Cop Killer (32 page)

'Hi, Benny, it's me again. Finish your report?'

'No, not quite. What was it you wanted to talk about?'

'That Volvo that Casparsson stole in Vellinge,' Kollberg said. 'Have you got the theft report handy?'

'I've got it right here in my drawer,' Skacke said. 'Wait a minute.'

He didn't put the receiver down this time, and it took him only thirty seconds to find the form.

'Yes,' he said. 'Here it is.'

'Good,' Kollberg said. 'What's the owner's name?'

It seemed like an eternity before Benny Skacke answered.

'Clark Evert Sundström.'

That's the right answer, Kollberg thought . He was not the least bit surprised, but felt the familiar thrill of satisfaction at having deduced correctly. Plus, maybe, a quiver of something that was more deeply rooted in human nature - the hunting instinct, the scent of prey.

That is something of the red fox still within you - and something of the hare, he thought. Ekelöf. Later, when I've got the time, I’ll try to remember the whole thing. It's a marvellous poem.

'Lennart?'

‘Yes, I heard you. Clark Evert Sundström. But he wasn't the one who reported it missing, was he?'

'No, that was his wife. Her name is Cecilia Sundström.'

'Weren't you out at their place in Vellinge?'

'Yes, they've got a house out there. The car was in the garage, which is open towards the front yard. And there aren't any doors, so Caspar could see it from the road.'

'Did you meet both of the Sundströms when you were there?' Kollberg asked.

'Yes, but I mostly talked to her. He didn't say much.'

'What did he look like?'

'In his fifties. Five feet seven, I'd guess. Thin - not wiry, but rather as if he'd been sick. Blond hair, starting to go grey. Or white, almost. He was wearing glasses with dark rims.'

'What does he do?'

'Manufacturer.'

'What kind of manufacturer?'

'I don't know,' Skacke said. 'That's what his wife listed as his occupation when she made the report'

'Did he give you any reason why he hadn't reported it earlier?'

‘No, but his wife told me she wanted to go to the police on Monday morning, but that he'd said the car would turn up and they should wait and see.'

'Can you remember anything else that was said? Did they talk to each other at all?'

'Well, it was mostly about the car. I asked them if they'd seen or heard anything that Sunday morning, but they hadn't I really only talked to the wife. She let me in, and then we stood in the hall. He just came out for a minute and said all he knew was that the car was gone when he went outside sometime around noon.'

Kollberg looked at the curlicues on his scratch pad. He had tried to draw some sort of a map of Skåne, with little dots for Vellinge, Anderslöv, Malmö, and Trelleborg.

'I got the impression he worked in Trelleborg,' said Skacke uncertainly. 'I think his wife said something about it'

Kollberg drew a line between Anderslöv and Trelleborg, and another from Trelleborg to Vellinge.

.He made a triangle, with its apex at Trelleborg, and its long base the line from Vellinge to Anderslöv in the north.

'Good, Benny,' Kollberg said. 'Excellent.'

'Have you found the car?' Skacke said. 'I heard he got away. Caspar, I mean.'

'Yes, he did,' said Kollberg dryly. 'And I think we've found the car. Have you spoken to Martin lately?'

No,' said Skacke. 'It's been a while. But he's still in Anderslöv, isn't he?'

'Right,' said Kollberg. 'And as soon as I hang up, I want you to call Martin and tell him everything you've just told me. About this Clark Evert Sundström and what he looked like and all that And then tell him he can call Hjelm at the Crime Lab and find out if he's got the car yet Do it now, right away.'

'Okay,' Skacke said. 'What's the story on this guy Sundström? Has he done something?'

'We'll see,' Kollberg said. *You just talk to Martin. He'll make the decisions. Got that? And then finish your report. And if anything comes up, I'll be right here in my office. I've got a kind of report to write myself, as it happens. Say hello to Martin for me. So long.'

'Goodbye.'

