Cop Killer

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?’

‘It's too bad. His smoked herring were damned good.’

The man brought the conversation to a close by crawling in under the fire engine and disappearing.

If this was the general opinion, then clearly Allwright had not exaggerated.

Martin Beck stayed where he was, rubbing the edge of his scalp thoughtfully.

A minute or two later Herrgott Allwright appeared on the other side of the fire engine. He had the same lion-hunter's hat on the back of his head, and was otherwise dressed in a chequered flannel shirt, uniform trousers, and light suede shoes. A large grey dog strained at its leash. They edged under the ladder, and the dog rose up on its hind legs, put its front paws on Martin Beck's chest, and began to lick his face.

‘Down, Timmy!’ Allwright said. ‘Down, I said! What a dog!’

It was a heavy dog, and Martin Beck reeled back two steps.

‘Down, Timmy!’ Allwright said.

The dog dropped to the ground and turned around three times. Then it sat down reluctantly, looked at its master, and pricked up its ears.

‘Probably the world's worst police dog. But he has an excuse. No training. No obedience. But since I'm a policeman, that does make him a police dog. In a way.’

Allwright laughed, without much cause, as far as Martin Beck could see.

‘When HSC were here I took him to the game.’

‘HSC?’

‘Helsingborg Sports Club. Football team. You're not a football fan, are you?’

‘Not really.’

‘Well, he got away from me, of course, and ran out on the field. Took the ball away from one of the Anderslöv players. Almost caused a riot. And I got a telling off from the referee. It's the most dramatic thing that's happened around here for years. Until now, of course. What was I supposed to do? Arrest the referee? From a purely legal point of view, I have no idea what the status of a football referee might be.’

He laughed again.

‘I walk out on the field and collar the ref. “Allwright?” I say. “Police Inspector. Come along with me, please – interfering with an officer in the performance of his duties.” It wouldn't wash. So I just stood there like an idiot.’

Allwright laughed, and Martin Beck couldn't help asking him why.

‘Well, I was thinking – what if Timmy had scored a goal? What would have happened then?’

Martin Beck was completely lost for words.

‘Oh, hi there,’ Allwright said.

‘Morning, Herrgott,’ said a sepulchral voice from underneath the fire engine.

‘Say, Jöns, do you have to park that crate right in front of police headquarters?’

‘You're not even open yet,’ said Jöns.

His voice sounded muffled.

‘But I'm about to.’

Allwright rattled his keys, and the dog jumped to its feet.

Allwright opened the door and threw a quick glance at Martin Beck.

‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘to the Anderslöv local station house, Trelleborg Division. This is actually the village hall. Social security office, police station, library. I live upstairs. It's all brand new and spic and span, as they say. Terrific jail. Got to use it twice last year. Here's my office. Come on in.’

It was a pleasant room, with a desk and two easy chairs for visitors. The large windows looked out on a kind of patio. The dog lay down under the desk.

Behind the desk were shelves full of large volumes. The Swedish Statutes, mostly, but a lot of other books as well.

‘They've been on the phone from Trelleborg already,’ Allwright said. ‘The Superintendent. The Police Commissioner too. Seemed disappointed you were staying here.’

He sat down at his desk and shook out a cigarette.

Martin Beck took a seat in one of the easy chairs.

Allwright crossed his legs and poked at his hat, which he'd put down on the desk.

‘They'll be driving up today, for sure. At least the Superintendent will. Unless we drag ourselves down to Trelleborg.’