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 themselves 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.
This was Sturup Airport, Malmö. So new it still wasn't complete.
He doubted there was any point in completing it. In a way, it was perfect already - epitomizing the fiasco as it did.
Martin Beck dried his hands with his handkerchief. He went back outside and stood in the darkness for a moment feeling lonely.
He hadn't exactly expected the police band lined up in the arrivals hall, or the local chief of police out on horseback to receive him.
But perhaps he had expected something more than nothing at
all.
He dug in his pocket for change and considered searching for a pay phone that did not have the cord to its receiver cut or its coin slot stuffed with chewing gum.
Lights cut through the fog. A black-and-white patrol car came sneaking along the ramp and swung in towards the door of the huge saffron-yellow box.
It was moving slowly, and when it drew even with the solitary traveller it came to a stop. The side window was rolled down, and a red-haired individual with skimpy police sideburns stared at him coldly.
Martin Beck said nothing.
After a minute or so the man raised his hand and beckoned to him with his finger. Martin Beck walked over to the car. 'What are you hanging around here for?'
'Waiting for transport.'
'Waiting for transport! You don't say!'
'Perhaps you can help me.' The constable looked dumbfounded. 'Help you? What do you mean?'
'I've been delayed. I thought maybe I could use your radio.' 'Who do you think you are?'
Without taking his eyes off Martin Beck, he threw several remarks back over his shoulder.
'Did you hear that? He says he thought maybe he could use our radio. I reckon he thinks we're some kind of pimp service or something. Did you hear him?'
'I heard,' said the other policeman wearily.
'Can you identify yourself?' said the first policeman.
Martin Beck put his hand to his back pocket, but changed his mind. He let his arm drop.
'Yes,' he said. 'But I'd really rather not'
He turned on his heel and walked back to his bag.
'Did you hear that?' the policeman said. 'He says he'd rather not. He thinks he's pretty tough. Do you think he's tough?'
The sarcasm was so heavy that the words fell to the ground like bricks.
'Oh, forget it,' said the man who was driving. 'Let's not have any more trouble tonight, okay?'
The redhead stared hard at Martin Beck for a long time. Then there was a mumbled conversation, and the car began to roll away.
Sixty feet off it stopped again so the policemen could observe him in the rear-view mirror.
Martin Beck looked in a different direction and sighed heavily.
As he stood there at this moment, he could have been taken for anyone at all.
During the last year he had managed to get rid of some of his police mannerisms. He no longer invariably clasped his hands behind his back, for example, and he could now stand in one place for a short time without rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet
Although he had put on a little weight, he was still, at fifty-one, a tall, fit, well-built man, with a slight stoop. He also dressed more comfortably than he had, though there was no laboured youthfulness in his choice of clothes - sandals, Levi's, turtle-neck, and a blue Dacron jacket. On the other hand, it might be considered unconventional for a detective superintendent of police.
For the two officers in the patrol car it was obviously difficult to swallow. They were still pondering the situation when a tomato-coloured Opel Ascona swung up in front of the terminal building and braked to a stop. A man climbed out and walked around the car.
'Allwright?' he said. 'Beck.'
'People generally get a chuckle out of that' 'A chuckle?'
'You know, they laugh at the way I say Allwright'
'I see.'
Laughter did not come quite that easily to Martin Beck.
'And you'll have to admit it is a silly name for a policeman. Herrgott Allwright So I usually introduce myself that way, like it was a question. Allwright? It sort of flusters people.'
He stowed the suitcase in the boot of his car.
'I'm late,' he said. 'No one knew where the plane was going to come down. I took a chance it would be Copenhagen," as usual. So I was already in Limhamn when I got the word it had landed here. Sorry.'
He peered enquiringly at Martin Beck, as if trying to determine whether his exalted guest was out of sorts.
Martin Beck shrugged his shoulders.
'It doesn't matter,' he said. ‘I’m not in any hurry.'
Allwright threw a glance at the patrol car, which remained in position with its engine idling.
"This isn't my district,' he said with a grin. 'They're from Malmö. We'd better go before we get arrested.'
The man obviously had a ready laugh, which, moreover, was soft and infectious.
But still Martin Beck wouldn't smile. Partly because there wasn't all that much to smile at, and partly because he was trying to form an opinion of the other man - sketch out a sort of preliminary description.
Allwright was a short, bow-legged man - short, that is, for the police service. With his green rubber boots, his greyish-brown twill suit, and the sun-bleached safari hat on the back of his head, he looked like a former, or, at any rate, like a man with his own territory. His face was sunburned and weatherbitten, and there were laugh lines around the corners of his lively brown eyes. And yet he was representative of a certain category of rural policeman. A type of man who didn't fit in with the new conformist style and was therefore on his way to dying out, but was not yet completely extinct.
He was probably older than Martin Beck, but he had the advantage of working in calmer and healthier surroundings, which is not to say that they were calm and healthy, by any means.
