Lars Kepler - Cop Killer

‘Passenger ships are usually a different matter. The owners put on a different kind of officer. After all, the captains have to socialize with the passengers. On the big ships, they have a captain's table.’

‘What's that?’

‘The captain's own table in the dining room. For entertaining prominent first-class passengers.’

‘I see.’

‘But Mård sailed on tramp steamers. And there's a certain difference.’

‘Yes, he was pretty damned arrogant,’ Månsson said. ‘Yelled at me and cursed his missus. Nasty son of a bitch. He thought he was something special. Rude and arrogant. I'm pretty easygoing, but I damned near lost my temper. That takes some doing.’

‘How does he make a living?’

‘He's got a brewpub in Limhamn. You know the story. He drank his liver to pieces in Ecuador or Venezuela. They had him in the hospital out there for a while. Then the shipping company flew him home. They wouldn't give him a clean bill of health, so he couldn't ship out again. He moved home to his wife in Anderslöv, but that didn't work out at all. He hit the bottle and beat her. She wanted out. He didn't. But she got her divorce, no sweat.’

‘Allwright says he's got an alibi for the seventeenth.’

‘Yes, sort of. He took the train ferry over to Copenhagen to go on a bender. But it's a rotten alibi. Seems to me. Claims he sat in the forward saloon. The ferry sails at a quarter to twelve these days – it used to sail at noon. He says he was alone in the saloon, and the waiter was hung over. And there was one crewman standing in there playing the slot machine. I often take that boat myself. The waiter, whose name is Sture, is always hung over, with bags under his eyes. And that same crewman is generally standing there stuffing one-krona pieces in the slot machine.’

Månsson took a noisy sip of his drink. He always drank the same thing, a mixture of gin and grapefruit soda. It is a Finland-Swedish speciality, called Gripenberger after some obscure officer and nobleman.

The weather was nice in Malmö. The city seemed almost inhabitable.

‘I think you ought to talk to Bertil Mård yourself,’ Månsson said.

Martin Beck nodded.

‘The witness on the ferry identified him,’ Månsson said. ‘He's got the kind of looks you don't forget. The only trouble is that all those things happen every day. The ferry leaves here at the same hour, usually with the same passengers. You can't count on the crew remembering someone a couple of weeks later, and you can't be sure they'd have the right day. Talk to him yourself and see what you think.’

‘But you have already questioned him?’

‘Yes, and I wasn't specially convinced.’

‘Does he have a car?’

‘Yes. He lives on the West Side, a stone's throw from here if you've got a hell of a good arm. Mäster Johansgatan 23. Takes him half an hour to drive to Anderslöv. Roughly.’

‘What makes you point that out?’

‘Well, he seems to have made the trip now and then.’

Martin Beck let the question drop.

It was 3 November, a Saturday, and still almost summer. It was also a holiday – All Saints' Day – but Martin Beck was planning to disturb Captain Mård's tranquillity in spite of it. The chances were he wasn't a religious man.

There had been no word from Kollberg. Perhaps he had found Växjö fascinating and decided to stay over for a day. But in what way fascinating? Perhaps someone had seduced him with illegal fresh crayfish. Of course, frozen crayfish were now available, but Kollberg was not easily deceived. Least of all in the matter of crayfish.

Rhea had called that morning and cheered him up. As always. In one year she had changed his life and given him more satisfaction than twenty years of marriage to a person he had actually loved once, a person who had presented him with two children and many a joyful moment. Just count them. For that matter, ‘presented’ was a lousy word. They had been in it together, hadn't they? Well maybe so, but he had never had that feeling.

With Rhea Nielsen, everything was different. They had a free and open relationship, of course. Perhaps a little too free and open, it seemed to him every once in a while. But first and foremost, there was a sense of community that stretched far beyond his love for this curiously perfect woman. Together with her, he had begun to mix with people in a manner that had never been possible for him before. Her building in Stockholm was quite different from the average apartment building. You might almost call it a commune, though with none of the negative connotations – often warranted but just as often imaginary – of that discredited term. People in communes smoked pot and screwed around like rabbits. The rest of the time they talked a lot of bullshit and ate macrobiotic food, and none of them worked and they all lived on welfare. The commune members considered themselves the victims of an evil social system. They often took LSD and thought they could fly, or drove a stiletto into their best friend's belly for the enrichment of the experience, or else they killed themselves.

It wasn't so very long since he had thought that way himself, at least in part and at times. And certainly there was a grain of truth there, or rather a whole wheatfield.

Martin Beck's position gave him the doubtful pleasure of reading confidential reports. Most of them were political, and he threw them directly into the Out basket for secret papers, to be passed on to the next bureaucrat with clearance. But he usually read the ones that seemed to have some connection with his own job. Suicide, for example, was a subject that had begun to interest him more and more. And secret memoranda on the subject cropped up with increasing regularity. The point of departure was always the same: Sweden led the world by a margin that seemed to grow larger from one report to the next, but, as with so many other things, the National Commissioner had decreed that nothing must get out. On the other hand, the explanation varied. Other countries cheated on their statistics. For a long time it had been popular to single out the Catholic countries, but then the Archbishop and some religious bigwigs within the police department had begun to complain, so then countries with a socialist form of government had had to take their place. But Swedish intelligence had immediately made difficulties, on the grounds that they could no longer use priests as spies. Since the secret activities of the Security Police fell into the category of things that always, inevitably, got out, a sigh of relief was heaved at National Police Administration Headquarters. Rumour had it that the National Commissioner himself had expressed certain misgivings at the suggestion that Swedish priests, some of whom were outright card-carrying Reds, would be able to spy on Swedish Communists or bring so formidable an opponent as the Soviet Union to its knees.

But as usual, all of this was unconfirmed rumour. Out must nothing get, as they sometimes put it – for a joke, or at least for the sake of putting it some different way. But the faithful would tolerate no deviation. ‘Nothing must get out’ was the proper expression.

And that was that.

The gist of the latest suicide manifesto was as follows: Since most people neither shoot themselves nor jump off Väster Bridge but get good and drunk instead and then swallow a bottle of sleeping pills, they could be written off as cases of accidental poisoning and completely eliminated from the statistics, which would thus suddenly become amazingly auspicious.

Martin Beck thought about these things a lot.

Månsson poured some more grape juice in his Gripenberger.

He had not spoken for some time, and to judge by his clothing he wasn't planning to go anywhere.

He was wearing a nightshirt, flannel trousers, and terry-cloth slippers, plus a bathrobe that seemed to be part of the ensemble.