Читать книгу The Terrorists - Деннис Лихэйн, Dennis Lehane, Dennis Lehane - Страница 9

The same day that Gunvald Larsson had his strange experience on the balcony with the lovely view, an eighteen-year-old girl named Rebecka Lind was being tried in Stockholm city court on a charge of armed robbery of a bank.

The public prosecutor in her case was Bulldozer Olsson, who for some years had been the judiciary's expert in armed robberies, which were spreading across the land like a plague. He was, as a result, an extremely harried man with so little time to spend at home that it had taken him three weeks, for instance, to discover that his wife had left him for good and been replaced by a laconic message on his pillow. This had not made all that much difference, as with his usual swiftness of action he had found himself another within three days. His new life partner was one of his secretaries who admired him unreservedly and devotedly, and certainly his suits appeared to be slightly less rumpled from that day on.

On this day he arrived breathlessly, two minutes before the trial was to begin. He was a corpulent but light-footed little man with a joyous countenance and lively movements. He always wore bright pink shirts, and his ties were in such indescribably bad taste that they had driven Gunvald Larsson almost insane when he had worked in Bulldozer's special group.

He looked round the bare and ill-heated anteroom of the court and discovered a group of five people, among them his own witnesses, and a person whose presence surprised him enormously. It was, in fact, the chief of the Murder Squad.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ he said to Martin Beck.

‘I've been called as a witness.’

‘By whom?’

‘The defence.’

‘The defence? What does that mean?’

‘Braxén, counsel for the defence,’ said Martin Beck. ‘He drew this case, apparently.’

‘Crasher,’ said Bulldozer, clearly upset. ‘I've already had three meetings and two arrests today, and now I'll have to sit and listen to Crasher for the rest of the afternoon, I suppose. Do you know anything about this case?’

‘Not much, but Braxén's argument convinced me I ought to come. And I don't have anything special on at the moment.’

‘You people in the Murder Squad don't know what real work is,’ said Bulldozer Olsson. ‘I've got thirty-nine cases on the books and just as many on ice. You should work with me for a while, then you'd find out.’

Bulldozer Olsson won all his cases, with very few exceptions indeed. This, to put it delicately, was not especially flattering to the judiciary.

‘But you'll have an amusing afternoon,’ said Olsson. ‘Crasher'll give you a good show, for sure.’

Their discussion was interrupted by the case being called, and those involved, with one important exception, filed into the courtroom, a singularly dismal sector of the principal city courthouse. The windows were large and majestic, which in no way excused but possibly explained why they clearly had not been cleaned for a very long time.

The judge, assistant judge and seven jurymen on a platform behind a long connecting pulpit were staring with dignity out into the courtroom.

The accused was brought in through a small side door, a girl with shoulder-length fair hair, a sulky mouth and distant brown eyes. She was wearing a long, pale-green embroidered dress of some light, thin material and had black clogs on her feet.

The court was seated.

The judge turned to the girl, who was sitting to the left of the bench, and said, ‘The accused in the case is Rebecka Lind. Are you Rebecka Lind?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I ask you to speak a little louder?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were born on the third of January, nineteen hundred and fifty-six?’

‘Yes.’

‘I must ask the accused to speak louder.’ He said this as if it had to be said ritualistically, which was true, as the acoustics in the courtroom were singularly poor.

‘Counsel for the defence Hedobald Braxén appears to have been delayed,’ he went on. ‘In the meantime, we can summon the witnesses. Counsel for the prosecution has called two witnesses – Kerstin Franzén, bank cashier, and Kenneth Kvastmo, police constable. The defence has called the following: Martin Beck, chief inspector, Murder Squad; Karl Kristiansson, police constable; Rumford Bondesson, bank director; and Hedy-Marie Wirén, home economics teacher. Counsel for the defence has also called Walter Petrus, business executive, to testify, but he has declared himself unable to attend and has also declared that he has nothing whatsoever to do with the case.’

One of the jurymen sniggered.

‘The witnesses may now leave the court.’

The two policemen – as always on these occasions wearing uniform trousers and black shoes plus dreary blazers – Martin Beck, the bank director, the home economics teacher and the bank cashier all trooped out into the foyer. Only the accused, her guard and one spectator remained in the courtroom.

Bulldozer studied his papers busily for about two minutes, then looked curiously at the spectator, a woman Bulldozer reckoned to be about thirty-five. She was sitting on one of the benches with a shorthand pad open in front of her. She was of below average height and had dead-straight blonde hair, not especially long. Her clothes consisted of faded jeans, a shirt of indefinite colour and strap sandals. She had broad, sunburnt feet with straight toes, flat breasts with large nipples that could be seen quite clearly through her shirt. The most remarkable thing about her was her small, angular face with its strong nose and piercing blue gaze, which she directed in turn on those present. Her gaze rested especially long on the accused and Bulldozer Olsson; in the latter case so piercingly that the public prosecutor rose to pour himself a glass of water and moved into a position behind her. She at once turned and caught his eye.

