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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 farmer, 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.
‘I'm 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 clear 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?’
‘In Böste. Those lights to the right are Trelleborg. The light-house on the left is Smygehuk. Further than that you can't get.’
Smygehuk was Sweden's southernmost point.
To judge by the lights and the reflection in the sky, Trelleborg must be a large city. A big brightly lit passenger ship was headed for the harbour – probably the train ferry from Sassnitz in East Germany.
The Baltic was heaving listlessly against the shore. The water disappeared down into the fine-grained sand with a soft hiss.
Martin Beck stepped on the swaying rampart of seaweed and then took a couple of steps out into the water. It felt pleasantly cool through the leg of the boot.
He bent forward, cupped his hands and filled them. Rinsed his face and drew the cold water in through his nose. It tasted fresh and salty.
The air was damp. It smelled of seaweed, fish, and tar.
Several yards away he could see nets hung up to dry and the outlines of a fishing boat.
What was it Kollberg always said?
The best part of Murder was that it got you out of the city now and then.
Martin Beck lifted his head and listened. All he could hear was the sea.
After a while he walked back to the car. Allwright was leaning against the bonnet, smoking. Martin Beck nodded.
He would study the case in the morning.
He didn't expect much of it. These things were usually just routine. The same old stories over and over again, usually tragic and depressing.
The breeze from the sea was mild and cool.
A freighter ploughed by along the dark horizon. Westward. He could see the green starboard lantern and some lights amidships.
He longed to be aboard.
4 (#ulink_27d6d31d-14d3-531e-b593-77d83627c57e)
Martin Beck was wide awake as soon as he opened his eyes. The room was spartan but pleasant. There were two beds, and a window facing north. The beds were parallel, three feet apart. His suitcase lay on one of them and he on the other. On the floor was the book of which he had read half a page and two picture captions before he fell asleep. It was a book in the series ‘Famous Passenger Liners of the Past’, and its title was The Turboelectric Quadruplescrew Liner: Normandie.
He looked at the clock. Seven-thirty. Scattered sounds came from outside – cars and voices. Somewhere in the building a toilet flushed. Something was different. He identified it right away. He had been sleeping in pyjamas, which he now only did when he was travelling.
Martin Beck got up, walked over to the window, and looked out. The weather looked fine. The sun was shining on the lawn behind the inn.
He washed and dressed quickly and went downstairs. For a moment he considered having breakfast, but he dismissed the thought. He had never liked eating in the morning, especially not as a child when his mother had forced cocoa and three sandwiches down his throat before he left home. He had often thrown up on his way to school.
Instead of breakfast, he located a one-krona piece in his trouser pocket and stuffed it into the slot machine that stood to the right of the entrance. Pulled the handle, got three cherries, and pocketed his winnings. Then he left the building, walked diagonally across the cobblestone square, past the state alcohol shop, which wasn't open yet, rounded two corners, and found himself at the police station. The volunteer fire department was apparently housed next door, for a fire engine had been backed up in front of the building. He practically had to crawl under the revolving ladder stage in order to get by. A man in greasy overalls was fixing something on the fire engine.
‘Hi, how are ya?’ he said cheerfully, and in defiance of all rules of Swedish formality.
Martin Beck was startled. This was clearly an unconventional town.
‘Hi,’ he said.
The police station door was locked, and taped to the glass was a piece of cardboard on which someone had written in ballpoint pen:
Office Hours
Weekdays 8.30 a.m. – 12 noon 1.00 p.m. – 2.30 p.m.
Thursdays also 6 p.m. – 7 p.m.
Closed Saturdays
Sundays were not mentioned. Crime had probably been discontinued on Sundays, perhaps even forbidden.
