Cop Killer. Ларс Кеплер
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suddenly remembered a disconnected sentence from the general chorus of complaints about conditions in the country. ‘Sweden's a rotten country, but it's a very pretty rotten country.’ Someone had said that or written it, but he couldn't remember who.
Allwright went on talking.
‘The Anderslöv district is a bit unusual. When we're not pushing paper, we're mostly concerned with traffic. For example, we put fifty thousand miles a year on the patrol car. We've got about a thousand people in town and maybe ten thousand in the whole district. But we've got over fifteen miles of beach, and in the summer the population grows to over thirty thousand. So you can imagine how many buildings are standing empty at this time of year. Now so far I'm talking about people we know, and pretty much know where we can find them. But I'd estimate there's another five to six thousand people we don't have any check on at all, people who live in old houses or caravans and then move away and other people take their place.’
Martin Beck turned to look at an unusually pretty whitewashed church. Allwright followed his gaze.
‘Dalköpinge,’ he said. ‘If you're interested in picturesque churches, I can supply at least thirty of them. In the whole district, of course.’
They came to the coast road and turned east. The sea was calm and greyish-blue. Freighters stood along the horizon.
‘What I mean is, if Sigbrit's dead, there are several hundred places she might be. And if someone gave her a ride, Folke or someone else, then there's a pretty good chance she's not in this district at all. In that case, the possibilities are in the thousands.’
He looked out over the coastal landscape and said, ‘Magnificent, isn't it?’
He was clearly a man who was proud of his home.
And not without reason, Martin Beck thought.
They passed Smygehuk.
The green Fiat was following them faithfully.
‘Smygehamn,’ Allwright said. ‘In my day it was called East Torp.’
The villages lay close together. Beddingestrand. Skateholm. Fishing villages, partially converted to seaside resorts, but still pretty. No high-rises and no fancy hotels.
‘Skateholm,’ Allwright said. ‘This is where my territory ends. Now we're coming into the Ystad Division. I'll take you to Abbekås. This is Dybeck. Swampy and miserable. Worst part of the whole coast. Maybe she's out there in the mud. Okay, this is Abbekås.’
Allwright drove slowly through the village.
‘Yes, this is where she lived,’ he said. ‘The woman who got me to give up women. Do you want to have a look at the harbour?’
Martin Beck didn't bother to answer.
There was a little harbour with some benches for telling fish stories and a few old men in Vega caps. Three fishing boats. Stacks of herring boxes, and some nets hung up to dry.
They got out and sat down on separate bollards. Gulls screamed above the breakwater.
The green Fiat had stopped sixty feet away. The two men stayed in the front seat.
‘Do you know them?’ said Martin Beck.
‘No,’ said Allwright. ‘They're just boys. If they want anything, they can come over here and talk. Must be damned dull just sitting there staring.’
Martin Beck said nothing. He got older and older himself, while the reporters got younger and younger. Their relations grew worse and worse every year. Besides, the police weren't popular any more, assuming they ever had been. Personally, Martin Beck didn't feel he had to be ashamed of his job, but he knew a lot of men who were, and still more who really ought to be.
‘What was all that about me and women?’ Allwright asked.
‘It occurred to me that we know very little about Sigbrit Mård. We know what she looks like and where she works, and we know she has never made trouble. We know she's divorced and doesn't have any children. And that's about all. Have you considered the fact that she's at an age when a lot of women feel frustrated, especially if they don't have any children or family or any special interests? When they're approaching menopause and starting to feel old? They feel like their lives have gone wrong, their sex lives in particular, and they often do dumb things. They're attracted to younger men, they get involved in stupid affairs. And they often get taken, financially or emotionally.’
‘Thanks for the lecture,’ Allwright said.
He picked up a board from the ground and threw it in the water. The dog splashed in immediately to retrieve it.
‘Terrific,’ Allwright said. ‘Now he'll make an even worse mess in the back seat. And so you think maybe Sigbrit had a secret sex life or something.’
‘I think it's possible. I mean we have to look into her private life. As much as we can. I mean maybe, after all, there is a chance, just maybe, that she's simply run off with some man who's seven or eight years younger. Just run away from everything in order to be happy for a while. Even if it's only two weeks or a couple of months.’
‘Get herself good and laid,’ Allwright said.
‘Or get a chance to talk to someone she thinks she can relate to.’
Allwright put his head on one side and grinned.
‘That's one theory,’ he said. ‘But I don't believe it.’
‘Because it doesn't fit.’
‘Right. It doesn't fit at all. Do you have a plan? Or is that a presumptuous question?’
‘I'm planning to wait until Lennart gets here. And then I think it's time for an informal chat with Folke Bengtsson and Bertil Mård.’
‘I'd be happy to come along.’
‘I don't doubt it.’
Allwright laughed. Then he stood up, walked over to the green car, and rapped on the side window. The driver, a young man with a red beard, rolled it down and looked at him questioningly.
‘We're going back to Anderslöv now,’ Allwright said. ‘I'll be driving through Källstorp to pick up some eggs from my brother. But you can save your paper some money if you take the road through Skivarp.’
The Fiat followed them and supervised the egg pickup.
‘They clearly don't trust the police,’ Allwright said.
Otherwise nothing much happened that day, which was Friday, 2 November.
Martin Beck made his obligatory visit to Trelleborg and met the Commissioner and the Superintendent who was head of the criminal division. He envied the police chief his office, because it had a view of the harbour.
No one had anything to say about the case.
Sigbrit Mård had been missing for seventeen days, and all anyone knew was the gossip doing the rounds in Anderslöv.
On the other hand, gossip is often well-founded.
Where there's smoke there's fire.
That evening, he got a call from Kollberg, who said he hated driving and was planning to spend the night in Växjö.
‘And how are things in Anderstorp?’ he said.
‘The name is Anderslöv.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And it's very pleasant here, but the reporters are after us already.’
‘Put your uniform on, you'll get more respect.’
‘None of your wisecracks!’ said Martin Beck.
Then he called Rhea, but there was no answer.
He tried again an hour later and once more just before he went to bed.
This time she was home.
‘I've