Cop Killer - Ларс Кеплер

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      ‘I never would have thought you guys had such a sense of humour,’ said The Breadman before he left. ‘First this bit with the costumes – now that was fun. But the part I liked best was seeing PIG written on the back of your car. I couldn't have done better myself.’

      They themselves were only moderately amused, but his hearty laughter reached them from a long way down the stairs. He sounded almost like the Laughing Policeman.

      In point of fact, it didn't matter much. They would catch him soon enough. The Breadman was the type who always gets caught.

      And for their own part, they would soon have other things to think about.

       3

      The airport was a national disgrace and lived up to its reputation. The actual flight from Arlanda Airport in Stockholm had taken only fifty minutes, but now the plane had been circling over the southernmost part of the country for an hour and a half.

      ‘Fog,’ was the laconic explanation.

      And that was exactly what might have been expected, for the airfield had been built – once the inhabitants were displaced – in one of the foggiest spots in Sweden. And as if that weren't enough, it lay in the middle of a well-known migratory bird route and at a very uncomfortable distance from the city.

      In addition, it had destroyed a natural wilderness that should have been protected by law. The damage was extensive and irreparable and constituted an act of gross ecological malfeasance, typical of the anti-humanitarian cynicism that had become increasingly characteristic of what the government called A More Compassionate Society. This expression, in turn, represented a cynicism so boundless that the common man had difficulty grasping it.

      The pilot finally grew tired and brought the plane down fog or no fog, and a handful of pale, sweating passengers filed sparsely into the terminal building.

      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 them-selves 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.

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