Kollberg made no further calls. He pushed the phone to one side and put away the scratch pad with the inverted triangle and the wavy lines depicting Skåne.

Then he pulled over the typewriter, rolled in a piece of paper, and wrote:

Stockholm

27 November 1973

To: National Police Administration

Subject: Resignation

Lennart Kollberg typed slowly, with two fingers. He knew that this letter, which he had thought about for such a long time, had to be considered a formal document, but he didn't want to make it too long-winded. And as far as possible, he tried to keep the tone of it informal.

After long and careful consideration, I have decided to leave the police force. My reasons are of a personal nature, and yet I would like to try and explain them briefly. Right at the outset, I feel compelled to point out that my decision is in no way a political action, even though many people will see it in that light. Unquestionably, the police establishment has been increasingly politicized over the last few years, and the police force itself has been exploited for political purposes more and more often. I have observed these developments with considerable alarm, even though I, personally, have managed to avoid coming into contact with this aspect of police activity almost completely.

Nevertheless, during the twenty-seven years that I have served on the force, its activities, structure, and organization have altered in a manner that has convinced me that I amno longer suited to being a policeman - assuming that I ever was. Above all, I find that I cannot feel any sense of solidarity with the kind of organization the police department has become. Consequently, it seems to me that my own best interests and those of the department would be best served by my resignation.

The question of whether or not the individual policeman should be armed has long struck me as an especially important one. For many years, I have held to the opinion that, under normal circumstances, policemen should not be armed. This applies to uniformed as well as plainclothes officers.

The great increase in the number of violent crimes over the last decade is, in my opinion, largely due to the fact that policemen invariably carry firearms. It is a known fact, and can be demonstrated with statistics from many other countries, that the incidence of violent crime immediately increases when the police force sets, as it were, a bad example. The events of recent months make it seem more obvious than ever that we can expect our situation to deteriorate even further with regard to violence. This is especially true of Stockholm and other large cities.

The Police Academy devotes far too little time to providing instruction in psychology. As a result, policemen lack what is perhaps the most important prerequisite for success in their profession.

The fact that we nevertheless have so-called police psychologists, who are sent out in difficult situations to try and bring the animal to reason, seems to me to be nothing but an admission of defeat For psychology cannot be used to camouflage violence. To my way of thinking, this must be one of the simplest and most obvious tenets of the science of psychology.

I would like to emphasize in this connection that for many years I myself have never carried a gun. This has often been a direct violation of orders, but I have never had the feeling that it hampered me in the execution of my duties. Oh the contrary, being forced to carry arms might have had a strong inhibiting effect, it could have caused accidents, and it could well have led to even poorer contact with individuals outside the police force.

What I am trying to say, essentially, is that I cannot continue to be a policeman. It is possible that every society has the police force it deserves, but that is not a thesis I intend to try and develop, at least not here and now.

I find myself confronted with a/ait accompli. When I joined the police department, I could not have imagined that this profession would undergo the transformation or take on the direction that it has.

After twenty-seven years of service, I find that I am so ashamed of my profession that my conscience will no longer permit me to practise it.

Kollberg rolled the paper up an inch or two and read what he had written. Once he had started, he had the feeling he could have gone on indefinitely.

But this would have to do.

He added two more lines:

I therefore request that this resignation be accepted effective immediately.

Sten Lennart Kollberg.

He folded the sheets of paper and stuffed them into an official plain brown envelope. Wrote the address. Threw the letter into his Out basket Then he stood up and looked around the room. Closed the door behind him and went Home.

The cabin in the Haninge woods near Dalarö was a good hideout. It was so isolated that no one was likely to come upon it by accident, and it was fitted out in a way that showed Lindberg The Breadman had no illusions. There was food and drink, weapons and ammunition, fuel and clothing, cigarettes and piles of old magazines - in short, everything that might be needed for a lengthy period of seclusion. It might even be possible to withstand a not overly ambitious siege. Hopefully, of course, nothing of that kind would occur.

