Cop Killer. Ларс Кеплер

under the fire engine and disappearing.

      If this was the general opinion, then clearly Allwright had not exaggerated.

      Martin Beck stayed where he was, rubbing the edge of his scalp thoughtfully.

      A minute or two later Herrgott Allwright appeared on the other side of the fire engine. He had the same lion-hunter's hat on the back of his head, and was otherwise dressed in a chequered flannel shirt, uniform trousers, and light suede shoes. A large grey dog strained at its leash. They edged under the ladder, and the dog rose up on its hind legs, put its front paws on Martin Beck's chest, and began to lick his face.

      ‘Down, Timmy!’ Allwright said. ‘Down, I said! What a dog!’

      It was a heavy dog, and Martin Beck reeled back two steps.

      ‘Down, Timmy!’ Allwright said.

      The dog dropped to the ground and turned around three times. Then it sat down reluctantly, looked at its master, and pricked up its ears.

      ‘Probably the world's worst police dog. But he has an excuse. No training. No obedience. But since I'm a policeman, that does make him a police dog. In a way.’

      Allwright laughed, without much cause, as far as Martin Beck could see.

      ‘When HSC were here I took him to the game.’

      ‘HSC?’

      ‘Helsingborg Sports Club. Football team. You're not a football fan, are you?’

      ‘Not really.’

      ‘Well, he got away from me, of course, and ran out on the field. Took the ball away from one of the Anderslöv players. Almost caused a riot. And I got a telling off from the referee. It's the most dramatic thing that's happened around here for years. Until now, of course. What was I supposed to do? Arrest the referee? From a purely legal point of view, I have no idea what the status of a football referee might be.’

      He laughed again.

      ‘I walk out on the field and collar the ref. “Allwright?” I say. “Police Inspector. Come along with me, please – interfering with an officer in the performance of his duties.” It wouldn't wash. So I just stood there like an idiot.’

      Allwright laughed, and Martin Beck couldn't help asking him why.

      ‘Well, I was thinking – what if Timmy had scored a goal? What would have happened then?’

      Martin Beck was completely lost for words.

      ‘Oh, hi there,’ Allwright said.

      ‘Morning, Herrgott,’ said a sepulchral voice from underneath the fire engine.

      ‘Say, Jöns, do you have to park that crate right in front of police headquarters?’

      ‘You're not even open yet,’ said Jöns.

      His voice sounded muffled.

      ‘But I'm about to.’

      Allwright rattled his keys, and the dog jumped to its feet.

      Allwright opened the door and threw a quick glance at Martin Beck.

      ‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘to the Anderslöv local station house, Trelleborg Division. This is actually the village hall. Social security office, police station, library. I live upstairs. It's all brand new and spic and span, as they say. Terrific jail. Got to use it twice last year. Here's my office. Come on in.’

      It was a pleasant room, with a desk and two easy chairs for visitors. The large windows looked out on a kind of patio. The dog lay down under the desk.

      Behind the desk were shelves full of large volumes. The Swedish Statutes, mostly, but a lot of other books as well.

      ‘They've been on the phone from Trelleborg already,’ Allwright said. ‘The Superintendent. The Police Commissioner too. Seemed disappointed you were staying here.’

      He sat down at his desk and shook out a cigarette.

      Martin Beck took a seat in one of the easy chairs.

      Allwright crossed his legs and poked at his hat, which he'd put down on the desk.

      ‘They'll be driving up today, for sure. At least the Superintendent will. Unless we drag ourselves down to Trelleborg.’

      ‘I think I'd prefer to stay here.’

      ‘Okay.’

      He shuffled among the papers on his desk.

      ‘Here's the report. Want to look?’

      Martin Beck thought for a moment.

      ‘Can you give it to me verbally?’ he said.

      ‘Love to.’

      Martin Beck felt comfortable. He liked Allwright. Everything was going to work out fine.

      ‘How many people do you have here?’

      ‘Five. One secretary. Nice girl. Three constables, when there aren't any vacancies. One patrol car. By the way, have you had any breakfast?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Want some?’

      ‘Yes.’

      He was actually starting to feel a little hungry.

      ‘Good,’ said Allwright. ‘Now how shall we do this? Let's go up to my place. Britta will come and open up at eight-thirty. If anything special happens, she'll call up and let us know. I've got coffee and tea and bread and butter and cheese and marmalade and eggs. I don't know what all. You want coffee?’

      ‘I'd rather have tea.’

      ‘I drink tea myself. So I'll take the report with me, and we'll go on upstairs. Okay?’

      The flat upstairs was pleasant and full of character, neatly arranged, but not for family life. It was immediately apparent that whoever lived there was a bachelor, with a bachelor's habits, and had been for some time, perhaps his whole life. There were two hunting rifles and an old police sabre hanging on the wall. Allwright's service pistol, a Walther 7.65, lay disassembled on a piece of oilcloth on what was presumably the dining-room table.

      Guns were clearly one of his hobbies.

      ‘I like to shoot,’ he said.

      He laughed.

      ‘But not at people,’ he added. ‘I never have shot a person. In fact, I've never even aimed at anyone. For that matter, I never carry it on me. I've got a revolver, too, a competition model. But that's locked in the vault downstairs.’

      ‘Are you good?’

      ‘Oh, you know. Win once in a while. That is to say, rarely. I've got the badge, of course.’

      That could mean only one thing. The gold badge. Which only elite shots ever won.

      For his own part, Martin Beck was a lousy shot. There had never been any question of a gold badge. Or any other kind. On the other hand, he had aimed at people, and shot at them, too. But never killed anyone. There was always a silver lining.

      ‘I could clear off the table,’ said Allwright without any particular enthusiasm. ‘I mostly just eat in the kitchen.’

      ‘So do I,’ said Martin Beck.

      ‘Are you a bachelor too?’

      ‘More or less.’

      ‘I see.’

      Allwright didn't seem interested.

      Martin Beck was divorced and had two grown children – a daughter who was twenty-two and a son of eighteen.

      ‘More or less’ meant that for the past year he'd had a woman living with him pretty regularly. Her name was Rhea Nielsen, and he was probably in love with her. Having her around had changed his home – for the better, it seemed to him.

      But