Cop Killer. Ларс Кеплер
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he said. ‘But that's impossible.’
‘It is?’
‘Well, sir, I can't stand in front of the house and behind it at the same time, after all. It can't be done. You…Sir, you're not going to report me for this?’
Martin Beck shook his head. He crossed the street, wondering where the police force managed to find all these odd young men.
‘It's the right house, anyway,’ the boy said, following him. ‘I went over three times to check it out. It says Mård on the door.’
‘And it didn't change?’
‘No, sir. Shall I go in with you? I mean, I have a gun and everything if we need it. And I've got my radio stuffed in my shirt – so no one could see it, I mean.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Martin Beck, putting his finger on the bell.
Bertil Mård opened the door almost before the bell had had a chance to ring.
He too was wearing the trousers to a uniform, black ones, plus a vest and wooden clogs. The stink of last night's booze surrounded him like a wall, but it was mixed with the odour of aftershave, and in one of his huge hands he was holding a bottle of Florida Water and an open straight razor, which he waved in the direction of the recruit.
‘Who the hell is this damn clown,’ he yelled, ‘who's been standing here staring at the house for two hours?’
‘That's insulting an officer of the law,’ the recruit said cockily.
‘I lay eyes on you one more time, you little plainclothes bastard, and I'll cut your ears off,’ Mård bellowed.
‘And that's threatening an officer …’
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