more power than ever before in Sweden's history. It also meant that Sweden maintained the most expensive constabulary in the world. On a per capita basis, the Swedish police force cost the taxpayers $65 per person per year. The corresponding figure in the United States was $25. Compared with the other Scandinavian countries, the disparity was grotesque. In Norway and Denmark, what's more, the police were comparatively popular.

Nevertheless, the crime rate continued to climb, and violence steadily increased. There seemed to be no one within the police administration capable of grasping the simple truth that violence breeds violence and that, in fact, it was the police who had struck the first blow.

To this extent, then, Malm was right People were beginning to get fed up. They had a hard time understanding why a Swedish policeman should cost the individual taxpayer more than three times as much as a policeman in neighbouring Finland.

'Are you there?' Malm said.

'Yes, I'm here.'

'You've got to arrest this man Bengtsson and get him under lock and key.'

'There's no evidence against him.' 'We'll attend to that detail later.' 'I'm not so sure,' said Martin Beck.

'Come now. If we forget that unfortunate business on Bergsgatan a year ago, why, your record of successful investigations is remarkable. Besides, it looks like an open-and-shut case.'

Martin Beck smiled to himself. He had solved the murder on Bergsgatan, but an otherwise unsatisfactory investigation had led to the criminal's being convicted of another murder instead, a murder which he had not, in fact, committed. For Martin Beck's part, the whole affair had meant that he was excused from applying for a Divisional Commander's post that he had not wanted in the least. Stig Malm now had that post instead.

'Is he laughing?'

The voice was clearly audible. The potentate behind Malm's back was apparently losing his temper - not a rare event 'Are you laughing?' Malm asked.

'Not at all,' said Martin Beck innocently. 'There's a funny noise on the line. You don't suppose your phone's being tapped?'

Another touchy subject that was better left alone.

And sure enough, Malm was annoyed.

'This is no time for jokes,' he said. 'This is a time for action. Immediate action.'

Martin Beck didn't answer, and Malm grew more conciliatory.

'If you need reinforcements, Martin, you know we can help you at a moment's notice. Our new concentration strategy means...'

Martin Beck knew what the new concentration strategy meant. It meant that thirty busloads of policemen could be crowded into the village in less than an hour. It also meant automatic weapons, sharpshooters, tear gas bombs, helicopters, armoured shields, and bulletproof vests.

'No,' he said. 'Reinforcements are the last thing I need.'

'You'll be arresting this man today, I suppose?'

'No, I hadn't thought I would.'

There was a muffled conference on the other end of the line. 'You're aware of the fact,' said Malm finally, 'that pressure can be brought to bear in other ways.' Martin Beck didn't answer. 'If you choose to be awkward.'

He was all too well aware of what could be done. The Commissioner had only to call the Public Prosecutor. He might not even have to make the call himself. Malm could probably do it.

'I don't think arresting Bengtsson is warranted at the moment,' said Martin Beck.

'We have to put a stop to these newspaper stories.' 'Our evidence is too feeble.'

'Evidence!' said Malm contemptuously. "This isn't a Sherlock Holmes movie.'

It could well be that Malm had seen an occasional Sherlock Holmes movie on television. On the other hand, there was no reason to suppose he knew anything of the literary background.

'Well?' Malm said. 'Are you going to arrest the murderer or not?'

'I thought I'd try to find out what's happened to this woman instead. If there is a murderer, I hope we'll be able to link him to the crime.'

'It looks like we're going to have to help you get started.' 'I'd rather you didn't, thanks.'

A door slammed in the room up in Stockholm. Martin Beck heard it clearly.

‘I’m not the one who makes the decisions,' said Malm apologetically. 'And it really would look better for you if you'd get Bengtsson into custody.'

‘I’m not planning on it'

'Right away, at once,' Malm said. 'Before..."

'And definitely not right away.'

'Well, in that case you've only yourself to blame,' said Malm evenly. 'And as for evidence, I'm sure you'll find what you need. Good luck.'

'The same to you,' said Martin Beck.

"With that the conversation came to a close.

The process of going through channels in the so-called judicial system was usually tedious and troublesome and involved all sorts of paperwork and bureaucratic red tape.

