'Not here, of course. But here, on the other hand, a flock of bandits can sit around and spoil life for everyone. They don't even get a four-pound fine. They get made provincial governors and get free air fare to their banks in Liechtenstein and Kuwait Nothing wrong with Liechtenstein and Kuwait, mind you. Fine countries, both of them.'
Suddenly Mård groaned and pressed his right hand to his midriff. 'Are you all right?' said Martin Beck. 'No, but it'll go away.'
Mård picked up his glass and emptied half of it.
He was breathing heavily. Martin Beck waited. A few moments later, his expression eased.
'But you said you wanted to talk about Sigbrit,' he said. 'Okay, she was murdered by that sex maniac who lived next door, and you've caught him and put him in the psycho ward where he belongs. If you hadn't got him, I would have gone out there and killed him myself. You saved me the trouble. What else is there to talk about?'
'That trip to Copenhagen.'
'But you've got your murderer, for Christ's sake.'
'I'm not absolutely sure we do. You say you went to Copenhagen on October seventeenth.'
'Yes.'
'On the train ferry Malmöhus?’
'Yes. And the men on board saw me. The mess steward and the deck crew, both.'
'But they're not absolutely certain of the day. That's the trouble.'
'What the hell am I supposed to do about that?'
'Well, what did you do in Copenhagen?'
'Went to a lot of bars and drank myself good stinking drunk. I don't even remember how I got back home.'
'Now listen, Captain Mård. You told us you sat in the forward saloon - what used to be the first-class smoking room.'
'Yes. At the table amidships. Right behind the ship's bell.'
'I've sat at that table myself. There's a marvellous view.'
'Yes, it's almost like standing on the bridge. I suppose that's why I like to sit there.'
'You're an old seaman and a practised observer. Did anything happen on that trip?'
"Things always happen at sea. But nothing that would mean anything to you.'
'Don't be too sure.'
Mård stuck his hand in his back pocket and pulled out the worn leather notebook.
'I was at sea, after all,' he said. 'Even if I did sit there like a piece of baggage. I've got a notation here. I put down eveiything of interest in the log. Unless I'm dead drunk of course.'
He thumbed through the book to a special section.
'Here we are,' he said. 'Train ferry Malmöhus from ferry slip Malmö eleven forty-five hours October seventeenth, nineteen hundred seventy-three. Sixteen knots, estimated. Bound Copenhagen. I made notes of the ships we met'
'Oh?'
'Well, of course, you log your meetings, that's obvious.' 'Wait a minute,' said Martin Beck.
He took out a paper and pen, things he seldom made use of in his fieldwork.
'Eleven fifty-five, MS Öresund on course for Malmö harbour.' *Yes, that boat runs every day.' 'I suppose so. Regular traffic'
'Twelve thirty-seven, MS Gripen, same thing there. Small cargo ship in regular traffic. I wrote "blue ribbon" after the name. Which doesn't mean the Atlantic Blue Riband exactiy.'
'What does it mean?'
'Well, it means she had a blue ribbon painted along her plating.' ‘What's so special about that?'
'The ribbon used to be green. The shipping company must have changed its colours. Twelve fifty-five was more interesting, a freighter called the Runatkindar. Faroese flag.'
'Faroese?'
'Yes, you don't see it very often. Then we were passed by two hydrofoils, thirteen-o-five and thirteen-o-six, Svalan and Queen of the Waves. Then I put down that there was an Italian destroyer at Langelinie and two small German freighters in Frihavnen. And that's all.'
'I'll take down those names,' said Martin Beck. 'Can I have a look?'
'No. But I'll spell them for you.'
He spelled out the name of the ship that had flown the flag of the Faroe Islands.
Martin Beck would have Benny Skacke check it. But in his heart of hearts he already knew that Bertil Mård's alibi would hold.
Now there were a couple of other subjects he wanted to go into.
'Excuse me if I ask you some more questions,' he said. 'But how did you know that Folke Bengtsson lived next door to your ex-wife?'
'Because she told me so herself.'
'You said you hadn't been out there for at least a year and a half. Bengtsson moved in only a year ago.'