Sexually she was not his type, if he even had a type, but he was intensely curious about who she could be. Viewed from behind, he could see that she was compactly built, without being in the least plump.

If he had asked Martin Beck, who was standing around in a corner of the foyer, he might have learned something. For instance, that she was not thirty-five but thirty-nine, that she had a considerable background in sociology, and that at present she was working for social services. Martin Beck knew a great deal about her in fact, but had very little information he wished to proffer, as most of it was of a personal nature. Possibly he would have said, if anyone had asked him, that her name was Rhea Nielsen.

Twenty-two minutes after the prescribed time, the doors were thrown open and Crasher appeared. He was carrying a smouldering cigar in one hand and his papers in the other. He studied the documents phlegmatically and the judge had to clear his throat meaningfully three times before he absently handed the cigar to the court official to remove from the courtroom.

‘Mr Braxén has now arrived,’ said the judge acidly. ‘May we ask whether there is any further objection to starting the case?’

Bulldozer shook his head and said, ‘No, certainly not. Not as far as I'm concerned.’

Braxén rose and walked to the middle of the floor. He was considerably older than anyone else in the room, a man of authority with an impressive stomach. He was also remarkably badly and unfashionably dressed, and a none too squeamish cat could have made a good meal from the food stains on his waistcoat. After a long silence, during which he fixed Bulldozer with a peculiar look, he said, ‘Apart from the fact that this little girl should never have been brought to court, I have no judicial objections. Speaking purely technically.’

‘Would the counsel for the prosecution now introduce the case,’ said the judge.

Bulldozer leaped up from his chair and with his head down began plodding round the table on which his papers lay.

‘I maintain that Rebecka Lind on Wednesday the twenty-second of May this year committed armed robbery of the PK Bank's branch in Midsommarkransen, and thereafter was guilty of assaulting an official in that she resisted the policemen who came to take her into custody.’

‘And what does the accused say?’

‘The accused pleads not guilty,’ said Braxén. ‘And so it is my duty to deny all of this … drivel.’

He turned to Bulldozer again and said in melancholy tones: ‘What does it feel like to persecute innocent people? Rebecka is as innocent as the carrots in the ground.’

Everyone appeared to ponder this novel image. Finally the judge said, ‘It is for the Court to decide that, is it not?’

‘Unfortunately,’ said Crasher.

‘What is meant by that remark?’ said the judge, with a certain sharpness. ‘Would Mr Olsson please now state his case?’

Bulldozer looked at the spectator, who, however, returned his gaze so directly and demandingly that after a brief glance at Braxén, he let his gaze wander over the judge, the assistant judge and the jury, after which he fixed it on the accused. Rebecka Lind's own gaze seemed to be fixed in space, far from crazy bureaucrats and all other possible good and evil.

Bulldozer clasped his hands behind his back and began walking back and forth. ‘Well, Rebecka,’ he said in a friendly way, ‘what has happened to you is unfortunately something that happens to many young people today. Together we will try to help you … I suppose I may use your first name?’

The girl did not seem to have heard the question, if it was one.

‘Technically speaking, this is an open-and-shut case, about which there can be little discussion. As was evident at the arraignment –’

Braxén had appeared to be sunk in his thoughts, but now he suddenly jerked a large cigar out of his inside pocket, pointed it at Bulldozer's chest and cried, ‘I object! Neither I nor any other lawyer was present at the arraignment. Was this girl Camilla Lund even informed of her right to counsel?’

‘Rebecka Lind,’ said the assistant judge.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Crasher impatiently. ‘That makes her arrest illegal.’

‘Not at all,’ said Bulldozer. ‘Rebecka was asked and she said it didn't matter. It didn't, either. As I will shortly show, the case was crystal clear.’

‘The very arraignment was illegal,’ said Crasher conclusively. ‘I would like my objection to be entered in the record.’

‘So, Rebecka,’ continued Bulldozer, with that winning smile that was one of his main assets. ‘Let us now, clearly and truthfully, try to clarify the actual course of events, what happened to you on the twenty-second of May and why it happened. You robbed a bank, certainly out of desperation and thoughtlessness, and then assaulted a policeman.’

‘I object to counsel's choice of words,’ said Crasher. ‘I object to counsel for the prosecution's attitude towards both myself and this girl.’

Bulldozer for once appeared put out. But he soon collected himself and, in as good form as ever, gesticulating and smiling, pursued his case to its conclusion, despite the fact that Braxén interrupted him no fewer than forty-two times, often with totally incomprehensible objections.

