you'd forget it too.'
'Okay, Boman,' Kollberg said.
Martin Beck thought about the curious coincidence that had suddenly brought him and Kollberg and two people who were the cause of two of their most difficult cases together again after so many years, in a place like Anderslöv.
'What are you doing in Anderslöv?' he asked. 'Do you live here?'
'No,' said Åke Boman. 'As a matter of fact, I'm here to try and get an interview with you. I live in Trelleborg and I work for Trelleborgs Allehanda. I wrote that piece on the front page that you were reading a little while ago.'
'Didn't you write about cars?' Kollberg said.
'Yes, but on a provincial paper you have to do a little of everything. I was lucky to get this job. It was my parole officer who fixed it up.'
The waitress came over and cleared the table. 'Shall we have some coffee?' Kollberg said. 'Okay,' said Åke Boman and Martin Beck together. 'Maybe you'd like a cognac?'
Åke Boman shook his head, and the waitress went out to the kitchen.
'Don't drink on the job?' said Kollberg.
'I don't drink at all,' said Åke Boman. 'Not since...'
He didn't finish the sentence, but took out a tin of Capstan and started to fill his pipe.
'How long have you been working on the paper?' asked Martin Beck.
'A year and a half now. I was sentenced to six years, as you may know. Second degree murder. I spent three years in prison and then I got an automatic reduction in sentence and a parole. Those first few months on the outside were God-awful. Almost worse than prison, and that was indescribable. I didn't know where to go. All I knew for sure was that I had to stay away from Stockholm. Partly because so many people knew me up there, and partly because the whole merry-go-round would have started again, with the booze and the bars ... well, you know. I eventually got a job in a garage in Trelleborg and a parole officer who was marvellous. She convinced me to start writing again, and then I got this job.
There's only the editor and a couple of other people in town who know.. .I've been damned lucky, as a matter of fact.'
But he did not look particularly glad or happy.
They drank their coffee in silence for a while.
'Is that your Singer parked out there?' Kollberg asked.
Åke Boman beamed with pride as he answered.
'Yes, that was a piece of good luck too. It was standing in the barn on an estate up near Önnestad where I was on an assignment last summer. The man who owned it had been dead for a year, and his widow had just let it sit.'
He puffed on his pipe.
'It looked pretty scruffy, but that was easily fixed. I bought it on the spot I do a little writing on the side now and then - special articles for sports car magazines and a short story once in a while - so I had a little money put away.'
'Are you still on parole?' asked Martin Beck.
'No, not since September,' said Åke Boman. 'But I still see my parole officer occasionally. And her family. She has me to dinner every now and then. You know, I'm a bachelor and she assumes I can't cook for myself.'
Martin Beck remembered a photograph he had seen in Boman's flat six years before. A young, blonde woman he had been planning to marry.
Åke Boman puffed on his pipe and stared thoughtfully at Martin Beck.
'The fact is, the paper sent me here to pump you about this disappearance,' he said apologetically. 'And here I've been sitting talking about myself the whole time.'
‘We don't have much to add to what you've already printed,' said Martin Beck. 'You did speak to Herrgott Allwright, didn't you?'
'Yes, but the very fact that you two are here at all must mean you suspect something,' said Åke Boman. 'Seriously now, do you think Folke Bengtsson has murdered her?'
'We don't think anything yet,' said Martin Beck. 'We haven't even talked to Bengtsson. The only thing we know for sure is that Sigbrit Mård hasn't been home since the seventeenth of October, and that no one seems to know where she is.'
'You've read the evening
'Okay, Boman,' Kollberg said.
Martin Beck thought about the curious coincidence that had suddenly brought him and Kollberg and two people who were the cause of two of their most difficult cases together again after so many years, in a place like Anderslöv.
'What are you doing in Anderslöv?' he asked. 'Do you live here?'
'No,' said Åke Boman. 'As a matter of fact, I'm here to try and get an interview with you. I live in Trelleborg and I work for Trelleborgs Allehanda. I wrote that piece on the front page that you were reading a little while ago.'
'Didn't you write about cars?' Kollberg said.
'Yes, but on a provincial paper you have to do a little of everything. I was lucky to get this job. It was my parole officer who fixed it up.'
The waitress came over and cleared the table. 'Shall we have some coffee?' Kollberg said. 'Okay,' said Åke Boman and Martin Beck together. 'Maybe you'd like a cognac?'
Åke Boman shook his head, and the waitress went out to the kitchen.
'Don't drink on the job?' said Kollberg.
'I don't drink at all,' said Åke Boman. 'Not since...'
He didn't finish the sentence, but took out a tin of Capstan and started to fill his pipe.
'How long have you been working on the paper?' asked Martin Beck.
'A year and a half now. I was sentenced to six years, as you may know. Second degree murder. I spent three years in prison and then I got an automatic reduction in sentence and a parole. Those first few months on the outside were God-awful. Almost worse than prison, and that was indescribable. I didn't know where to go. All I knew for sure was that I had to stay away from Stockholm. Partly because so many people knew me up there, and partly because the whole merry-go-round would have started again, with the booze and the bars ... well, you know. I eventually got a job in a garage in Trelleborg and a parole officer who was marvellous. She convinced me to start writing again, and then I got this job.
There's only the editor and a couple of other people in town who know.. .I've been damned lucky, as a matter of fact.'
But he did not look particularly glad or happy.
They drank their coffee in silence for a while.
'Is that your Singer parked out there?' Kollberg asked.
Åke Boman beamed with pride as he answered.
'Yes, that was a piece of good luck too. It was standing in the barn on an estate up near Önnestad where I was on an assignment last summer. The man who owned it had been dead for a year, and his widow had just let it sit.'
He puffed on his pipe.
'It looked pretty scruffy, but that was easily fixed. I bought it on the spot I do a little writing on the side now and then - special articles for sports car magazines and a short story once in a while - so I had a little money put away.'
'Are you still on parole?' asked Martin Beck.
'No, not since September,' said Åke Boman. 'But I still see my parole officer occasionally. And her family. She has me to dinner every now and then. You know, I'm a bachelor and she assumes I can't cook for myself.'
Martin Beck remembered a photograph he had seen in Boman's flat six years before. A young, blonde woman he had been planning to marry.
Åke Boman puffed on his pipe and stared thoughtfully at Martin Beck.
'The fact is, the paper sent me here to pump you about this disappearance,' he said apologetically. 'And here I've been sitting talking about myself the whole time.'
‘We don't have much to add to what you've already printed,' said Martin Beck. 'You did speak to Herrgott Allwright, didn't you?'
'Yes, but the very fact that you two are here at all must mean you suspect something,' said Åke Boman. 'Seriously now, do you think Folke Bengtsson has murdered her?'
'We don't think anything yet,' said Martin Beck. 'We haven't even talked to Bengtsson. The only thing we know for sure is that Sigbrit Mård hasn't been home since the seventeenth of October, and that no one seems to know where she is.'
'You've read the evening
Similar Books
