Cop Killer (18 page)

Martin Beck had a strong feeling that he would have to talk to Mård once more. At least.

He also thought about what Sigbrit Mård had had in her over-the-shoulder pocketbook. A singularly commonplace collection. Handkerchief, a tin box of aspirin, keys, some receipts, a comb, a ballpoint pen, a little bottle of saccharin tablets, a mirror, driver's licence, a coin purse with seventy-two kronor, and a make-up case containing powder, lipstick, mascara, eye shadow, and foundation cream. Plus a card of birth-control pills, one for each day of the week. She had taken the ones for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, but not for Thursday. On Thursday, of course, she was dead.

Did the pills necessarily mean anything? Of course not.

Sigbrit Mård had been thirty-eight years old and divorced. It was entirely possible that she went on taking the pill even though she had, in effect, stopped sleeping with men.

But all the same...

He thought about the calendar and the letters he had found in her house.

And there was a key on her key ring that didn't fit any of the locks he knew of.

There were bound to be things Mård hadn't told him. Martin Beck decided to go into Malmö and try to have another talk with him sometime when he'd be sober.

Friday morning sounded like a good time. Early, before he'd had even his first drink of the day.

If Martin Beck disliked the Sigbrit Mård case and the way it was developing, there was at least one other person who felt the same way.

Kollberg.

Lennart Kollberg bore his share of the investigation as if it had been a cross and the road to trial a veritable journey to Golgotha.

The sessions with Folke Bengtsson were becoming more and more fruitless. They had a terribly hard time talking to each other. The words seemed to vanish in the air between them, as if they lacked the buoyancy to make it across the table.

Kollberg maintained that Bengtsson was psychologically somewhat odd, or, to put it more bluntly, stark raving mad, but he also found the threads linking Bengtsson to Sigbrit Mård more fragile and the whole situation more abstract than did Martin Beck. Kollberg had never been as deeply involved in the Roseanna case, nor had he ever attempted to force his way into Bengtsson's head. At that time he was never in charge of the principal interrogation.

And now he had the feeling more and more that he was merely tormenting a man who might be innocent, and who didn't really understand what it was all about

Or perhaps he was tormenting himself. He would say something, and before it reached the other man, the words would dissolve and disperse in the air.

Kollberg often had business at police headquarters in Trelleborg and as he came out of the building on Friday the sixteenth, he ran into someone he knew.

Åke Boman.

'Hi,' Kollberg said.

'We probably shouldn't talk to each other,' Boman said. 'We might both lose our jobs.'

'I don't give a damn,' Kollberg said. 'Do you know a good place to eat?'

'Jonsson's tavern, The Three Hearts. You can really stuff yourself.'

'Then let me take you to lunch.' 'Or the other way around.'

'We'll take each other to lunch. Fine and dandy. I see the Christmas madness has already begun,' said Kollberg with a glance around.

Jonsson's tavern was excellent. It was exactly suited to Kollberg's intentions, i.e., to really stuff himself. 'Can you get a lot of food here?' 'Yes, you can eat till you burst. And it's good.' 'Fine.'

They sat down, and Kollberg appraised the menu carefully before he ordered.

'Don't you want a drink?' Boman said.

Kollberg looked at him. As usual, Boman had ordered mineral water.

‘Yes,' he said after a moment's hesitation. 'A big son of a bitch. Miss, bring me a double aquavit'

His relationship to Boman required at least a big meal, a drink, and a talk.

'I've often had the feeling we ought to have a little talk,' Boman said. 'Just a few words.'

'The same thing's occurred to me,' Kollberg said. 'Now especially.'

'You did save my life,' Boman said. 'The question is whether it was worth saving. I really did want to die that time. And many times since.'

'I didn't have any choice,' Kollberg said. 'The way it happened, there was nothing else to be done. What were those pills you took?' 'Vesparax.'

'Right I read somewhere that now they sell them only in suppository form. Very clever. As if people couldn't kill themselves through the arse.'

Boman smiled sadly.

'There's one question I want to ask you,' Kollberg said. 'What's that?'

'You were damned close to getting away with it. You were just about to get married, to a fine woman. What were you going to do? Live with it? Forget?'

