5

      ‘To be perfectly honest, and I always am, Sigbrit's dead, and things look pretty damned bad for Folke,’ Allwright said. ‘I don't believe in coincidence.’

      ‘You said something about her husband?’

      ‘Yes, that's right. He's a ship's captain, but he drinks too much. Six years ago he got some mysterious liver disease, and they sent him home from Ecuador. They didn't fire him, but the doctors wouldn't give him a clean bill of health, so he couldn't ship out again. He came out here to live, and went on drinking, and then pretty soon they separated. Now he lives in Malmö.’

      ‘Do you have any contact with him?’

      ‘Yes. Unfortunately. Close physical contact, you might say. If you wanted to put it nicely. The fact is, she was the one who wanted the divorce. He was against it. Dead against it. But she got her way. They'd been married for a long time, but he'd been away at sea mostly. Came home once a year or so, and apparently that worked fine. But then when they tried to live together all the time, it was a complete disaster.’

      ‘And now?’

      ‘Now every time he gets well and truly plastered he comes out here to “talk it over”. But there's nothing to talk about, and he usually winds up giving her a real alarming.’

      ‘A what?’

      Allwright laughed.

      ‘An alarming,’ he said. ‘Local dialect. What do you call it in Stockholm? He warms her hide for her. “Domestic disturbance” in police jargon. What a lousy expression – “domestic disturbance”. Anyway, I've had to go out there twice. The first time, I talked some sense into him. But the second time wasn't so easy. I had to hit him and bring him in to our fancy jail. Sigbrit looked pretty miserable that time. Big black eyes, and some ugly marks on her throat.’

      Allwright poked at his lion-hunting hat.

      ‘I know Bertil Mård. He goes on binges, but I don't think he's as bad as he seems. And I think he loves Sigbrit. And so, of course, he's jealous. Though I don't think he has any real cause. I don't know anything about her sex life, supposing she has one. And if she does have one I ought to know about it. Around here, everyone pretty much knows everything about everybody. But I probably know most.’

      ‘What does Mård say himself?’

      ‘They questioned him in Malmö. He has a sort of alibi for the seventeenth. Claims he was in Copenhagen that day. Rode over on the train ferry, the Malmöhus, but…’

      ‘Do you know who questioned him?’

      ‘Yes. A Chief Inspector Månsson.’

      Martin Beck had known Per Månsson for years and had great confidence in him. He cleared his throat.

      ‘In other words, things don't look so good for Mård either.’

      Allwright scratched the dog for a while before answering.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘But he's in a hell of a lot better shape than Folke Bengtsson.’

      ‘If, in fact, anything has happened.’

      ‘She's disappeared. That's enough for me. No one who knows her can think of any reasonable explanation.’

      ‘What does she look like, by the way?’

      ‘What she looks like right now is something I'd rather not think about,’ said Allwright.

      ‘Aren't you jumping to a conclusion?’

      ‘Sure I am. But I'm only telling you what I think. Normally she looks like this.’

      He put his hand in his back pocket and took out two photographs – a passport photo and a folded colour enlargement.

      He glanced at the pictures before handing them over.

      ‘They're both good,’ he commented. ‘I'd say she was of normal appearance. She looks the way most people look. Pretty attractive, of course.’

      Martin Beck studied them for a long time. He doubted that Allwright was capable of seeing them with his eyes, which, of course, for that matter, was a technical impossibility.

      Sigbrit Mård was not pretty attractive. She was a rather plain and ungainly woman. But she undoubtedly did her best to improve her looks, which often produces unfortunate results. Her features were irregular, narrow, and sharp, and her face was hopelessly careworn. Unlike most such pictures these days, the passport photo had not been taken with a Polaroid or in an automatic booth. It was a typical studio portrait. She had taken great pains with her make-up and her hairdo, and the photographer had no doubt given her a whole page of proofs to choose among. The other one was an amateur photograph, but not a machine-made copy. It had been enlarged and retouched by hand, a full-length portrait. She was standing on a pier, and in the background was a white passenger liner with two funnels. She was gazing up at the sun unnaturally, holding a pose that she presumably thought did her justice. She was wearing a thin green sleeveless blouse and a blue pleated skirt. She was barelegged and had a large orange and yellow summer handbag over her right shoulder. On her feet she was wearing sandals with platform soles. She was holding her right foot slightly forward, the heel off the ground.

      ‘That one's recent,’ Allwright said. ‘Taken last summer.’

      ‘Who took it?’

      ‘A girlfriend. They went on a trip together.’

      ‘To Rügen apparently. That's the train ferry Sassnitz in the background, isn't it?’

      Allwright seemed vastly impressed.

      ‘Now how on earth did you know that?’ he said. ‘I've had duty in passport control when they were shorthanded, and even I can't tell those boats apart. But you're right. That is the Sassnitz, and they made an excursion to Rügen. You can go have a look at the chalk cliffs and stare at the Communists and that sort of thing. They're very ordinary looking. A lot of people are disappointed. The one-day cruise only costs a few kronor.’

      ‘Where did you get this picture?’

      ‘I took it out of her house when we went through it. She had it taped up on the wall. I suppose she thought it was pretty good.’

      He put his head on one side and peered at the photograph.

      ‘By