The Terrorists (39 page)

Martin Beck’s thoughts, however, were elsewhere—mostly with Reinhard Heydt.

A few hours earlier, when Rhea had been standing naked by the window on Köpmangatan and he had been lying in bed admiring her back and muscular calves, he had suddenly recalled Gunvald Larsson’s warning, and had virtually jumped up and jerked her from the window. Gunvald Larsson almost never said such things, anyhow not without grave reason. A moment later, while Rhea, with a hideous clatter and talking continuously, was transforming the lobster into a delicious dish of her own devising—half Lobster Vanderbilt, half Lobster Rhea Nielsen—he had walked through the apartment and pulled down all the blinds.

Naturally Heydt was dangerous, but was he actually in Sweden?

And was this question mark sufficient reason for Martin Beck to ruin Christmas for four loyal colleagues, three of whom also had children?

Well, the future would tell. Or perhaps the future would tell nothing, anyhow not about Reinhard Heydt.

Deep down, Martin Beck hoped that Heydt would take the Oslo route so that Gunvald Larsson would have the chance to slug him on the jaw. Gunvald Larsson could not receive a better Christmas present.

Then he thought for a while about the calm that Melander and Rönn were probably spreading all through the Helsingborg police force. But they were good men—Melander always had been, and Rönn had become so against many people’s expectations—and if Heydt tried to get out that way, he would probably have little chance of success.

But Malmö … well, Malmö was pure hell when it came to
border control. Practically all the drugs in the country were funneled in by that route, as well as most other contraband.

The man with bladder trouble was first down to the floor, and as Martin Beck could not be bothered to turn over, he had the pleasure of a worm’s-eye view of his fellow traveler dressing. Socks and underpants and a string undershirt swirled past, followed by a great tussle with trousers and suspenders, before Martin Beck had a chance to get his own clothes on.

He jogged across to the Savoy, where he always used to stay, even if at long intervals, and was given an exuberant welcome by the porter in his long greatcoat.

He went up to his room, shaved and showered, then took a cab to the police station, where he was soon shown into Per Månsson’s office. The Malmö police had had a difficult, even oppressive year, but this was not evident from Månsson, who was chewing more tranquilly than ever on one of his eternal toothpicks.

“Benny isn’t here,” said Månsson. “He practically lives down at the flying-boat terminal.” In Malmö for some reason they called hydrofoils “flying boats.”

“And otherwise?”

“Otherwise we’ve checked damned well everywhere,” said Månsson. “The problem, of course, is that so many people are traveling at this time of year. In both directions. Pure chaos. But …”

“Yes?”

“His looks are on our side. As big as hell, this guy Heydt. Maybe he could crawl on all fours and get by as a dog, if it weren’t for the fact that you can’t take dogs into Denmark anymore. The foxes over there have rabies.”

“Well,” said Martin Beck, “there are a lot of tall people. Heydt isn’t as tall as Gunvald Larsson, for instance.”

“But you could frighten the life out of little kids with Larsson,” said Månsson, taking another toothpick from his pen tray.

“What do you think? You know this sort of traffic.”

“Mmm,” said Månsson. “Sometimes I wonder whether I know anything at all. The train ferry
Malmohus
is the easiest to check. He hasn’t got a chance there. Then come the so-called big boats, Ø
rnen, Gripen
and
Öresund
. Not so good with the car
ferries in Limhamn,
Hamlet
and
Ophelia
, or whatever their names are. But the worst of all, that’s the flying-boat terminal—sheer hell.”

“Hydrofoil,” said Martin Beck.

“Okay, they’re hell, anyhow. They come and go all the time, and the terminal building is so packed with people, you can hardly get your nose in.”

“I understand.”

“You won’t understand a thing until you’ve actually seen it with your own eyes. The seaman who’s supposed to check the tickets gets trampled underfoot, and the passport police have a room to hide themselves away in, otherwise they’d be as flat as pancakes in ten minutes. You could push them under the doors to their wives when they got home.” Månsson fell silent, a toothpick stuck in his teeth. Then he added, “To use a corny old joke.”

“Then what’s Skacke doing?”

“Benny? He’s standing out on the quay, freezing in the wind, blue in the face. And he’s been standing there since he got here yesterday evening.”