'I've been here almost twenty-five years. But this is a first for me. The National Murder Squad, from Stockholm, on a case like this.'
Allwright shook his head.
Tm sure everything will work out fine,' said Martin Beck. 'Or else...'
He finished the sentence silently to himself: Or else it won't work out at all.
'Exactly,' Allwright said. 'You people from the Murder Squad understand this kind of case.'
Martin Beck wondered if that was the polite plural, or if he were really referring to both of them. Lennart Kollberg was on his way from Stockholm by car and could be expected the next day. He had been Martin Beck's right-hand man for many years.
'The story's going to leak out pretty soon,' Allwright said. 'I saw a couple of characters in town today - reporters, I think.'
He shook his head again.
'We're not used to this sort of thing. All this attention.'
'Someone has disappeared,' said Martin Beck."There's nothing so unusual about that'
'No, but that's not the crux of the matter. Not at all. Do you want to hear about it?'
'Not right now, thanks. If you won't take it amiss.'
'I never take anything amiss. Not my style.'
He laughed again, but stopped himself and added, soberly, 'But then I'm not in charge of the investigation.'
'Maybe she'll turn up. That's usually the way.'
Allwright shook his head for the third time.
'I don't think so,' he said. 'In case my opinion makes any difference. Anyway, it's an open-and-shut case. Everyone says so. They're probably right. All this nonsense with the... I mean, excuse me, but calling in the Murder Squad and all that is just because of the unusual circumstances.'
'Who says so?'
'The chief. The boss.'
'The Chief of Police in Trelleborg?'
'That's the man. But you're right, let's let it go for now. This is the new airport road we're on. And now we're coming out on the motorway from Malmö to Ystad. Also brand new. You see the lights off to the right?'
'Yes.'
'That's Svedala. Still part of Malmö Division. It's one hell of a district for sheer size.'
They had emerged from the fog belt, which was apparently confined to the immediate vicinity of the airport. The sky was full of stars. Martin Beck had rolled down the side window and was breathing in the smells from outside. Petrol and diesel oil, but also a fertile mixture of humus and manure. It seemed heavy and saturated. Nourishing. Allwright drove only a few hundred yards along the motorway. Then he turned off to the right, and the country air grew richer.
There was one special smell.
'Stalks and beet pulp,' Allwright said: 'Reminds me of when I was a lad.'
On the motorway there had been passenger cars and enormous container lorries thundering along in a steady stream, but here they seemed to be alone. The night lay dark and velvety on the rolling plain.
It was dear that Allwright had driven this same stretch of road hundreds of times before and literally knew every curve. He held a steady speed and hardly even needed to look at the road.
He lit a cigarette and offered the pack.
'No, thank you,' said Martin Beck.
He had smoked no more than five cigarettes over the last two years.
'If I understood correctly, you wanted to stay at the inn,' Allwright said.
'Yes, that would be fine.'
'Anyway, I've arranged for a room there.'
'Good.'
The lights of a small town appeared ahead of them.
'We have arrived, as it were,' said Allwright 'This is Anderslöv.'
The streets were empty, but well lit.
'No nightlife here,' Allwright said. 'Quiet and peaceful. Nice. I've lived here all my life and never had a thing to complain about Before now.'
It looked awfully damned dead, Martin Beck thought. But maybe that's the way it was supposed to look.
Allwright slowed down and pointed to a low, yellow-brick building.
'Police station,' he said. 'Of course it's closed at the moment. But I can open up if you like!' 'Not for my sake.'
'The inn's right around the corner. The garden we just drove by belongs to it. But the restaurant isn't open at this hour. If you want, we can go to my place and have a sandwich and a beer.'
Martin Beck wasn't hungry. The flight down had taken away his appetite. He declined politely. And then he said:
'Is it a long way to the beach?'
The other man didn't seem to be surprised by the question. Perhaps Allwright was not a man to be easily surprised. 'No,' he said. 'I wouldn't say that' 'How long would it take to drive there?' 'About fifteen minutes. Tops.' 'Would you mind?'
'Not a bit'
Allwright swung the car on to what looked to be the high street.
'This is the town's big attraction,' he said. 'The Main Road. Main with a capital M. Formerly the main road from Malmö to Ystad. When we turn off to the right, you will be south of the Main Road. And then you'll really be in Skåne.'
The side road was winding, but Allwright drove it with the same easy confidence. They passed farms and white churches.
Ten minutes later they could smell the sea. A few minutes more and they were at the beach.
'Do you want me to stop?'
'Yes, please.'
'If you want to go wading, I've got an extra pair of wellies in the boot,' Allwright said, and chuckled. 'Thanks, I'd like to.'
Martin Beck pulled on the boots. They were a little too tight, but he wasn't planning any lengthy excursions. 'Where are we now, exactly?'