Cop Killer, page 10
part #9 of Martin Beck Series
‘Now tell me…Folke, did you know she didn't have her car? When you ran into her at the post office?’
Folke Bengtsson said nothing for a very long time.
‘Yes,’ he said finally.
‘How did you happen to know that?’
‘When you live like this, you notice things about your neighbours, whether you want to or not.’
‘But you had your car with you in Anderslöv?’
‘Yes, it was parked right out in front of the post office.’
‘You know, Folke, that's actually a no-parking zone,’ said Allwright with a mischievous look.
‘I really didn't know that.’
‘There's a sign,’ Allwright said.
‘I never noticed it, really.’
Allwright took out an old silver pocket watch and snapped open the case.
‘Sigbrit Mård would have been standing at the bus stop right about now,’ he said. ‘Unless, of course, someone gave her a lift.’
Folke Bengtsson looked at his wristwatch.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That sounds right. And it agrees with what I've been told.’
‘And with what was in the papers,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Right?’
‘I never read periodicals,’ said Folke Bengtsson.
‘Not even magazines? Men's magazines, or the sports papers?’
‘Men's magazines have changed. I find them very tasteless these days. And the sports papers no longer exist. Anyway, magazines are so expensive.’
‘Well, now…Folke, since you happened to run into each other at the post office, and since she didn't have a car, wouldn't it be only natural for you to give her a ride? You were going the same way.’
With rising irritation, Martin Beck noticed that he was having a hard time calling Bengtsson by his first name.
Once again there was a long pause.
‘Yes,’ said Bengtsson finally. ‘I suppose that would seem natural, but that isn't what happened.’
‘Did she ask for a ride?’
This time Bengtsson paused so long before answering that Martin Beck finally felt he had to repeat the question.
‘Did Sigbrit Mård say anything to you about getting a ride home in your car?’
‘I don't recall anything of that kind.’
‘Is it possible that she did?’
‘I don't know. That's all I can tell you.’
Martin Beck looked at Allwright, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Maybe it was the other way around, and you offered her a ride?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Bengtsson immediately.
Here, clearly, he was on firmer ground.
‘So there's no doubt at all on that point?’
‘No,’ said Folke Bengtsson. ‘I never pick up hitchhikers. Every time I have ever given anyone a ride, it was always someone directly connected with my work. And that has only happened a few times.’
‘Is that true?’
‘Yes, really.’
Martin Beck again looked at Allwright, who made another face. His stock of facial expressions was clearly inexhaustible. The Anderslöv Chief of Police would undoubtedly have made a good mime.
‘So we can rule out that possibility.’
‘Completely,’ Bengtsson said. ‘It's utterly unthinkable.’
‘Why should it be so utterly unthinkable?’
‘Because of my disposition, I suppose.’
Martin Beck thought about Folke Bengtsson's disposition for a moment. It was a subject that would bear some thought.
But this was not the time for brooding.
‘How so?’ said Martin Beck.
‘I'm the kind of person for whom a regular routine is almost a necessity. For example, my customers can tell you that I am very particular about punctuality. If something holds me up, I try to hurry so as to get back on schedule.’
Martin Beck looked at Allwright, who made a face that might almost have been worthy of Harpo Marx. Bengtsson's punctuality was clearly not in doubt.
‘It irritates me when something disturbs the rhythm of my life. I must say, for example, that this conversation upsets me greatly. Nothing personal, of course, but a whole list of small tasks will suffer.’
‘I understand.’
‘So, as I said, I never pick up hitchhikers. Especially not women.’
Kollberg took his hands away from his face.
‘Why?’ he said.
‘I don't understand what you mean.’
‘Why do you say “especially not women”?’
Bengtsson's expression changed and grew more serious. He no longer looked indifferent. But what was it in his eyes? Hate? Aversion? Desire? Puritanical zeal?
Madness perhaps.
‘Answer me, Folke,’ Kollberg said.
