Cop Killer

Allwright threw a glance at the patrol car, which remained in position with its engine idling.

‘This isn't my district,’ he said with a grin. ‘They're from Malmö. We'd better go before we get arrested.’

The man obviously had a ready laugh, which, moreover, was soft and infectious.

But still Martin Beck wouldn't smile. Partly because there wasn't all that much to smile at, and partly because he was trying to form an opinion of the other man – sketch out a sort of preliminary description.

Allwright was a short, bow-legged man – short, that is, for the police service. With his green rubber boots, his greyish-brown twill suit, and the sun-bleached safari hat on the back of his head, he looked like a farmer, or, at any rate, like a man with his own territory. His face was sunburned and weatherbitten, and there were laugh lines around the corners of his lively brown eyes. And yet he was representative of a certain category of rural policeman. A type of man who didn't fit in with the new conformist style and was therefore on his way to dying out, but was not yet completely extinct.

He was probably older than Martin Beck, but he had the advantage of working in calmer and healthier surroundings, which is not to say that they were calm and healthy, by any means.

‘I've been here almost twenty-five years. But this is a first for me. The National Murder Squad, from Stockholm, on a case like this.’

Allwright shook his head.

‘I'm sure everything will work out fine,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Or else…’

He finished the sentence silently to himself: Or else it won't work out at all.

‘Exactly,’ Allwright said. ‘You people from the Murder Squad understand this kind of case.’

Martin Beck wondered if that was the polite plural, or if he were really referring to both of them. Lennart Kollberg was on his way from Stockholm by car and could be expected the next day. He had been Martin Beck's right-hand man for many years.

‘The story's going to leak out pretty soon,’ Allwright said. ‘I saw a couple of characters in town today – reporters, I think.’

He shook his head again.

‘We're not used to this sort of thing. All this attention.’

‘Someone has disappeared,’ said Martin Beck. ‘There's nothing so unusual about that.’

‘No, but that's not the crux of the matter. Not at all. Do you want to hear about it?’

‘Not right now, thanks. If you won't take it amiss.’

‘I never take anything amiss. Not my style.’

He laughed again, but stopped himself and added, soberly, ‘But then I'm not in charge of the investigation.’

‘Maybe she'll turn up. That's usually the way.’

Allwright shook his head for the third time.

‘I don't think so,’ he said. ‘In case my opinion makes any difference. Anyway, it's an open-and-shut case. Everyone says so. They're probably right. All this nonsense with the…I mean, excuse me, but calling in the Murder Squad and all that is just because of the unusual circumstances.’

‘Who says so?’

‘The chief. The boss.’

‘The Chief of Police in Trelleborg?’

‘That's the man. But you're right, let's let it go for now. This is the new airport road we're on. And now we're coming out on the motorway from Malmö to Ystad. Also brand new. You see the lights off to the right?’

‘Yes.’

‘That's Svedala. Still part of Malmö Division. It's one hell of a district for sheer size.’

They had emerged from the fog belt, which was apparently confined to the immediate vicinity of the airport. The sky was full of stars. Martin Beck had rolled down the side window and was breathing in the smells from outside. Petrol and diesel oil, but also a fertile mixture of humus and manure. It seemed heavy and saturated. Nourishing. Allwright drove only a few hundred yards along the motorway. Then he turned off to the right, and the country air grew richer.

There was one special smell.

‘Stalks and beet pulp,’ Allwright said. ‘Reminds me of when I was a lad.’

On the motorway there had been passenger cars and enormous container lorries thundering along in a steady stream, but here they seemed to be alone. The night lay dark and velvety on the rolling plain.

It was clear that Allwright had driven this same stretch of road hundreds of times before and literally knew every curve. He held a steady speed and hardly even needed to look at the road.

He lit a cigarette and offered the pack.

‘No, thank you,’ said Martin Beck.

He had smoked no more than five cigarettes over the last two years.

‘If I understood correctly, you wanted to stay at the inn,’ Allwright said.

‘Yes, that would be fine.’

‘Anyway, I've arranged for a room there.’

‘Good.’

The lights of a small town appeared ahead of them.

‘We have arrived, as it were,’ said Allwright. ‘This is Anderslöv.’

The streets were empty, but well lit.

‘No nightlife here,’ Allwright said. ‘Quiet and peaceful. Nice. I've lived here all my life and never had a thing to complain about. Before now.’

It looked awfully damned dead, Martin Beck thought. But maybe that's the way it was supposed to look.

Allwright slowed down and pointed to a low, 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.’