Free Cop Killer by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö Page B

'And I've never seen such a load of shit. The cops are after you. The social security's after you. Or the tax collector or the temperance board or the welfare office or whatever the fuck it's called. Or the power company or the customs or the national registration or the national health. Even the fucking post office, and I don't want any post.'
    Martin Beck took a closer look at Mård. He was a big man, a good six two, with a fighting weight of at least twenty stone. He had black hair and dark brown, brutal eyes.
    'Tell me, Mård, how do you know it's exactly one hundred and eight countries?' Martin Beck asked.
    'Don't call me Mård. I don't want everyone treating me like an old buddy..Call me "mister" at least or "sir". How I know? Because I keep track, of course. The one hundred and eighth country was Upper Volta. I flew there from Casablanca. The one hundred and seventh was South Yemen. But I swear this one takes the fucking biscuit I've been in hospital in North Korea and Honduras, and in Macao and the Dominican Republic, and in Pakistan, and in Ecuador. But I've never seen one any worse than the one right here in Malmö last summer. I was crammed into a ward that must have been built in 1890. There were twenty-nine of us in there, and seventeen had just come out of surgery. And then the fucking social workers come along and wonder what we're bitching about We're supposed to keep our mouths shut -after all, it's free. Free! When the tax collector's on your tail like a wolf. Can you explain to me how the fucking government stays in power? I've been in a lot of places where they hang people for things like that.'
    Mård looked around.
    'It's a mess in here,' he said. ‘I’m no good at cleaning. Don't know how.'
    He picked up the empty vodka bottle and carried it out to the kitchen.
    'There,' he said. 'That's better. Now I want to ask you a question; What the fuck is going on here? Why is that idiot out there scratching on my door while I shave? I always shave twice a day, six in the morning and three in the afternoon. And I always shave myself. And I like a straight razor. It gives a better shave.'
    Martin Beck was silent
    'I asked a question,' Mård said. 'And I didn't get an answer. Who are you, for example? And what the fuck are you doing in my home?'
    'My name is Martin Beck, and I'm a policeman. A Detective Chief Inspector, to be exact, and head of something called the National Murder Squad.'
    'When were you born?'
    'September twenty-fifth, nineteen twenty-two.'
    'All right It's fun to ask the fucking questions for a change. What do you want?'
    'Your wife's been missing since the seventeenth of October.'
    'And?'
    'We wonder where she is.'
    'Fine. But I have already said, for Christ's sake, that I don't know. And on the seventeenth I was sitting on the train ferry Malmöhus having a few drinks. Okay, getting drunk. She's the only decent boat in the city. A man can't exist in this country, so I mostly sit on the Copenhagen boats and drink'
    'You operate some sort of pub, don't you, Captain Mård?'
    'Yes. I've got a couple of women who run it for me. And, by God, the place is clean and the brass is polished or else I'd kick 'em in the harbour. I do the rounds there every so often. And they never know when I'm coming.'
    'I see.'
    'You mumbled something about murder.' 'Yes, it's a possibility. It looks like someone abducted her. And you've got a poor alibi.'
    'I've got a damn good alibi. I was on the Malmöhus. But there's a sex maniac next door to her. If he's done anything to Sigbrit, I'll strangle her with my own hands.'
    Martin Beck looked at Mård's hands. They were formidable hands. He could probably strangle a bear. 
    ‘You said "her". You would strangle "her".'
    'That isn't what I meant I love Sigbrit.'
    Suddenly Martin Beck understood a great deal. Bertil Mård was a dangerous man, with an unpredictable temper. For many years now, he'd been used to giving orders and doing very little himself. He was probably a