What was a strangled divorcee compared with two bullet-riddled cops? And a third one injured, no one knew exactly how or why. One criminal was dead, and another was on a wild flight from justice.
Martin Beck and Kollberg both knew that being a policeman wasn't especially dangerous, even if the higher echelons and a lot of individual policemen did like to overdramatize their profession.
Of course, policemen did get shot. In fact it happened a lot more often than the so-called general public knew. Because the accident fate at police firing ranges was alarmingly high, even though such accidental shootings were always hushed up. The trouble was that many policemen were trigger-happy young men who lacked the experience and caution in the company of weapons which usually characterizes civilian marksmen. They were simply careless, with the result that they often shot themselves or one another, though seldom fatally.
But otherwise it was not a dangerous job, not physically. In fact, a man's greatest risk was of ruining his back with too much riding around in cars. A great many other professions had infinitely more casualties on the job.
And this was true not only in Sweden.
To take an obvious example: In Britain, 7,768 mine workers have been killed since 1947, while in that same period only a dozen policemen have lost their lives.
This was perhaps an extreme example, but Lennart Kollberg was in the habit of using it whenever he got into a discussion of whether or not policemen should be armed. In England, Scotland, and Wales, as everyone knows, policemen are not armed. And there must be some explanation for the fact that policemen are injured so much more often in a little country like Sweden.
Martin Beck had to take the first phone call of the day, and it came from someone he would rather have avoided. Stig Malm.
As a matter of fact, there was probably only one person he had a greater aversion to talking to.
'Your case is all wrapped up,' Malm said. 'Well...'
'Isn't it? As far as I can see, it's solved. You've got the murderer under lock and key. And you had him even before you found the body. Though that was hardly your own doing.'
Martin Beck thought about the excavations in Folke Bengtsson's garden, but he restrained himself from saying anything. The subject was possibly a little delicate.
'Isn't that right?' Malm said.
'I wouldn't exactly say the case is closed,' said Martin Beck. 'What do you mean by that?'
'There are other possibilities. Some details that still haven't been cleared up.'
'But you have arrested the murderer?'
'I'm not at all sure of that,' said Martin Beck. 'Although it is possible of course.'
'Possible? Could it be any simpler?'
'Oh yes,' said Martin Beck with conviction. 'Much simpler.'
Kollberg looked at him inquisitively.
They were sitting in Allwright's office.
Allwright himself was out taking the dog for its morning walk.
Martin Beck shook his head.
'Well, that's not actually why I called,' Malm said. 'You're welcome to keep your little mystifications to yourself. We've got more important things to do.'
‘What things?'
'Do you have to ask? Three policemen mown down by gangsters, and one of the desperadoes still at large.' 'I'm not familiar with it'
'That seems very odd. Don't you read the papers?' Martin Beck couldn't resist.
'Yes, I do, but I don't base my judgements as a policeman on them. And I don't necessarily believe all the nonsense I read.'
Malm didn't react. Every time Martin Beck stopped to think that this man was actually his boss, he felt the same mixture of distaste and amazement.
'The whole matter is by its very nature terribly distressing,' Malm said. 'The Commissioner is extremely upset, of course. You know how strongly he feels when something happens to any of our men.'
This time, apparently, the National Commissioner was not there in his office.
'I know,' said Martin Beck.
And, of course, the whole business really was as awful as it was significant. It was just that Malm's way of talking about it made it look like one of the pseudo-events used so often in recent years to make propaganda for the force.
'We're anticipating a nationwide manhunt,' Malm said. 'So far, not even the car has been found.'
'Does this really concern the National Murder Squad?'
'That is something which time and the next act in this ghastly drama will reveal.' Said Malm, with the stilted solemnity that so often marked his conversation.
'What sort of shape are. those men in?' Martin Beck asked.
'At least two of them are still in critical condition. The doctors say the third has a good chance of making it, although he'll have to reckon on a good long convalescence, of course.'
'I see.'
'We can't ignore the possibility that this manhunt will spread over the whole country,' Malm said. 'We've got to catch this desperado at any price, and we've got to catch him soon.'