Gunvald Larsson was also freezing, though he had some important and some less important reasons for doing so. It was certainly several degrees colder on the Norwegian-Swedish border than in Malmö, but on the other hand he was purposefully clad in long johns (which he loathed), thick corduroy trousers, ski pants, thick socks, sheepskin jacket and cap.

He was standing almost on the actual border, his back against a pine tree, attentively observing the endless stream of cars, the customs shed, the border barrier and the provisional roadblock, absently listening to the veritable storm of abuse motorists were raining down onto the inquisitive police. Wasn’t there supposed to be free travel here? Had Norway suddenly become as difficult to get into as Saudi Arabia? What had happened to Scandinavian cooperation? Was it because of the North Sea oil? Or because all Swedish policemen were idiots? Why the hell should my name be Heydt? And what business is it of the police what my name is anyhow? As long as I’m a Swedish citizen, it’s none of your business whether my name’s Päronqvist or Laurel and
Hardy. Look at the damned tie-up you’ve caused anyhow.

Gunvald Larsson sighed and looked at the line of cars. It had in fact begun to get remarkably long, while the vehicles coming from the opposite direction swept unhindered into Sweden from dear old Norway. Some of the policemen at the barrier were also behaving unusually stupidly. Every man was equipped with Heydt’s photograph and a description. They knew he spoke bad Swedish, but passable Danish, and also that he was about thirty years old and six feet tall. Yet some were harassing bald sixty-year-olds with marked Värmland accents for as long as ten minutes. Larsson sighed. Doing penance for the inbuilt stupidity of the police force had cost him years of his life. Now it was time for Don Quixote to take over.

Nearly all the cars had their roof racks loaded with skis, snow shovels and reindeer antlers, the latter having been sold to them by some smart operator at grossly inflated prices on the Swedish side of the border. Gunvald Larsson watched it all with profound distaste.

He liked Lapland very much indeed—but only in the summer.

Rönn and Melander were not out freezing in the cold. They were sitting in relatively comfortable chairs in a glass-walled cabin the police in Helsingborg had provided especially for them. Two excellent electric heaters maintained a pleasant warmth inside, and at regular intervals young policemen came in with Thermoses of coffee, plastic cups, and plates of cakes and Danish pastries. The stream of traffic had been directed past the cabin’s glass walls, and if a traveler required special examination, two excellent pairs of prism binoculars were at their disposal. They were also in radio communication with the police who were checking car and train passengers.

Nevertheless, Rönn and Melander were looking equally bad-tempered, since despite their relative comfort their Christmas was going to hell. They didn’t say much, except when they got hold of a private telephone and could call up their wives and complain.

This was the situation on Friday the twentieth of December, four days before Christmas Eve. Saturday was worse, as even
more people were free from work, and the crowds crossing Öresund were enormous.

Martin Beck went down to the quay outside the hydrofoil terminal, fighting his way through the hysterical crowd of people who had no reservations but nevertheless hoped to get on the next boat. It turned out that the man clipping the tickets for the
Løberen
was Danish and extremely distrustful of people who claimed to be chief inspectors of police but were unable to produce their identity cards. Martin Beck had changed jackets and, naturally, had left his card back in the hotel room. He was finally saved by Benny Skacke, who by this time was well known to the ticket-clipping seaman.

Martin Beck stepped out into the sharp, mean, wet wind so typical of winter in South Sweden, especially in Malmö. He looked at his myrmidon, behind whom a row of Santa Clauses were handing out handbills advertising some of what the capital of Denmark had to offer despite the economic crisis and threatened devaluation.

Skacke looked terrible; his cheeks were a pale violet color, his forehead and nose dead white, and above his woolen scarf his skin was almost transparent.

“How long have you been standing here?” said Martin Beck.

“Since a quarter past five,” said Skacke shakily. “The first sailing, in fact.”

“Go and get something hot to eat at once,” said Martin Beck sternly. “Now. Right away.”

Skacke vanished, but fifteen minutes later he was back again, his color now slightly more normal.

Nothing much happened on Saturday, apart from a number of people who got very drunk and started fights. Martin Beck thought about an article he’d read recently that said Swedes, Americans and perhaps Finns did more fighting than any other people. It was probably one of those generalizations, but sometimes it appeared to be true.