'No,' said Boman. 'When I killed Alf, I ruined my life. I could have escaped unpunished, but I never could have lived with it. I know that now.'

'Boman,' said Kollberg.

'Call me Gunnarsson. It doesn't matter any more.'

'You're Åke Boman to me. I'll tell you something. I killed a man once too. Not many people know about it. If you want me to, I'll give you the details.'

Åke Boman shook his head.

'Okay. No details. I'd rather not, anyway. You know yourself how it feels. You can't live with it. Everything seems changed. You never get over it. And I didn't even get a reprimand. The Commissioner compared me to Charles the Twelfth.'

He laughed hollowly.

'The truth is I hate being a policeman. And I won't be for very much longer, I'm afraid. You can quote me. What saved me is a good wife and two fine kids.'

'I've considered something along those lines,' Boman said. 'But I don't really dare.'

The herring and potatoes arrived.

Kollberg dug into it.

Boman did not have the same size appetite, but he seemed to be inspired by his companion.

'Do you want my opinion?' Kollberg said. 'Yes and no.'

'Well here it is, free of charge. I think Bengtsson's insane, but I think he's innocent. Write that if you want to. I'm almost convinced.'

'Do you think we might be friends?' Boman said. 'We are already,' Kollberg said. He lifted his glass of aquavit 'Skoal!'

Boman took a drink of his mineral water. It was a long lunch. Kollberg had nothing more to drink, but they talked for a long time. About all sorts of things.

They sat there across the table from one another. A killer and a policeman who had killed. They understood each other. Maybe they would be friends. 'You saved my life,' Boman said. 'I suppose I did. What was I supposed to do?' 'I don't know.'

'If you want to, you can write every word I've said.' ‘You'll be in a mess if I do.'

'I don't give a damn,' Kollberg said. 'Take my word for it' He had a sudden feeling of freedom.

He ate an order of ice cream with chocolate sauce. Tm too damned fat,' Kollberg said. 'I don't think so.' 'You're too thin.'

'Maybe. I feel pretty good sometimes, in spite of everything.' 'In spite of everything,' Kollberg said.

'I've got a little flat near by,' Boman said. 'Do you want to come up for a while? It's only five minutes from here.' 'Okay,' Kollberg said. 'We'll both be fired,' Boman said. 'Who cares?' Kollberg said. Boman's flat was pleasant.

On the table next to the telephone was a framed photograph. He recognized it immediately.

An outdoor shot. Her head was thrown back, and she was laughing at the photographer; The wind tore at her ruffled blonde hair.

'Anne-Louise, right?'

'The best thing that ever happened to me. She's married now. Nice guy, I understand. Two kids. A boy and a girl. 'Shit' he said suddenly. They, talked for a couple of hours. About all sorts of things. Two men who had killed.

Nothing much had changed at Bertil Mård's. There was the same stink of booze and unwashed bedclothes. The same semi-darkness in the shabby little house. Mård was even wearing the same clothes he had worn the last time - a vest and an old pair of ship's captain's trousers.

The only innovation was an old paraffin stove that smoked and did nothing to improve the general atmosphere of squalor and decay. But in any case, Mård was sober. 'Good morning, Captain Mård,' said Martin Beck politely. 'Good morning,' Mård said.

He peered at his visitor, and the whites of his eyes were covered with an unhealthy, yellow film. But his brown gaze was raw and murderous.

'What do you want?'

'I'd like to talk to you for a little while.'

'I don't want to talk.'

Mård kicked the smoking paraffin stove.

'Maybe you can fix this thing for me,' he said. 'It doesn't work right, and at night it gets cold as a brass-monkey in here. I never was any good with machinery.'

Martin Beck inspected the heating device, which looked to be ancient It was years since he had seen anything like it In principle it seemed to be constructed like a primus stove.

'I think you ought to get yourself something newer and better,' he said.

'Maybe so,' said Mård absently. 'Well, what the hell do you want to talk about?'

Martin Beck didn't say anything right away. He sat down on one of the-chairs and almost expected a protest, but Mård only sighed heavily and sat down himself.

'Do you want a drink?'he said.

Martin Beck shook his head. The alcohol on offer was the same merchandise as the time before. Illegal Russian vodka of devastating potency. But there was only one bottle on the table, and it had not even been opened.

