The Terrorists

‘And the defence lawyer doesn't even know his client's name! That girl hasn't a hope in heaven.’

‘It's not over yet. Bulldozer wins almost all his cases, but if he does lose one occasionally, it's always to Braxén. Do you remember that Swärd business?’

‘Do I remember!’ said Rhea. She laughed hoarsely. ‘When you came and stayed at my place the first time. The locked room and all that. Two years ago almost. How could I not remember?’

She looked happy, and nothing could have made him happier. They had had good times since then, full of talk, jealousy, friendly quarrels and, not least, good spells of sex, trust and companionship. Although he was over fifty and thought he had experienced most things, he had still opened up with her. Hopefully, she shared his feelings about the relationship, but on that point he was more uncertain. She was physically stronger and the more free-thinking of the two of them, presumably also more intelligent, or at any rate quicker-thinking. She had plenty of bad points, among others that she was often cross and irritable, but he loved them. Perhaps that expression was stupid or far too romantic, but he could find no better one.

He looked at her and became aware that he had stopped being jealous. Her large nipples were thrusting out beneath the material, her shirt was carelessly buttoned, she had taken off her sandals and was rubbing her naked feet against each other under the table. Now and again she bent down and scratched her ankles. But she was herself and not his; perhaps that was the best thing about her.

Her face became troubled at this moment, the irregular features set in an expression of anxiety and distaste. ‘I don't understand much about the law,’ she said, with little truth, ‘but this case appears lost. Can't you say something to change it when you testify?’

‘Hardly. I don't even know what he wants out of me.’

‘The other defence witnesses seem useless. A bank director and a home economics teacher and a policeman. Were any of them even there?’

‘Yes, Kristiansson. He was driving the patrol car.’

‘Is he as dumb as the other cop?’

‘Yes.’

‘And I don't suppose the case can be won on the closing argument – the defence's, I mean?’

Martin Beck smiled. He should have known she would get this seriously involved.

‘No, it doesn't seem likely. But are you sure the defence ought to win and that Rebecka isn't guilty?’

‘The investigation is a load of rubbish. The whole case ought to be turned back over to the police – nothing's been properly investigated. I hate the police on that score alone. They hand over cases to the prosecutor's office that aren't even half completed. And then the prosecutor struts around like a turkey cock on a rubbish tip and the people who are supposed to judge are only sitting there because they're politically useless and no good for anything else.’

In many ways she was right. The jury were scraped from the bottom of the political party barrels, they were often friends of the prosecutor, or let themselves be dominated by strong-willed judges who fundamentally despised them.

‘It may sound odd, I know,’ said Martin Beck, ‘but I think you underestimate Braxén.’

On the short walk back to the courthouse, Rhea suddenly took his hand. That seldom happened and always meant that she was worried or in a state of great emotional tension. Her hand was like everything else about her, strong and reliable.

Bulldozer came into the foyer at the same time as they did, one minute before the court was to reconvene. ‘That bank robbery on Vasagatan is all cleared up,’ he said breathlessly. ‘But we've got two new ones instead, and one of them …’

His gaze fell on Kvastmo and he set off without even finishing the sentence. ‘You can go home,’ he told Kvastmo. ‘Or back on duty. I would take it as a personal favour.’

This was Bulldozer's way of bawling someone out.

‘What?’ said Kvastmo.

‘You can go back on duty,’ said Bulldozer. ‘Every man is needed at his post.’

‘My evidence took care of that gangster chick, didn't it?’ said Kvastmo.

‘Yes,’ said Bulldozer. ‘It was brilliant.’

Kvastmo left to carry on his struggle against the gangster community in other arenas.

The court reconvened and the case continued.

Braxén called his first witness, Rumford Bondesson, bank director. After the formalities, Braxén suddenly pointed at the witness with his unlit cigar and said inquisitorially, ‘Have you ever met Rebecka Lind?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘About a month ago. The young lady came to the head office of the bank. She was dressed in the same clothes as now, but she was carrying an infant in some kind of harness on her chest.’

‘And you received her?’

‘Yes. I had a few moments to spare, as it happened, and I am also interested in modern young people.’

‘Especially the female kind?’

‘Yes. I don't mind admitting it.’

‘How old are you, Mr Bondesson?’

‘Fifty-nine.’

‘What did Rebecka Lind want?’

‘To borrow money. Clearly she had no idea whatsoever about the simplest financial matters. Someone had told her that banks lend money, so she went to the nearest big bank and asked to speak to the manager.’

‘And what did you reply?’

‘That banks were commercial enterprises which didn't lend money without interest and security. She replied that she had a goat and three cats.’

‘Why did she want to borrow money?’

‘To go to America. Just where in America she didn't know, and neither did she know what she was going to do when she got there. But she had an address, she said.’

‘What else did she say?’

‘She asked if there was a bank that was not so commercial, that was owned by the people and to which ordinary people could go when they needed money. I replied, mostly in fun, that the Credit Bank, or the PK Bank as it is called nowadays, was at least officially owned by the state, and so by the people. She appeared to be satisfied with that answer.’

Crasher went up to the witness, jabbed the cigar against his chest and asked, ‘Was anything else said?’

Mr Bondesson did not reply, and finally the judge said, ‘You're under oath, Mr Bondesson. But you do not have to answer questions which reveal criminal activities on your part.’

‘Yes,’ said Bondesson, with obvious reluctance. ‘Young girls are interested in me and I in them. I offered to solve her short-term problems.’

He looked around and caught an annihilating look from Rhea Nielsen and the glint of a bald head from Bulldozer Olsson, who was deep in his papers.

‘And what did Rebecka Lind say to that?’