Cop Killer. Ларс Кеплер
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yellow-brick building.
‘Police station,’ he said. ‘Of course it's closed at the moment. But I can open up if you like.’
‘Not for my sake.’
‘The inn's right around the corner. The garden we just drove by belongs to it. But the restaurant isn't open at this hour. If you want, we can go to my place and have a sandwich and a beer.’
Martin Beck wasn't hungry. The flight down had taken away his appetite. He declined politely. And then he said:
‘Is it a long way to the beach?’
The other man didn't seem to be surprised by the question. Perhaps Allwright was not a man to be easily surprised.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I wouldn't say that.’
‘How long would it take to drive there?’
‘About fifteen minutes. Tops.’
‘Would you mind?’
‘Not a bit.’
Allwright swung the car on to what looked to be the high street.
‘This is the town's big attraction,’ he said. ‘The Main Road. Main with a capital M. Formerly the main road from Malmö to Ystad. When we turn off to the right, you will be south of the Main Road. And then you'll really be in Skåne.’
The side road was winding, but Allwright drove it with the same easy confidence. They passed farms and white churches.
Ten minutes later they could smell the sea. A few minutes more and they were at the beach.
‘Do you want me to stop?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘If you want to go wading, I've got an extra pair of wellies in the boot,’ Allwright said, and chuckled.
‘Thanks, I'd like to.’
Martin Beck pulled on the boots. They were a little too tight, but he wasn't planning any lengthy excursions.
‘Where are we now, exactly?’
‘In Böste. Those lights to the right are Trelleborg. The light-house on the left is Smygehuk. Further than that you can't get.’
Smygehuk was Sweden's southernmost point.
To judge by the lights and the reflection in the sky, Trelleborg must be a large city. A big brightly lit passenger ship was headed for the harbour – probably the train ferry from Sassnitz in East Germany.
The Baltic was heaving listlessly against the shore. The water disappeared down into the fine-grained sand with a soft hiss.
Martin Beck stepped on the swaying rampart of seaweed and then took a couple of steps out into the water. It felt pleasantly cool through the leg of the boot.
He bent forward, cupped his hands and filled them. Rinsed his face and drew the cold water in through his nose. It tasted fresh and salty.
The air was damp. It smelled of seaweed, fish, and tar.
Several yards away he could see nets hung up to dry and the outlines of a fishing boat.
What was it Kollberg always said?
The best part of Murder was that it got you out of the city now and then.
Martin Beck lifted his head and listened. All he could hear was the sea.
After a while he walked back to the car. Allwright was leaning against the bonnet, smoking. Martin Beck nodded.
He would study the case in the morning.
He didn't expect much of it. These things were usually just routine. The same old stories over and over again, usually tragic and depressing.
The breeze from the sea was mild and cool.
A freighter ploughed by along the dark horizon. Westward. He could see the green starboard lantern and some lights amidships.
He longed to be aboard.
Martin Beck was wide awake as soon as he opened his eyes. The room was spartan but pleasant. There were two beds, and a window facing north. The beds were parallel, three feet apart. His suitcase lay on one of them and he on the other. On the floor was the book of which he had read half a page and two picture captions before he fell asleep. It was a book in the series ‘Famous Passenger Liners of the Past’, and its title was The Turboelectric Quadruplescrew Liner: Normandie.
He looked at the clock. Seven-thirty. Scattered sounds came from outside – cars and voices. Somewhere in the building a toilet flushed. Something was different. He identified it right away. He had been sleeping in pyjamas, which he now only did when he was travelling.
Martin Beck got up, walked over to the window, and looked out. The weather looked fine. The sun was shining on the lawn behind the inn.
He washed and dressed quickly and went downstairs. For a moment he considered having breakfast, but he dismissed the thought. He had never liked eating in the morning, especially not as a child when his mother had forced cocoa and three sandwiches down his throat before he left home. He had often thrown up on his way to school.
Instead of breakfast, he located a one-krona piece in his trouser pocket and stuffed it into the slot machine that stood to the right of the entrance. Pulled the handle, got three cherries, and pocketed his winnings. Then he left the building, walked diagonally across the cobblestone square, past the state alcohol shop, which wasn't open yet, rounded two corners, and found himself at the police station. The volunteer fire department was apparently housed next door, for a fire engine had been backed up in front of the building. He practically had to crawl under the revolving ladder stage in order to get by. A man in greasy overalls was fixing something on the fire engine.
‘Hi, how are ya?’ he said cheerfully, and in defiance of all rules of Swedish formality.
Martin Beck was startled. This was clearly an unconventional town.
‘Hi,’ he said.
The police station door was locked, and taped to the glass was a piece of cardboard on which someone had written in ballpoint pen:
Office Hours
Weekdays 8.30 a.m. – 12 noon 1.00 p.m. – 2.30 p.m.
Thursdays also 6 p.m. – 7 p.m.
Closed Saturdays
Sundays were not mentioned. Crime had probably been discontinued on Sundays, perhaps even forbidden.
Martin Beck stared at the sign thoughtfully. To anyone coming from Stockholm, it was hard to imagine things could ever be like this.
Maybe he ought to have some breakfast after all.
‘Herrgott will be right back,’ said the man in overalls. ‘He went out with the dog ten minutes ago.’
Martin Beck nodded.
‘Are you the famous detective?’
It was a difficult question, and he didn't answer right away.
The man went on working with something on the fire engine.
‘No offence,’ he said, without turning his head. ‘But I heard there was supposed to be some famous cop at the inn. And then I didn't recognize you.’
‘Yes, I suppose that must be me,’ said Martin Beck uncertainly.
‘So that means Folke's going to jail.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘Oh, everyone knows that.’
‘Really?’