'Who the hell said I was out there when she told me? Sigbrit came in here to try and get some money out of me. And I gave her some; I still liked her. I gave her a little cock too. Right here on the floor. Squealed like a stuck pig when she came. That was when she told me about that sex maniac. And that was the last time I saw her, for that matter.'
Mård fixed his strange gaze on the floor.
'Damn son of a bitch,' he said. 'Strangled her, right? Where have you got him?'
'Let's not talk about that'
'What the fuck do we talk about then? Whores? You were interested in brothels, weren't you? Do you want some addresses?' 'No thanks.'
Bertil Mård groaned again and pressed his fist hard against his right side, below the ribs. He poured himself some more vodka and drank it down.
Martin Beck waited.
'Captain Mård,' he said, when the pain seemed to have passed. 'There is one point on which you are obviously lying.' 'I'll be damned if I've told a lie all day. What day is it?' 'Friday, November sixteenth.'
'I ought to write it up in the log. "No lies today." Of course, the day isn't over yet'
'You said yourself that Bengtsson didn't move to Domme until after you had definitely stopped going out there, and yet he's seen you out there twice.'
'Now there's your fucking lie! I haven't set foot on the place.'
Martin Beck thought He massaged the edge of his scalp.
'Do you know if your ex-wife was seeing anyone named Clark?'
'Never heard of him. Besides, I wouldn't stand for Sigbrit seeing other men.'
'You don't know anyone named Clark?'
'Not offhand. I suppose I must have met someone by that name sometime. But it didn't have anything to do with Sigbrit. It's a silly fucking name anyway.'
'I don't see why Bengtsson would lie about it He definitely says he saw you at the house two different times.'
'Typical,' Mård said. 'He's fucking crazy. He strangles two women. And here you sit - some kind of superintendent of police - wondering why the hell he would tell a lie.'
Mård spat on the floor.
'Christ, that mechanical man I told you about would really make a better cop.'
Suddenly Martin Beck put two and two together.
Very much too late, it seemed to him.
'What kind of car do you drive, Captain Mård?'
'A Saab. An old green wreck. I've had it six years. It's parked out there somewhere with one of those little tickets on the windscreen that says to send in your thirty-five-kronor bribe. I'm rarely sober enough to drive it.'
Martin Beck stared at him for a long time.
Mård didn't say anything.
After about a minute, Martin Beck broke the silence himself. 'I'm going now,' he said. 'And in all probability, I'll never come back.'
'That suits me fine.'
'In some funny way I like you,' said Martin Beck. 'Thanks for being so patient'
'I don't give a shit if you like me or not'
'Would you let me give you a piece of honest advice?'
'I suppose I could use it'
'Sell the pub and whatever else you may own. Put it in cash and get away from here. Buy yourself a plane ticket to Panama or Honduras and ship out. Even if you have to sign on as mate.'
Mård looked at him with his dark-brown eyes, which could change so quickly from madness to utter calm.
'It's an idea’ he said.
Martin Beck closed the door behind him.
He was always thorough, so he would ask Benny Skacke to check out that story about the ships.
But it wasn't very important any more.
Folke Bengtsson had seen a man in a beige Volvo at the house in Domme - twice.
And that man had not been Bertil Mård.
When Martin Beck got back to Anderslöv, he went to the police station to talk to Herrgott Allwright
There was no one in the office except an old man in wooden shoes, who was standing by the counter twisting a worn astrakhan cap in his hands. The door to Allwright's office was ajar, and he pushed it open and looked in. Britta, the clerical assistant, was standing at the desk shuffling through some papers.
'Herrgott's gone to Hönsinge to see about something,, she said. 'He said he'd be back in an hour.'
Martin Beck stood in the doorway and thought. He wanted to talk to someone, but he didn't want to wait a whole hour for Allwright, and Kollberg wasn't available.
'Tell him I've gone down to Trelleborg,' he said finally. 'I'll be back this evening.'
He closed the door and went to the outer office to call a taxi. The man in the wooden shoes put his cap down on the counter.
'Excuse me,' he said. 'I wanted to get a driver's licence.' Martin Beck shook his head. 'I can't help you.'
'But it's only for a horse and cart,' the old man pleaded.