When the police stormed the flat at Midsommarkransen, Caspar and The Breadman had escaped almost too easily. This cabin, on the other hand, was their very last resort

If they were trapped out here, there were by and large only two choices - to surrender or to fight

The third possibility - another escape - was not even worth considering. For it would be a solitary flight, on foot, and straight out into the forest. The rapidly approaching winter made this prospect less than inviting, especially since it would entail leaving a large stash of valuable stolen goods behind.

The Breadman was no great luminary in the criminal sky, and his plans were of the simplest possible nature. He had buried valuables and money in and around the cabin. Now he could hope only that the police manhunt would quieten down enough for the two of them to venture back into Stockholm. Once there, they could quickly convert their goods into cash, buy false papers, and flee the country.

Ronnie Casparsson had no plans at all. He knew only that the police were hunting him with every means at their disposal for a crime he had not actually committed. As long as he stuck with The Breadman, at least he wasn't alone. Besides, The Breadman took an optimistic and uncomplicated view of life. When he said their chances of getting away were good, he honestly meant it, and Caspar believed him. The reason Lindberg had not retired to the cabin earlier was simply that he didn't want to be alone.

Now there were two of them, which immediately made everything more cheerful.

For Caspar, there was really only one serious problem, namely, that The Breadman always got caught. But they both reasoned that sooner or later the wind had to change and that all they needed was a little luck. Over the past few years, quite a few habitual criminals had succeeded in getting out of the country after successful jobs and had managed to disappear somewhere in Western civilization with their money and their health intact.

The cabin had a number of advantages. It lay in the middle of a clearing with an uninterrupted view in all directions. There were only two outbuildings - an outdoor toilet and an old ramshackle barn where they had hidden The Breadman's car.

The cabin itself was in good condition. It was an ordinary Swedish crofter's cottage with three windows in front, one in the back, and one on either side. The lower floor consisted of one main room with a kitchen and a bedroom opening off of it. There was only one road to the cabin, and it led directly into the front yard and up towards the little porch in the middle, of the house.

The very first day, The Breadman carefully inspected their weapons. They had two Army model submachine guns and three automatic pistols of varying make and calibre. They also had plenty of ammunition, including two whole boxes for the tommy guns.

"The way the police are these days,' said The Breadman, 'there's only one thing to do in the unlikely event they find us arid surround us out here.'

'What?'

'Shoot our way out, of course. If we hit a cop or two, it won't change our situation one little bit. It'll be hard for them to get us unless they set fire to the house. And if they try tear gas, I've got some gas masks over there in the boot.'

'I don't even know how one of these things works,' said Caspar, picking up one of the submachine guns.

'It takes about ten minutes to learn,' The Breadman said.

He was right. A quick ten-minute course was all he needed. They tested all their weapons the next morning with excellent results. The house was so isolated they didn't even have to worry about the noise.

'So now there's nothing to do but wait,' The Breadman said. 'If they come, we'll give them a warm welcome. But I don't think they will. Where shall we celebrate Christmas? On the Canary Islands or somewhere in Africa?'

Ronnie Casparsson had never thought as far ahead as Christmas, and didn't do so now. Christmas was still several weeks away. But he did think about what it would be like to shoot at someone. It was hard to imagine that it would be difficult or strange to put a couple of bullets into one of those bloodthirsty sons of bitches.

From what he'd seen of the police in raids and street fights, it was hard to think of them as human or even as distinct individuals. They listened to the radio constantly, but it didn't have much

to tell them that was new. The hunt for the cop killer continued with unabated energy. It was now known for certain that he was in Stockholm, and the tactical command considered an arrest imminent

It was a completely unpredictable factor that did them in. Maggie.

If Maggie hadn't been injured, she would have been no danger to them whatsoever, for she was a good loyal friend, who knew how to keep her mouth shut