Lars Kepler - Cop Killer

Kollberg yawned again.

‘Lack of oxygen,’ he said and rolled down the window. ‘We were lucky to have been constables back in the days when cops still used their feet to walk on and not just to kick people with. You can get claustrophobia sitting in here like this.’

Martin Beck nodded. He too disliked the feeling of being shut in.

Both Martin Beck and Kollberg had begun their careers as policemen in Stockholm in the mid-forties. Martin Beck had worn down the pavements in Norrmalm, and Kollberg had trudged the narrow alleyways of the Old City. They hadn't known one another in those days, but their memories from that time were by and large the same.

It got to be 9.30. The pastry shop closed, and the lights started going out in many of the windows down the street. The lights were still on in the flat where The Breadman was visiting.

Suddenly the door opened across the street, and The Breadman stepped out on to the pavement. He had his hands in the pockets of his coat and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

Kollberg put his hands on the steering wheel and Martin Beck sat up in his seat.

The Breadman stood quietly outside the doorway, calmly smoking his cigarette.

‘He doesn't have any bag with him,’ Kollberg said.

‘He might have it in his pockets,’ Martin Beck said. ‘Or else he's sold it. We'll have to check on who he was visiting.’

Several minutes passed. Nothing happened. The Breadman gazed up at the starry sky and seemed to be enjoying the evening air.

‘He's waiting for a taxi,’ said Martin Beck.

‘Seems to be taking a hell of a long time,’ Kollberg said.

The Breadman took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked it out into the street. Then he turned up his coat collar, stuck his hands back into his pockets, and started across the street towards the police car.

‘He's coming over here,’ Martin Beck said. ‘Damn. What do we do? Take him in?’

‘Yes,’ Kollberg said.

The Breadman walked slowly over to the car, leaned down, looked at Kollberg through the side window and started to laugh. Then he walked around behind the boot and up on to the pavement. He opened the door to the front seat where Martin Beck was sitting, leaned over, and let out a roar of laughter.

Martin Beck and Kollberg sat quietly and let him laugh, for the simple reason that they didn't know what else to do.

The Breadman finally recovered somewhat from his paroxysms.

‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘have you finally been demoted? Or is this some kind of fancy-dress party?’

Martin Beck sighed and climbed out of the car. He opened the door to the back seat.

‘In you go, Lindberg,’ he said. ‘We'll give you a lift to Västberga.’

‘Good enough,’ said The Breadman good-naturedly. ‘That's closer to home.’

On the way in to Södra police station, The Breadman told them he'd been visiting his brother in Råsunda, which was quickly confirmed by a patrol car despatched to the spot. There were no weapons, money, or stolen goods in the flat. The Breadman himself was carrying twenty-seven kronor.

At a quarter to twelve they had to release him, and Martin Beck and Kollberg could start to think about going home.

‘I never would have thought you guys had such a sense of humour,’ said The Breadman before he left. ‘First this bit with the costumes – now that was fun. But the part I liked best was seeing PIG written on the back of your car. I couldn't have done better myself.’

They themselves were only moderately amused, but his hearty laughter reached them from a long way down the stairs. He sounded almost like the Laughing Policeman.

In point of fact, it didn't matter much. They would catch him soon enough. The Breadman was the type who always gets caught.

And for their own part, they would soon have other things to think about.

The airport was a national disgrace and lived up to its reputation. The actual flight from Arlanda Airport in Stockholm had taken only fifty minutes, but now the plane had been circling over the southernmost part of the country for an hour and a half.

‘Fog,’ was the laconic explanation.

And that was exactly what might have been expected, for the airfield had been built – once the inhabitants were displaced – in one of the foggiest spots in Sweden. And as if that weren't enough, it lay in the middle of a well-known migratory bird route and at a very uncomfortable distance from the city.

In addition, it had destroyed a natural wilderness that should have been protected by law. The damage was extensive and irreparable and constituted an act of gross ecological malfeasance, typical of the anti-humanitarian cynicism that had become increasingly characteristic of what the government called A More Compassionate Society. This expression, in turn, represented a cynicism so boundless that the common man had difficulty grasping it.

The pilot finally grew tired and brought the plane down fog or no fog, and a handful of pale, sweating passengers filed sparsely into the terminal building.

Inside, the very colour scheme – grey and saffron yellow – seemed to underline the odour of incompetence and corruption.

Martin Beck had several unpleasant hours to look back upon. He had always loathed flying, and the new planes didn't make it any better. The jet had been a DC-9. It had begun by climbing precipitously to an altitude that was incomprehensible to the average earthbound human being. Then it had raced across the countryside at an abstract speed, only to conclude in a monotonous holding pattern. The liquid in the paper mugs was said to be coffee and produced immediate nausea. The air in the cabin was noxious and sticky, and his few fellow passengers were harried technocrats and businessmen who glanced constantly at their watches and shuffled nervously through the papers in their attaché cases.

The arrivals hall could not even be called uncomfortable. It was monstrous, a design catastrophe that would make a dusty bus station miles from anywhere seem lively and convivial by comparison. There was a hot-dog stand that served an inedible, nutrition-free parody of food, a newsstand with a display of condoms and smutty magazines, some empty conveyor belts for luggage, and a number of chairs that might have been designed during the heyday of the Spanish Inquisition. Add a dozen yawning policemen and bored customs officials, all of them undoubtedly there against their will, and one taxicab, whose driver had fallen asleep with the latest issue of a pornographic magazine spread across the steering wheel.

Martin Beck waited an unreasonably long time for his small suitcase, picked it off the belt and stepped out into the autumn fog.

A passenger stepped into the cab, and it drove off.

No one inside the arrivals hall had said anything or indicated in any way that they recognized him. They had seemed apathetic, almost as if they had lost the power of speech, or, in any case, lost all interest in using it.

The chief of the National Murder Squad had arrived, but no one seemed to appreciate the importance of that event. Not even the greenest of cub reporters could be bothered to drag them-selves out here to enrich their lives with card games, over-boiled wieners, and petrochemical soft drinks. Anyway, the so-called celebrities never showed up here.

There were two orange buses standing in front of the terminal. Plastic signs showed their destinations: Lund and Malmö. The drivers were smoking in silence.

The night was mild, and the air was humid. Misty halos surrounded the electric lights.

The buses drove off, one of them empty, the other with a single passenger. The other travellers hurried towards the long-term parking area.

Martin Beck's palms were still sweaty. He went back inside and searched out a men's room. The flushing mechanism was broken. There was a half-eaten hot dog and an empty vodka bottle in the urinal. Strands of hair clung to the greasy ring of dirt in the sink. The paper towel dispenser was empty.