At about ten in the evening, Martin Beck went back to his hotel. The overindustrious Skacke remained, determined to stay at his post until the last boat sailed. He clearly had no faith in his erstwhile colleagues on the Malmö force.

Martin Beck fetched his room key and headed for the elevator but then changed his mind and went into the bar. There were plenty of guests there, as always just before Christmas, but one of the barstools was empty, so he sat himself down.

“Well, well, good evening,” said the bartender. “Whisky with ice water as usual?” The man had an infallible memory.

Martin Beck hesitated. Ice water did not sound particularly tempting after all those hours on the windy quay. He glanced at the guest beside him who was drinking something golden-looking out of a large glass. It looked pretty good. Then he looked at the guest himself, a youthful man in his fifties with a beard and glossy hair.

“Try it,” said the man. “A Gyllenkrok, or Golden Hook, as the Americans call it. It’s the bar’s own invention.”

Martin Beck took his advice. The drink was good, and he tried in vain to figure out what was in it. He glanced again at the man who had recommended it, and said suddenly, “I recognize you. You’re the botanist and reporter who found Sigbrit Mård at Lake Börringe last autumn.”

“Ugh,” said the man. “Don’t talk about things like that. Not here, anyhow.”

A moment later he glanced at Martin Beck and said, “Of course. And you’re the police inspector from Stockholm who questioned me afterward. What’s up now?”

“Just routine,” said Martin Beck, shrugging his shoulders.

“Oh, well,” said the finder of the corpse, “it’s none of my business.”

Three minutes later, Martin Beck said goodnight and went to bed. He was so tired that he couldn’t even summon up the energy to call Rhea.

Sunday the twenty-second of December, and even worse chaos at the hydrofoil terminal. The stores were apparently still open, because the Santas with their handbills were more numerous than ever. There were also large numbers of children among the crowds of passengers. It was midday, rush hour, high season for everything except for passable weather. The wind
was from the north, wet and bitterly cold, blowing straight in through the harbor entrance and sweeping mercilessly onto the unprotected quay.

Two boats were just about to sail, a Danish one called
Flyvefisken
and a Swedish one called
Tärnan
. They were simply being packed and sent off as quickly as possible.

The Danish boat cast off, and Benny Skacke, who had been standing by the gangway, began to walk toward the Swedish boat. Martin Beck was standing by the exit, just behind the Swedish seaman clipping tickets like lightning while he simultaneously clicked a mechanical counter with his other hand to check the number of passengers.

The wind was hideous and as Martin Beck turned his head down and away to protect his face a little, he heard someone say something in Danish to the ticket man. He turned.

There was no doubt about it.

Reinhard Heydt had gotten past the ticket taker as well as all the policemen outside and was already only a yard away from him, on his way toward the gangway. His only luggage was a brown paper bag with a Santa Claus printed on its side. Skacke was twenty-five yards away, still halfway between the boat that had just sailed and the one just about to cast off, when he looked up, at once recognized the South African, stopped and felt for his service pistol.

But Heydt had seen Skacke first and immediately identified him as a policeman in civilian clothes. When Skacke looked up at him and thrust his right hand under his coat, the situation was quite clear to Heydt. Someone was going to die within the next few seconds, and Heydt was certain it would not be him. He would shoot this policeman, then jump over the fence into the street and escape through the traffic. He dropped the bag and his hand flew to the gun inside his jacket.

Benny Skacke was quick and well trained, but Reinhard Heydt was ten times quicker. Martin Beck had never seen anything like it, not even in the movies.

But Martin was quick on the uptake, too. He took a step forward and said, “Just a moment, Mr. Heydt …” simultaneously grasping Heydt’s right arm. The South African already had the Colt in his hand and, with all his strength, slowly raised
his arm while Martin Beck struggled to hold it down.

With his life at stake and Martin Beck offering him a chance to stay alive, Skacke aimed his Walther and shot to kill.

The bullet struck Heydt in the mouth and lodged in the top of his spine. He died instantly—and at the moment of death pulled the trigger. The bullet struck Benny Skacke high in the right hip and spun him around like a top, straight into the row of Santa Clauses.