'As I said, I'm not familiar with what happened,' said Martin Beck.
'You can learn. Quicker than you suppose,' said Malm with a short, self-satisfied laugh. 'That's why I'm calling.' 'I see.'
'It has been decided that I will direct the manhunt personally,' Malm said. 'I will take charge of the tactical command.'
Martin Beck smiled. That was very good news for him - and for the man being hunted.
He was going to escape an assignment where the National Commissioner would be breathing down his neck. The criminal, in turn, could now reckon on an excellent chance of getting away.
Putting Martin Beck on some sort of manhunt staff with Malm as the so-called tactical commander would presumably be going too far. In that respect, Martin Beck was privileged.
And so he wondered what Malm really wanted. But he didn't have to wonder long. Malm cleared his throat and assumed his most portentous tone of voice.
'Of course, it goes without saying that you will complete the assignment you're already working on. But we're just in the process of setting up a task force in Malmö. The Chief down there knows all about it. And we've just had a meeting here early this morning.'
Martin Beck looked at his watch.
It was not yet eight o'clock.
Apparently the high command had been up early.
'And?'
'We've decided to transfer Lennart Kollberg to the task force effective at once. He's an exceptionally good man, and there's no good reason why you should need him on a case that's practically complete.'
'Wait a moment,' said Martin Beck. 'You can speak to him yourself.'
'That's not necessary,' said Malm evasively. 'You can give him the message. He's to proceed immediately to Malmö. Coordinator for Task Force Malmö is Inspector Månsson.'
'I'll tell him.'
'Fine,' Malm said. 'By the way, congratulations.' 'For what?'
'For the way you've virtually wrapped up this sex murder. As quickly as ever.'
‘I don't even know if it is a sex murder,' said Martin Beck. 'The results of the autopsy aren't clear on that point'
'Your record of cases solved is masterful,' Malm said. 'Except when they involve locked rooms.'
He laughed good-naturedly at his own little joke.
Martin Beck found it unusually easy to control his laughter when he saw Kollberg's suspicious glance.
'And you'll give Kollberg his orders... I mean, the message.'
'I'll speak to him.'
'Fine. Bye.'
'Goodbye,' said Martin Beck. He hung up.
'What does that ass want now?' Kollberg asked. Martin Beck looked at him thoughtfully. 'Well, I'll give you the good news first,' he said. 'What's that?'
'You won't have to deal with Folke Bengtsson any more.'
Kollberg's gaze became even more suspicious. 'Oh,' he said. 'And what's the bad news?'
'Two policemen were shot down on the road to Falsterbo early yesterday morning. And a third was injured some other way.'
'I know.'
'You're to report to Malmö.' 'How come?'
'They're setting up a task force there. Månsson's coordinating.' 'Well that's something.'
"There's one little catch. You're not going to like it' "The National Commissioner,' said Kollberg, with something like horror written on his well-fed face. 'Not quite as bad as that' 'How bad?'
'Malm.'
'Christ'
'He's in charge of the tactical command.'
"The tactical command?'
‘Yes, that's what he said.'
'What the hell is a tactical command?'
'Sounds military. They're turning us into some sort of militia.'
Kollberg frowned.
‘There was a time when I liked being a cop. But that's a hell of a long time ago. Was there anything else?'
'Not really. You're supposed to get over to Malmö on the double.' Kollberg shook his head.
'Malm,' he said. 'What an arsehole. Policemen shot. And that clown heading something called the tactical command. Terrific I suppose there's nothing to do but pack up my things and get out of here.'
'What do you think about Folke Bengtsson? Your personal opinion?'
'Frankly, I think he's innocent,' Kollberg said. 'He's not all there, but this time he didn't do it?
They said goodbye a few minutes later. 'Now don't get all depressed,' said Martin Beck. 'I'll try,' Kollberg said. 'So long.' 'So long.'
Martin Beck sat by himself for a while and tried to collect his thoughts.
He trusted Kollberg's judgement as much as he did his own. Kollberg didn't believe Folke Bengtsson had strangled Sigbrit Mård.
Martin Beck didn't think so either. But he wasn't sure. Bengtsson was so damned odd.
