Cop Killer, page 23
part #9 of Martin Beck Series
‘If you say so.’
It was a bitterly cold day, even though the sky was still clear. An East German ferry lay at the slip. It was called the Rügen.
Uncommonly ugly, thought Martin Beck.
Boats had been getting uglier and uglier for years.
Clark, he thought. Rags. Nickel shavings. Beige Volvo. And the impossible Folke Bengtsson.
His view of all these things was more optimistic now.
25
Karl Kristiansson and Kenneth Kvastmo did not make a good team. Although they had manned the same patrol car for a year and a half, they had little to talk about and even less use for one another.
Kvastmo was from Värmland, a big haystack of a man, with a blond mane, the neck of a bull, and a forehead like a washboard above a broad, meaty nose. As a policeman, he was thorough and persistent, eager and aggressive. In short, a stickler for duty. Besides which, he was very curious.
Kristiansson had always been lazy, and the years had made him more and more so. He almost never thought about duty, but rather about the football pools and food and sometimes about the pain from an old gunshot wound. Another policeman had shot him in the knee a couple of years before, on 3 April 1971, to be exact. That had been the most calamitous day of his life, and there were many unfortunate ones to choose among. He had lost his best friend on that chilly Saturday and had been shot himself. To top it all off, he had had a minimal four right on his infallible football pools system.
In Kristiansson's opinion, Kvastmo was an incurable blockhead, who did nothing but whine and complain about everything and everyone, and who complicated the job by constantly taking action. For his own part, Kristiansson never took action any more without a direct order, or unless he was very strongly provoked. And as long as he stayed inside the patrol car and contented himself with staring out through the windscreen with unseeing blue eyes, he was not easily accessible, not even for the most notorious provocateurs.
But Kvastmo did everything he could to make life difficult. He fought an unending battle with gangsters. In spite of the fact that the Swedish police had a system of automatic promotions such that accumulating merits paid no appreciable dividends, he was constantly on the lookout for activities that called for police intervention. And given the society he lived in, he seldom had to look far. His dream was to be transferred to the notorious Östermalm Division, where, for no good reason, the police always arrested five times as many people as in all of the other Stockholm divisions put together. The new law gave over-zealous policemen a great opportunity to harass people, particularly young people who were, say, sitting on park benches talking to each other because they had nowhere else to go. People of this type were automatically regarded as suspect and could be apprehended immediately. The police could hold them for six hours, work them over at the police station, and release them again, only to make another military-style raid and drag the same people back into the Black Maria. This was a good way to run things, Kvastmo thought, but unfortunately he was stuck in a division where the officers were not quite so bloodthirsty.
During their many months in the patrol car, Kristiansson had learned at least two things. One bad thing: it was impossible to borrow so much as five kronor from Kvastmo. But also one good thing: Kvastmo was addicted to coffee, and when the man got too insufferable he could always suggest a coffee break.
The brown liquid had an amazingly positive effect. Kvastmo could sit quietly for at least half an hour, often longer, slurping and smacking his lips and stuffing himself with Danish pastry and almond cake.
But as soon as they were back in the car again, the good effects were all undone. He returned at once to his incessant pursuit of suspects and his nagging complaints about the society of thieves they lived in.
Kristiansson did not like coffee, but he knew it was the price he had to pay for a few moments of relaxation.
At the moment, they had just finished a lengthy coffee session and found themselves back in the patrol car, a black-and-white Plymouth with a spotlight and flashers and a short-wave radio and every other technical refinement.
The patrol car, in turn, found itself on Essingeleden, an elevated section of motorway that sliced across bays and islands into the centre of Stockholm from the south.
Kristiansson was driving at his usual phlegmatic pace, and Kvastmo was repeating one of his standard lines.
‘Why don't you answer me, Karl?’
‘What?’
‘I'm talking to you about important things, and you're not even listening.’
‘Sure I'm listening.’
