Cop Killer. Ларс Кеплер

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       4

      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.

      Martin Beck stared at the sign thoughtfully. To anyone coming from Stockholm, it was hard to imagine things could ever be like this.

      Maybe he ought to have some breakfast after all.

      ‘Herrgott will be right back,’ said the man in overalls. ‘He went out with the dog ten minutes ago.’

      Martin Beck nodded.

      ‘Are you the famous detective?’

      It was a difficult question, and he didn't answer right away.

      The man went on working with something on the fire engine.

      ‘No offence,’ he said, without turning his head. ‘But I heard there was supposed to be some famous cop at the inn. And then I didn't recognize you.’

      ‘Yes, I suppose that must be me,’ said Martin Beck uncertainly.

      ‘So that means Folke's going to jail.’

      ‘What makes you think so?’

      ‘Oh, everyone knows that.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘It's too bad. His smoked herring were damned good.’

      The man brought the conversation to a close by crawling in under the fire engine and disappearing.

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