Читать книгу Cop Killer - Ларс Кеплер - Страница 13

The police recruit would have been a great success on TV doing a parody of someone trying not to look as if he were watching a house. In addition, the house was very small, and the buildings on either side had been torn down. He was standing across the street with his hands behind his back, gazing out into empty space but casting continuous sidelong glances at the door behind which the object of his attentions was supposed to lurk.

Martin Beck stopped some distance off and watched. A minute or so went by and then the recruit walked slowly across the street and inspected the door in detail. And poked at the name-plate. Then he ambled back to his post with studied nonchalance and then spun around to be sure nothing improper had occurred behind his back. Like so many other policemen out on confidential or delicate assignments, he was wearing black shoes, dark blue socks, the trousers to his uniform, a light blue shirt, and a dark blue tie. To this he had added a yellow stocking cap, a leather jacket with big shiny buttons and red and yellow embroidery on the sleeves, and, around his neck, a scarf in colours that even Martin Beck recognized as being those of the Malmö Football Club – white and sky blue. His jacket bulged on the right side as if he had a bottle of spirits in his pocket.

When Martin Beck walked up to him he jumped as if bitten by a snake and immediately raised his hand to the nonexistent peak of his cap and delivered his report.

‘No one has left the building, Inspector.’

Martin Beck stood silently for a moment in his amazement at being recognized. Then he reached out and took a corner of the scarf between thumb and forefinger.

‘Did your mother knit this for you?’

‘No, sir,’ said the young man, blushing. ‘She didn't. It was my little sister's boyfriend. His name is Enok Jansson, sir, and he's a terrific knitter, although he actually works at the post office and everything. He can even knit while he's watching TV.’

‘What if Mård's gone out the back way?’

The recruit blushed still harder.

‘What?’ he said. ‘But that's impossible.’

‘It is?’

‘Well, sir, I can't stand in front of the house and behind it at the same time, after all. It can't be done. You…Sir, you're not going to report me for this?’

Martin Beck shook his head. He crossed the street, wondering where the police force managed to find all these odd young men.

‘It's the right house, anyway,’ the boy said, following him. ‘I went over three times to check it out. It says Mård on the door.’

‘And it didn't change?’

‘No, sir. Shall I go in with you? I mean, I have a gun and everything if we need it. And I've got my radio stuffed in my shirt – so no one could see it, I mean.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Martin Beck, putting his finger on the bell.

Bertil Mård opened the door almost before the bell had had a chance to ring.

He too was wearing the trousers to a uniform, black ones, plus a vest and wooden clogs. The stink of last night's booze surrounded him like a wall, but it was mixed with the odour of aftershave, and in one of his huge hands he was holding a bottle of Florida Water and an open straight razor, which he waved in the direction of the recruit.

‘Who the hell is this damn clown,’ he yelled, ‘who's been standing here staring at the house for two hours?’

‘That's insulting an officer of the law,’ the recruit said cockily.

‘I lay eyes on you one more time, you little plainclothes bastard, and I'll cut your ears off,’ Mård bellowed.

‘And that's threatening an officer …’