'No, that's right,' Mård said.

*Where do you get that stuff?' said Martin Beck with a glance at the bottle with its blue label.

'That's none of your business,' Mård said. 'No, I dare say it isn't'

'It's hard to live in a country where a fifth of whisky costs fifteen dollars,' said Mård philosophically.

'I suppose you've heard that we found your ex-wife?'

'Yes,' Mård said. "That information reached me.'

He unscrewed the cap of the bottle with a practised motion and threw it on the floor.

Poured out half a tumbler and stared at it for a long time, as if it had been a living being or a flame.

'The funny thing is, I don't want any either,' he said.

He took a small swig.

'And it hurts like hell,' he said. 'Can't even fucking drink yourself to death without it has to hurt. I suppose that's the drinker's curse.'

'So you know about Sigbrit?'

'Yes. Not that anyone exactly bothered to inform me. But the

women at the pub read the papers, thank God.'

'Are you sorry?' asked Martin Beck.

'What?'   f

'Are you sorry? Are you in mourning?' Mård shook his head slowly.

'No,' he said finally. 'You can't mourn something you haven't had for such a long time. But...'

‘Yes?'

'But it does seem funny that she's not there any more. I never thought Sigbrit would kick off before I did. And I know someone else who didn't think so either.'

'Who's that?'

'Sigbrit herself. She's been acting pretty much as if I were dead for a long time now.'

Mård banged his meaty right hand on the table, but the gesture didn't seem to mean very much.

'When did that start?'

'The minute I stopped giving her money.'

Martin Beck said nothing.

'But there's a lot of life in me yet,' Mård said. 'I think this is going to take several years.'

He stared darkly at Martin Beck.  

'Several years,' he repeated. 'God knows how many. In this hellhole.'

He drank down his vodka in a sort of rage.

'The welfare state,' he said. 'I heard about it all over the world. And then when you see this shit country, you wonder how in hell they've managed to spread all those lies and propaganda.'

He refilled his glass.

Martin Beck didn't know exactly what he ought to do. He wanted Mård reasonably sober, but he also wanted him in a fairly good mood.

'Don't drink so damn much,' he said experimentally. ‘What?'

Mård looked perplexed.

‘What the fuck did you say? Here in my own house?'

'I said you shouldn't drink so damn much. It's a hell of a good piece of advice. Besides, I want to talk to you, and I want some sensible answers.'

'Sensible answers? How's a person supposed to be sensible in the midst of all this shit? Anyway, do you think I'm the only one sitting around drinking himself to death in this wonderful welfare state?'

Martin Beck knew only too well that Mård was not alone in his dilemma. For a large part of the population, alcohol and drugs seemed to be the only way out. This applied to the young as well as the old.

'You ought to see the old men at my so-called pub. The hell of it is, not one of them has any fun drinking. No, it's about as much fun as turning on the gas for a while, and then turning it off again when you're groggy enough. And then open it up again when you start to come around.'

Mård stared heavily at his dirty glass. . 'I've had some damn good times drinking. In the old days. That's the difference. That was in the old days. We used to have a hell of a time. But not here. Other places.'

'In Trinidad-Tobago, for example?'

Mård seemed utterly unaffected.

'Well,' he said. 'So you managed to dig that up. Well done. I'll be damned. I didn't think you were up to it'

'Oh, we usually find out a lot of things,' said Martin Beck. 'Most things, as a matter of fact.'

'Well you wouldn't fucking believe it to see the cops around town. I often wonder why you use human beings at all. Over at Tivoli in Copenhagen they've got a mechanical man who pulls a gun and fires when you put in a coin. They ought to be able to fix him up so he'd lift the other arm too and hit you with a truncheon. And they could put in a tape recorder that says, "All right, what's going on here?'"

Martin Beck laughed.

'It's an idea,' he said.

What he was really laughing at was the thought of how the National Commissioner would react to Bertil Mård's proposed reorganization of the force.

But he kept that to himself.

'I was lucky,' Bertil Mård said. 'Kill some son of a bitch and get a four-pound fine. In a lot of places, I might have been hanged.' 'Maybe.'