‘Are you? The hell you are. You're thinking about something else.’
‘I am?’
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Oh…’
‘Women, I'll bet.’
‘Well…’
What Kristiansson had actually been thinking about was oat flakes with strawberry jam and cold milk, but, in order to control his hunger, he had trammelled up the vision of an uncommonly disgusting corpse that, thanks to Kvastmo's zeal, they had succeeded in discovering the previous summer. But not wanting to reveal his innermost thoughts, he made up another answer. Which he found an immediate use for.
‘Well, what were you thinking about? And why don't you answer me?’
‘I was thinking about how Leeds have played twenty-eight league matches in a row without a loss, and how Millwall have already been beaten five times at home. It doesn't make sense.’
‘You idiot,’ said Kvastmo. ‘How can a full-grown policeman think about crap like that? Those teams aren't even Swedish.’
Kristiansson took this very badly. He was from Skåne, and in southern Sweden the word ‘idiot’ is very bad. It is very nearly the worst thing a person can be called.
Kvastmo had no feeling for this at all and continued heedlessly.
‘What I'm trying to say is that we don't have enough legal protection, and the police officials are a bunch of namby-pambies. A lot of our fellow officers don't dress properly, and no one does anything about it. Do you remember that motorcycle cop last summer? The one who didn't even have his cap on? And had his jacket strapped on behind?’
‘But it was ninety-five degrees.’
‘What difference does that make? A policeman is a policeman in any weather. I read in the paper that in New York the cops often get stuck in the asphalt when there's a heat wave. They stay at their posts, by God, and they have to pry them loose when they're relieved. If they ever get relieved.’
By ‘paper’ Kvastmo meant their magazine, Swedish Police, which often reported curious facts to its readers.
Kristiansson didn't respond. He'd seen a lot of American riot police in training films and he was wondering what it would look like if several hundred men were stuck to the street when the order came to charge.
‘Are you listening, Karl?’
He was also wondering what clothes had to do with legal protection.
‘Why don't you answer me, Karl?’
‘I'm thinking.’
‘What about?’
‘Oh…’
‘It's really a waste of time talking to you. The fight against crime needs every man every minute of every day, and you just sit there thinking about football and all you can say is “Oh…” and “Well …”, and when something happens, the most you can say is “Jesus”. Can't you get it through your head what a tough spot we policemen are in? The Minister of Justice is the biggest namby-pamby of them all. That's why we don't have any decent legal protection. We've hardly got any protection at all. Like this shit about not having a cartridge in the chamber. Now suppose you're suddenly face to face with some armed gangster, what are you going to do? You don't have any cartridge in the chamber.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Well, that's insane,’ said Kvastmo indignantly. ‘That's against police regulations. Well, anyway, you're not supposed to have. So there you stand, helpless. Done for. And whose fault is that? Whose responsibility? The Minister of Justice, that's who. How are we supposed to clean things up if we're not even allowed to have a cartridge in the chamber?’
‘I fired my pistol once,’ said Kristiansson suddenly. ‘In a bus.’
‘Did you hit anyone?’
‘Well, there wasn't anyone there. But I hit the bus, of course.’
‘What happened?’
‘There was hell to pay. That tall, ugly guy from Violent Crimes gave me a real telling off.’
‘There, you see? No support from above. So it's no wonder. Look at those three guys down in Skåne. Cut down. What do you suppose their wives and children think of the Minister of Justice? And they haven't even caught the killer yet. You know what? I think he's hiding out somewhere here in town. Dammit, if we could collar him. I hate those bastards. I wouldn't hesitate a second if I got the drop on him.’
‘Oh…’
‘What do you mean, “Oh…”? Two of our fellow officers are in the hospital, right? And one of them is dead. That guy Borglund. Dead. Murdered.’
‘Well…’
‘What the hell do you mean, “Well …”?’
‘I heard he got bitten by some poison animal, a frog or something.’