But sometimes none of that seemed to exist. Someone picked up a telephone and said, This is the way it's going to be. And that was that

The message came less than half an hour after Martin Beck's conversation with Malm.

Folke Bengtsson was to be taken into custody immediately.

Kollberg, who for some time had been trying to solve a chess problem in the Sunday paper, threw down his ballpoint pen.

Tm not coming,' he said.

‘You're excused,' said Martin Beck.

He and Allwright drove out to Folke Bengtsson's house in the patrol car. Several reporters followed them, and still more were already in position at Bengtsson's place. In addition, a number of complete outsiders had taken the trouble to drive out for a look.

There wasn't much to see.

Dusk and a small cottage with a wooden hen house and a corrugated-iron garage. And a man calmly shovelling beet leaves on to his compost heap.

Folke Bengtsson was wearing exactly the same clothes he had on when they were there before.

He didn't seem surprised to see them, nor frightened, nor upset, nor angry. He seemed the same as always.

It was an almost ridiculous repetition. Allwright rummaged around in the back seat and pulled out the Co-op bag with his shoes.

Martin Beck noticed that there was something else in the bag. But what?

He thought about it hard for a few seconds.

'Herrgott?' he said.

'Yes?'

'Have you got a torch in that plastic bag?'

'I certainly do,' said Allwright 'You need one living in the country. When there's no moon, you can't see your hand in front of your face.'

Bengtsson put down his spade and walked over to meet them. 'Hi, Folke,' Allwright said. 'Hi,' said Folke Bengtsson.

'You're going to have to come along with us now. It's time.' 'I see.'

But he wasn't completely impassive, for he looked around in the failing light and said, 'Awful lot of people here.' 'Yes, it's bad,' Allwright said. 'Shall we go inside?'

‘Yes, okay.'

'There's no rush. You can change your clothes and get a few things together. Whatever you need. I can lend you a carrier bag if you need one.'

'Thanks, but I've got a briefcase.'

Allwright changed into his shoes.

'Take your time,' he said. 'Martin and I can sit here and have a little game of rock-paper-scissors.'

Martin Beck was not familiar with this noble game, which requires no equipment but the human hand.

It took him thirty seconds to learn it

Two fingers is a scissors. An open palm is paper. A fist is rock. Scissors cuts paper. Paper covers rock. Rock breaks scissors.

'Eleven to three, my favour’ said Allwright a little while later. 'You're too quick with your hands. That's why you're losing. You have to do it at exactly the same time I do.'

And you think too fast, thought Martin Beck.

But, for that matter, he always lost. At all games from chess to old maid.

Another few minutes and Folke Bengtsson was ready to go. For the first time, he looked a little uneasy. 'What's the trouble, Folke?' Allwright said. 'Someone has to feed the fish. And take care of the chickens. The aquarium has to be cleaned out now and then.' 'I'll take care of it,' Allwright said. ‘Word of honour.' He smiled uncomfortably.

"There's another thing, Folke, that you're probably not going to like. Some people are going to come out here tomorrow and dig up your garden.'

'Why?'

'Well, I expect they'll be looking for the body.' 'It's a shame about the asters,' said Folke Bengtsson laconically.

"We'll try to be careful. Don't worry about it too much.'

'I suppose you'll be the one to question me, Superintendent?'

'Yes,' said Martin Beck. 'But not today. Probably not tomorrow either. Unless Trelleborg wants to get started right away. But I don't think they will.'

'Okey-dokey,' Allwright said. 'We'll drive in to my place in Anderslöv for starters. We can have a sandwich and a cup of tea. Unless you'd rather have coffee.'

'Yes, I would, thank you.'

‘We can get some at the cafeteria. They've got hot cinnamon rolls there too. Are you ready?'

'Yes.'

Folke Bengtsson seemed to hesitate.

'What'll we do about the eggs?' he said.

'I'll take care of it,' Allwright said.

'Word of honour again,' he said with a laugh.

'Good,' Bengtsson said. 'You're a good person, Herrgott'

Allwright looked happily surprised.

'We do our best,' he said.