‘Women have caused me a great deal of unpleasantness.’
‘We know. But that doesn't mean you can ignore the fact that more than half of all the people in the world are women.’
‘There are different kinds of women,’ Bengtsson said. ‘Almost all the ones I've met have been bad.’
‘Bad?’
‘Exactly. Simply bad human beings. Unworthy of their sex.’
Kollberg looked out of the window in resignation. The man was insane. But what did that prove? For that matter, could the newspaper photographer who was hanging like a spider monkey from a pear tree fifty feet from the house be considered entirely sane? Presumably.
Kollberg sighed deeply and collapsed like a punctured weather balloon.
Martin Beck resumed his famous systematic questioning.
‘Let's leave that subject for the moment.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Folke Bengtsson.
‘Instead of speculation, we'll stick to facts. The two of you left the post office only a few minutes apart, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I got my car and drove home.’
‘Directly?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right…Mr Bengtsson, now we come to the next question.’
‘Yes?’
Martin Beck was disgusted with himself. Why couldn't he make himself say ‘Folke’? Kollberg had said it, and for Allwright it was apparently the easiest thing in the world.
‘You must have passed Sigbrit Mård in your car, either at the bus stop or very close to it.’
There was no reply, and Martin Beck heard himself say:
‘Answer me, Mr Bengtsson. Was Mrs Mård visible at that time?’
Terrific. The best answer, of course, would be ‘No, she was invisible.’
But Folke Bengtsson didn't seem to be aware of Inspector Beck's embarrassment. He said nothing at all, just stared vacantly at his big, sunburned hands.
Martin Beck was at a loss. The way he had asked it, the question was too idiotic to be repeated.
Finally Allwright came to his rescue.
‘That's a pretty damn simple question, Folke. Did you see Sigbrit or didn't you?’
At long last Bengtsson said, ‘I saw her.’
‘A little louder, please,’ said Martin Beck.
‘I saw her.’
‘Where, exactly?’
‘At the bus stop. Maybe a few feet away.’
‘There is a witness who maintains that your car slowed down at that point. Maybe even stopped.’
Seconds went by. Time passed. They all grew one minute older. Finally Bengtsson answered, softly.
‘I saw her, and it's possible that I slowed down. She was walking along the right side of the road. I'm a very careful driver, and I usually slow down when I pass pedestrians. Maybe I was meeting another car. I don't remember.’
‘Were you driving so slowly that you actually stopped?’
‘No, I didn't stop.’
‘Might it have looked as if you stopped?’
‘I don't know. I really don't. All I know is that I didn't stop.’
Martin Beck turned to Allwright.
‘Didn't he say a moment ago that he tried to drive faster when he was late?’
‘Yes,’ Allwright said. ‘That's right.’
Martin Beck turned back to the murderer. Damn. He actually thought that word. Murderer.
‘Wouldn't your visit to the post office have made you late?’ he said. ‘So that you'd be hurrying afterwards?’
‘I always go to the post office on Wednesdays,’ said Folke Bengtsson calmly. ‘I always send a letter to my mother in Södertälje, for one thing, and there are usually other matters to attend to.’
‘Sigbrit Mård did not get into the car?’
‘No. She did not.’
It had been a leading question, but not quite in the right direction.
‘Did Sigbrit Mård get into your car?’
‘No. Absolutely not. I didn't stop.’
‘Another thing. Did Sigbrit Mård wave or signal to you in any other way?’
And then there was another of those painful, incomprehensible pauses.
Bengtsson didn't answer. He looked Martin Beck in the eye but said nothing.
‘Did Sigbrit Mård make any sort of signal when she saw your car?’
Another few moments of their lives elapsed in silence. Martin Beck thought about women, and how those few moments might have been spent.
Once again, Allwright broke the silence. He laughed.
‘Why on earth won't you answer him, Folke?’ he said. ‘Did Sigbrit wave to you or didn't she?’
‘I don't know,’ Bengtsson said.