‘How can you believe anything as stupid as that? Didn't you hear that lecture about the perversive forces in society? No, I mean subversive. Communists and that kind of vermin. They spread lies like that to damage and weaken the police force. So they can destroy the very foundations, the very basis, of society. But I didn't really think we had anyone on the force who would fall for it. Sometimes you scare me, Karl.’
‘I do?’
Kristiansson had started thinking about something else. He had a constructive plan. Several days earlier, he had seen a gigantic loaf of marzipan in the supermarket. It was probably meant to be used in a bakery. But the next time he picked up any money on the football pools, he was going to buy it and put it down in the front seat between them. Kvastmo was exceptionally fond of marzipan and wouldn't be able to resist it. But there were two things that worried him. First, how long would the marzipan last? It was enough to last Kristiansson a lifetime, but maybe Kvastmo would wolf it down in half an hour. The second was equally serious. What if Kvastmo was such a great talker that he could rattle on uninterruptedly through a mouthful of almond paste?
He suddenly glanced at Kvastmo and said, ‘What goes oink-oink and never gets to the door?’
‘A pig.’
‘Wrong. A cat with a speech impediment.’
‘You scare me, Karl,’ said Kvastmo, shaking his head. ‘Why doesn't it get to the door?’
‘Oh…’
‘There's a limit,’ Kvastmo said. ‘There's a limit to what a simple, ordinary policeman should have to put up with. Norman Hansson, for example. He's the limit. Last week when you were out sick I had to go check out this domestic disturbance and arrest this jerk who started resisting violently when I collared him. So I worked him over a little with the old truncheon on the way down the stairs and then out in the car, you know, just to calm him down. Next morning Norman Hansson calls me in and wants to know if I've mistreated this editor what's-his-name. Well, I tell him, I used my truncheon to calm him down a little, but there was no question of brutality. And you know what Norman Hansson said?’
Kristiansson was wondering what the enormous loaf of marzipan might cost.
‘Why don't you answer me, Karl?’
‘What?’
‘Do you know what Norman Hansson said?’
‘No?’
‘Well, he shook his head and he said, “There's got to be a stop to this, Kenneth. The next time someone complains I'm going to put you on report.” I mean, he's going to put me on report because some son of a bitch gets drunk and plays his hi-fi too loud.’
‘I thought you said it was a domestic disturbance.’
‘Well, a disturbance is a disturbance. The guy was sitting home alone getting drunk and playing records. But that's not my fault, is it? They can't blame me for that, can they? Can I help it if the guy's a pansy and Norman Hansson's a wimp?’
Kristiansson stared wearily at the road as it seemed to wind up and disappear beneath the car. Norman Hansson was one of the division commanders. By and large, Kristiansson liked him.
‘I expect unswerving loyalty from other policemen, no matter what,’ said Kvastmo firmly. ‘Well, look at that. Look! Did you see that, Karl?’
They were passed by a red Jaguar. It was undeniably travelling very fast.
‘After him, Karl!’
Kristiansson heaved a sigh and floored the accelerator, while Kvastmo flicked on the siren and the flashing lights.
‘That might be our cop killer,’ Kvastmo said.
‘In a red Jaguar?’
‘Stolen, of course.’
Kristiansson happened to know how hard it was to steal a Jaguar, unless the door was open and the key in the ignition. Along with his late partner Kvant, he had once been close to capturing a famous car-thief who specialized in expensive English cars and who was known respectfully as The Jag. The conclusion of the adventure was that Kvant drove into a haystack while The Jag disappeared in the distance.
The police car bellowed through the night. The tail lights of the car in front came closer. All around them, but especially to the right, lay Stockholm with its hundreds of thousands of glittering lights reflecting in dark bays and inlets. Church spires stood silhouetted against a starry sky. The moon was out.
‘Now we've got the son of a bitch,’ Kvastmo said. ‘I was just waiting for something like this to happen.’