‘You'll have to talk to the secretary,' said Martin Beck, picking up the phone.
The old man looked so crestfallen and unhappy that Martin Beck felt sorry for him.
'She'll be right back,' he said. 'I'm sure she can fix you up.' Driver's licence for a horse and cart, he thought. Was there such a thing?
The cab driver was unusual - one of the silent type. He drove and Martin Beck thought. He tried to summarize what he knew about the man who had been Sigbrit Mård's lover. His name was Clark.
He wrote short notes to her on paper that looked as if it had been ripped out of a notebook. How did she get his messages? Not in the post certainly.
He was probably married to someone named Sissy, who had a brother.
He met Sigbrit on Thursdays. Once in a while, they might meet on some other day of the week as well, but always on Thursdays. Except for holidays, and the months of June and July. Maybe he took his annual leave then. They saw each other unusually often during the month of August. Perhaps he had been a grass widow, with Sissy in the country.
It was possible that he owned a beige Volvo.
He called her Sigge.
It wasn't much to go on.
Martin Beck thought about the key in Sigbrit Mård's purse, the one that fit no lock. Herrgott had established that she didn't have a key to where she worked. Was it the key to Clark's flat, or did they have a love nest?
He had a lot of questions, most of them pure speculation, based on the two handwritten messages and the letter C in Sigbrit's calendar.
The letter might stand for something entirely different Coffee house? Did she work special hours those days? Class? Maybe she was involved in some kind of adult education course. But there was nothing in her house to indicate it, and no one she knew had mentioned anything of that kind. He had the taxi let him out at the square, and he walked the short distance to the pastry shop and coffee house where Sigbrit Mård had worked.
It seemed to be a popular place. The bakery section was full of customers, and all the tables in the cafe were occupied.
Martin Beck watched for a while, trying to work out which one of the women behind the counter was in charge. There were new customers arriving all the time, and the women were very busy. He finally took a number and waited his turn.
The owner was a woman in her fifties. She was plump and seemed cheerful and motherly, and Martin Beck imagined her constantly surrounded by the aroma of fresh bread, meringues, and vanilla cream.
She showed him into a little office behind the kitchen.
'I simply can't tell you how dreadful it is, all this about Sigbrit,' she said. 'I had my misgivings when she just suddenly disappeared like that but that anything so terrible might have happened to her, it's simply inconceivable.'
'What sort of woman was she?' Martin Beck asked.
'Sigbrit? A wonderful girl, clever and conscientious and awfully good-natured. Everyone liked her, the girls she worked with, and everyone. The customers too.'
'How long had she worked here?'
'Oh, it's a long time now. She was one of my oldest girls. Let me see..'
She closed her eyes and thought.
'Twelve years,' she said finally. 'She started here in the autumn of sixty-one.'
'Then you knew her quite well, I suppose,' said Martin Beck. 'Did she ever talk about her private life, about her marriage, for example?'
'Oh, yes, but that was such a peculiar marriage. I thought she did the right thing when she divorced that fellow. He was never at home anyway.'
'Do you know if she was involved with any other men?'
The woman threw up both of her chubby hands.
'Sigbrit wasn't that kind at all,' she said. 'She was faithful to her husband, I can tell you that, Superintendent. In spite of the fact that he was always away at sea, and even though he was a no-good. That's what he was, in my opinion.'
'I meant later, after the divorce,' said Martin Beck.
'Well, Sigbrit was still young and good-looking, so actually it was funny she didn't find another man. But she didn't as far as I know.'
'What did her job involve? Did she stand behind the counter or did she wait on tables?'
'Both. The girls take turns; depends on how much there is to do. Sometimes there's more to do in the shop, and sometimes we have so many for coffee that at least two girls have to wait on tables.'
'What hours did she work?'
'It varied. We don't close till ten o'clock, so the girls work shifts.' 'Thursday evenings, for example. Did she work then?' The woman shook her head and looked at Martin Beck in surprise.
'No,' she said. 'Thursday was always Sigbrit's evening off. She was free on other evenings too, of course, but Thursdays in particular she always wanted off.'
'She asked for them herself?'
'Yes, that's right. But she was always happy to work Fridays and Saturdays when the other girls all wanted time off'