So softly it was almost inaudible.
‘You don't know?’ said Martin Beck.
‘No, I don't know.’
Kollberg gave Martin Beck a resigned look.
He didn't have to say it.
Give up, Martin.
But there were more questions.
Hard questions.
‘I remember when we were sitting at Kristineberg nine years ago,’ said Martin Beck.
‘So do I.’
‘We talked a lot about women. Certain viewpoints were aired. Some of them were rather peculiar.’
‘I didn't think so.’
‘They seemed peculiar to me. Do you still have the same ideas about women, Mr Bengtsson?’
A long silence.
‘I try not to think about them.’
Them.
‘You know Sigbrit Mård, don't you, Mr Bengtsson?’
‘She's one of my steady customers. She's my closest neighbour. But I try not to think of her as a woman.’
‘Try? What do you mean by “try”, Mr Bengtsson?’
Allwright shook himself. He looked more distressed and unhappy than ever before in their six-day acquaintance. Which was not to say that he looked distressed or unhappy. Just a little less cheerful.
‘Why don't you call him Folke? It sounds so damned formal.’
‘I can't,’ said Martin Beck.
It was true. He couldn't. At the same time, he was glad he could be honest about it.
‘I see,’ said Allwright. ‘Well then, there's nothing to discuss. Truth can be blamed, but it can't be shamed.’
Kollberg looked a bit startled.
‘Local saying,’ Allwright said, and laughed.
Folke Bengtsson didn't laugh.
‘In any case, you know Sigbrit Mård. And sometimes you must think of her as a woman. I want to ask you a question, Mr Bengtsson, and I want an honest answer. What do you think of her? As a woman?’
Silence.
‘Answer him,’ Allwright said. ‘Folke, you have to answer him. Be honest.’
‘Sometimes I see her as a woman. But not often.’
‘And?’ said Martin Beck.
‘I think she's…’
‘She's what?’
Folke Bengtsson and Martin Beck looked into each other's eyes. Bengtsson's were blue. Martin Beck's were greyish blue. He remembered that from before.
‘Disgusting,’ said Folke Bengtsson. ‘Indecent. Like an animal. She smells. But I see her often, and I've only thought that two or three times.’
Insane, Kollberg thought.
‘Lay off, Martin.’
‘That's what you wanted me to say,’ said Folke Bengtsson. ‘Isn't it?’
‘Did you deliver the eggs?’ said Martin Beck.
‘No. I knew she was gone.’
Gone.
They sat in silence for a while.
‘You're tormenting me,’ said Folke Bengtsson. ‘But I don't dislike you. It's just your job. My job is selling fish and eggs.’
‘Yes,’ said Kollberg gloomily. ‘We've tormented you before, and now we're doing it again. I broke your shoulder once. Unnecessarily.’
‘Oh, it mended quite fast. I'm completely recovered, really. Are you going to take me with you now?’
Martin Beck had one last idea.
‘Have you ever seen Sigbrit Mård's ex-husband?’
‘Yes. Twice. He drove up in a beige Volvo.’
Allwright made a mysterious face but said nothing.
‘Shall we call it a day?’ Kollberg said.
Martin Beck stood up.
Allwright took off his shoes and put them back in the plastic bag. And put on his boots.
He was the only one of them with the courtesy to say, ‘So long, Folke. Sorry.’
‘Goodbye,’ Kollberg said.
Martin Beck said nothing.
‘You'll be back, I suppose,’ said Folke Bengtsson.
‘Depends,’ said Allwright.
Outside the gate, the Nikon cameras started clicking like a hailstorm.
There was a voice coming from a car with a shortwave radio antenna.
‘The chief of the National Murder Squad and his right-hand man are just leaving the house of the Roseanna murderer. Local police and dog-handlers are guarding the building. It doesn't look as if the Roseanna murderer has been arrested yet.’
Boman walked over to Kollberg.
‘Well?’ he said.
Kollberg shook his head.