Kristiansson glanced at the speedometer. Eighty-five. He held his foot down and pulled up alongside the red Jaguar. Kvastmo already had the STOP paddle in one hand and his truncheon in the other.
And then something odd happened.
The driver of the car they were pursuing looked over at Kristiansson, smiled, and raised his right hand as if he were greeting him or maybe thanking him for something. Then he accelerated and pulled away from them.
‘Well, I'll be damned,’ Kvastmo said. ‘Did you see that?’
‘Yes.’
‘But now I recognize him, at least. Got the description. I never forget a face, as you know. You know that don't you?’
‘Did you get the number, too?’
‘Naturally. You think I'm asleep over here? FZK 011, right?’
‘I didn't notice. Shall we call it in?’
‘No, by God, we'll handle this one by ourselves. Just stick with him. Can you do it, Karl?’
‘Well…’
His chances would have been minimal except that the red rocket turned off the motorway and headed in towards the centre of town. This forced the driver to reduce his speed, and Kristiansson managed to keep him in sight.
The chase screamed on through deserted night-time streets. As far as Kristiansson could tell, their bandit was not even trying to get away, and the patrol car was only a couple of hundred yards behind when the red Jaguar screeched to a stop outside a building on Nybrogatan in Östermalm. The driver jumped out and hurried across the pavement without even locking his car.
Before he was shot, Kristiansson had served in Solna – and before that in Malmö – so he was no expert on the capital. Had he known Stockholm a little better, he might possibly have been surprised to see the villain disappear into the Betania Foundation Hospital.
In the event that Kvastmo recognized the building, it raised no doubts in his mind. Nothing a criminal did could ever surprise him. He was fond of pointing out that a person could expect just about anything in this society of gangsters.
‘No more than what you might expect, the way things are today,’ he said. ‘Right, Karl? But now we've got him where we want him. Is he ever going to be surprised! We'd better both go in.’
Kristiansson had pulled up right behind the red car. He studied it through the windscreen and then looked doubtfully towards the door where the man had entered the building.
‘Well …’ he said.
Kvastmo said nothing for once. He threw open the door and heaved himself out of his seat. The expression on his face was one of grim determination.
‘The number tallies,’ said Kristiansson. ‘FZK on. It's the same car all right.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘Well…’
‘Hurry up,’ said Kvastmo.
Kristiansson sighed and stepped out of the car, straightened his shoulder belt, and followed Kvastmo reluctantly across the pavement.
Kvastmo marched firmly through the entrance, up a flight of stairs, and through a half-open door.
They found themselves in what appeared to be a waiting room. Directly in front of them was a door with an opaque glass panel. Behind it, someone was talking in a hushed voice.
Kvastmo threw Kristiansson a conspiratorial look that was all one-sided, grabbed the handle of the door, threw it open, and strode in.
Kristiansson stayed behind on the threshold. The scene before him filled him with uncertainty. He saw two people – the man from the Jaguar, who was now wearing a green gown of some strange material, and a middle-aged woman. The woman was also dressed oddly. She looked like a nurse, or perhaps a nun. She was holding up a pair of plastic gloves which the man obviously intended to put on.
He also saw Kvastmo, who moved his right hand from his holster to his breast pocket and took out a notebook and pen.
‘All right, what's going on here?’ he bellowed.
The man threw a distracted and slightly astonished look at the two policemen. Then he pushed his hands into the transparent gloves.
‘Thanks for the help,’ he said.
And then he turned his back on them and started to walk away.
Kvastmo turned red in the face.
‘Don't get clever with us,’ he said loudly. ‘What's your name? And let's see your driver's licence. We're just doing our job. My partner here can vouch for that, can't you Karl?’
‘He's just doing his job,’ Kristiansson mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
The man seemed to have lost interest in them altogether. The woman had just covered his face with a mask, and he was taking a step towards a large double door, when Kvastmo grabbed him by the arm.