On the other hand, Martin Beck did know one thing. Bertil Mård was innocent. Benny Skacke had checked on those ships. No easy task, per se, but not impossible for an energetic policeman with ambition and a pleasant telephone voice.
Mård's log was accurate. That detail about the Faroese freighter could be called decisive.
Allwright walked into the room, threw his hat on the desk and himself in the desk chair.
Timmy rose up on his hind legs and started licking Martin Beck on the face.
Martin Beck shoved the dog aside.
'Herrgott,' he said. 'Are you absolutely sure you don't know anyone named Clark, with a wife they call Sissy? Who's small and frail but suntanned? Who has wavy white hair and glasses?'
‘There's no such person in the Anderslöv district,' Allwright said. ‘You think that's the man who did away with Sigbrit?'
'Yes,' said Martin Beck. 'As a matter of fact, I think it's starting to look that way.'
'Lie down, Timmy!' Allwright said.
The dog actually laid down beside his chair.
He scratched it behind the ears.
'Well, it would be nice if it weren't Bengtsson. People seem to miss him and his smoked herring. Besides, I'd rather it were someone who didn't live in Anderslöv.'
He drove all day Sunday, and in the evening he came to a place called Malexander.
He had avoided the main roads. In principle, he was headed for Stockholm, and he followed the signs as well as he could. But his knowledge of geography was sketchy, and he had no map, so he often went wrong. Sometimes he had the feeling he had passed through an area twice, driving south on one road where he had just driven north on another.
What happened had seemed abstract and unreal. He tried to recall the whole chain of events, but all he could call to mind were individual moments, like pictures frozen in a film.
At first he had been terrified, but the fear had subsided, and he had driven away without thinking.
He drove through Malexander, turned off on to a small road leading down to a lake, and parked the car. Then he lay down in the back seat and pulled his collar up over his ears, put his hands between his knees, and fell instantly asleep.
The mist rose from the lake and covered the car with a dull film of moisture.
He was awakened by the cold. He didn't know where he was at first, but then he remembered, and his fear came rushing back.
It was still dark. He crawled over into the front seat, turned on the headlights, and started the engine. Then he made one shivering circuit of the car to loosen up his stiff joints. He stopped in front of the radiator, looked at the licence plate, and decided he'd better change them as soon as he got a chance.
Then he got back in the car and continued north.
The boy called Caspar was short and delicate, with slender limbs, and the light hair that fell in waves to his shoulders accentuated the soft, childish lines of his face. He was often asked for his driver's licence when he drove a car. It was hard for anyone to believe that he was eighteen years old. It annoyed him just as much every time it happened, and he hoped that by sticking to back roads he would avoid running into a patrol car.
His driver's licence was okay. It was in the back pocket of his jeans, made out to Ronnie Casparsson, born 16/9/54.
He wondered what had happened to his friend. When he saw him collapse in the road he'd been certain he was dead, but now he wasn't so sure any more. He'd been standing there in the middle of the road and had called out 'Get in the car, Caspar,' as he took aim at one of the policemen. Then suddenly he'd been shot himself. Maybe he'd managed to kill one or two of the cops first, Caspar didn't know. He'd been scared and had driven away. He hadn't even known the other boy was armed.
Maybe he wasn't dead. Maybe he was grassing to the cops right now. But what could he grass about? He didn't even know Caspar's right name. Just as Caspar knew nothing about him, except what he was called.
They had met Friday evening in Malmö.
Caspar had come from Copenhagen that morning. He had really meant to go straight back to Stockholm, but his money was gone, and he hadn't been able to hitch a ride. So he had drifted around Malmö all day trying to think of a way to get some cash. Malmö was a strange city to him. He didn't know anyone there, and he didn't know where to go.
Finally he came to a park and ran into some other boys, who offered him a beer. That was how he had met Christen
The other boys had gone off somewhere, and Christer and Caspar had sat on the bench and shared a beer. Christer hadn't had any money either, but he did have a car. It was not clear that the car was his own, but at least he had the keys to it He lived in Malmö, and he knew where there were summer houses that could be broken into.