‘Gunnarsson,’ came a sudden, harsh voice. ‘If you suck up to the cops we'll spread your arse all over the front pages. And then you can call yourself Boman till you're blue in the face. Just wanted you to know.’
‘You'll do it anyway, I imagine,’ Boman said.
Martin Beck threw a glance at the reporter who had spoken. A heavy-bellied man with a bushy grey beard and a patronizing manner. His name was Molin, and, of course, he worked for one of the evening tabloids. He seemed to have aged fifteen years since Martin Beck last saw him in 1966. Too much beer, probably.
‘He was a buddy of Alf's,’ said Boman impassively.
Allwright cleared his throat.
‘The press conference will be postponed for half an hour. We'll have it in the village hall. I think the library is our best bet.’
11
They had half an hour before the press conference was supposed to begin and they used the time to try and analyse what Folke Bengtsson had actually said. And not said.
‘He's behaving exactly the way he did before,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Gives clear, unambiguous answers to questions he knows we can check.’
‘He's nuts,’ said Kollberg dejectedly. ‘It's as simple as that.’
‘And then sometimes he doesn't answer at all,’ Allwright said. ‘Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes, by and large. He turns funny and evasive whenever you get to a really key question.’
‘As an amateur in this area…’
Allwright began, and then burst out laughing.
‘What are you howling at?’ said Kollberg, slightly irritated.
‘Well, I don't mean that I love murder and that sort of thing,’ Allwright said. ‘And your true amateur, after all, is a person who loves something, right? From the Latin amator …’
‘If we could skip the philology,’ said Kollberg, ‘it might be worthwhile to compare our impressions.’
‘Yes,’ said Martin Beck. ‘I think you're right. What do you think yourself?’
‘Well, if we disregard Bengtsson's attitude towards women, which as far as I'm concerned shows that he's demented …’
‘Sexually abnormal,’ Allwright said.
‘Exactly. But if we disregard that…’
‘Which can't be disregarded,’ Martin Beck interrupted.
‘No. In any case, there were two questions where he really hesitated. First, what was actually said at the post office? And second, did Sigbrit Mård try to thumb a ride with him as he drove past the bus stop?’
‘And both of those questions involve the same thing,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Did he give her a ride or didn't he? If she spoke to him in the post office about anything more than eggs, the obvious thing would have been for her to ask him for a ride home. Or does that sound farfetched?’
‘Not at all,’ Allwright said. ‘They are next-door neighbours, after all.’
‘But would she really do that?’ said Martin Beck. ‘Sigbrit Mård knew as well as most other people in the village that Bengtsson had been in prison and what it was they convicted him of, namely a sex murder.’
‘Well, yes,’ Kollberg said. ‘That's true enough. But in a way it's a logical somersault. After all, she was one of his so-called steady customers. Now that must mean that Bengtsson came over to her house every week to deliver whatever it was he delivered.’
‘Fish, mostly,’ Allwright said. ‘The prices are low, and the quality's high. That egg business is mostly just a sideline. He doesn't have all that many chickens.’
‘If she'd really been afraid of him, she never would have had him come to the house like that,’ Kollberg said.
‘No,’ said Allwright. ‘I don't think Sigbrit's afraid of Folke. I've never noticed that anyone was afraid of him. On the other hand, everyone does know he's a little odd and prefers to be left alone.’
‘From my experience of Bengtsson, the way he's acting now is typical,’ said Martin Beck. ‘He's very wary about the conversation in the post office and what happened at the bus stop. He knows there are people who may have overheard what they were talking about and he also knows there may be witnesses who saw her try to hitch a ride.’
‘But he has no reason to lie if she didn't ask him for a ride,’ Allwright said. ‘And especially not if he didn't stop at the bus stop.’
‘You've got to remember that his experience of the police and the courts is pretty damn negative,’ Kollberg said.
Martin Beck rubbed the bridge of his nose with the thumb and index finger of his right hand.