Briefly, the case was as follows: Shortly before two o'clock on the twenty-second of May, Rebecka Lind had walked into the PK Bank's branch in Midsommarkransen and gone up to one of the cashiers. She had been carrying a large shoulder bag, which she placed on the counter. She then demanded money. The cashier noticed that she was armed with a large knife and set off the police alarm with her foot as she began to fill the bag with bundles of notes, amounting to a sum of five thousand Swedish kronor. Before Rebecka Lind had time to leave the bank with her booty, the first of the radio patrol cars arrived. Two policemen with guns drawn went into the bank and disarmed the robber, at which a certain tumult arose, during which the notes were scattered over the floor. The police arrested the robber, and the prisoner offered violent resistance, inflicting on the policemen damage to their uniforms. They drove her to the station on Kungsholm. The robber, who turned out to be eighteen-year-old Rebecka Lind, was taken first to the Criminal Division duty office and was then transferred to the special department concerned with bank robberies. She was immediately charged with suspected armed robbery of a bank and assault of a policeman, and the following day was formally arraigned at a singularly brief transaction before the Stockholm assize court.

Bulldozer admitted that certain judicial formalities had not been observed in connection with the arraignment, but pointed out that, technically speaking, these were of no importance. Rebecka Lind had herself been quite uninterested in her defence, and she had also immediately confessed that she had gone to the bank to get money.

Everyone began to glance at the clock, but Bulldozer Olsson did not approve of adjournments and promptly called his first witness, Kerstin Franzén, the bank cashier. Her testimony was short and confirmed in all respects what had already been said.

Bulldozer asked: ‘When did you realize that this was a holdup?’

‘As soon as she threw her bag on the counter and demanded money. And then I saw the knife. It looked awfully dangerous. A kind of dagger.’

‘Why did you hand over the money?’

‘We've had instructions not to offer resistance in situations like this, but to do what the robber says.’

This was true. The banks did not wish to run the risk of paying out life insurance and expensive damages to employees who were injured.

A clap of thunder seemed to shake the venerable courtroom. In fact it was Hedobald Braxén belching. This did not happen all that seldom and was one of the many reasons for his nickname.

‘Has the defence any questions?’

Crasher shook his head. He was busy writing something down on a piece of paper.

Bulldozer called his next witness.

Kenneth Kvastmo stepped up and laboriously repeated the oath. His testimony began with the usual litany: occupation police constable, born in Arvika in nineteen hundred and forty-two; first served in patrol cars in Solna and later in Stockholm.

Bulldozer said, foolishly, ‘Tell us in your own words.’

‘What?’

‘What happened, of course.’

‘Yes,’ said Kvastmo. ‘She was standing there, the murderess. Well, she didn't manage to murder nobody, of course. Karl didn't do nothing, as usual, of course, so I threw myself on her like a panther.’

The image was unfortunate. Kvastmo was a large, shapeless man with a fat bottom, a bull neck and fleshy features.

‘I got hold of her right hand just as she was trying to pull out the knife, and then I told her she was under arrest and then I just arrested her. I had to carry her out to the car and in the back seat she resisted arrest violently and then it turns out she was assaulting an officer of the law because one of my shoulder flaps almost come off and my wife was furious when she had to sew it on because there was something on TV she was going to watch and also a button had almost came off my uniform and she didn't have no blue thread, Anna-Greta, my wife, I mean. And when we was done in the bank, then Karl drove us to the station. There wasn't nothing else after that except she called me a pig, but that's not really insulting a policeman. A pig don't cause no disrespect or contempt of the force, I mean neither to the individual officer which in this case was me, or to the force as a whole, does it? She's the one, over there, that said it.’ He pointed to Rebecka Lind.

While the policeman was revealing his narrative abilities, Bulldozer was watching the woman spectator, who had been busily taking notes and was now sitting with her elbows on her thighs, her chin in her hands, as she attentively watched both Braxén and Rebecka in turn. Her face looked troubled, or rather expressed profound unease. She bent down and scratched an ankle with one hand as she chewed a nail on the other hand. Now she was looking at Braxén again and her half-closed blue eyes expressed a mixture of resignation and hesitant hope.

Hedobald Braxén appeared to be only just physically present, and there was no indication whatsoever that he had heard a word of the evidence.

‘No questions,’ he said.

Bulldozer Olsson was satisfied. The case was open-and-shut, exactly as he had said from the start. The only fault was that it had taken so long. Now when the judge suggested an hour's adjournment, he nodded his approval enthusiastically and rushed towards the door with short, bouncing steps.

Martin Beck and Rhea Nielsen used the break to go to the Amarante. After open sandwiches and beer, they finished off with coffee and brandy. Martin Beck had had several boring hours. He had gone up to the station for a spell with Rönn and Strömgren, but that had not been particularly rewarding. He had never liked Strömgren and his relationship with Rönn was complicated. The simple truth was that he no longer had any friends left at the station on Kungsholmsgatan; both there and at the National Police Administration there were a number of people who admired him, others who detested him and a third group, the largest, who quite simply envied him. Out at Västberga, too, he had no friends since Lennart Kollberg had left. Benny Skacke had applied for the job and got it, on Martin Beck's recommendation. Their relationship was fairly good, but from that to genuine warmth was a long step. Sometimes he just sat and stared into space, wishing Kollberg were back; to be perfectly honest – and he found that easy nowadays – he mourned for him the way you mourn for a child or a lost love.

He sat chatting for a while in Rönn's room, but not only was Rönn indifferent company, he also had a lot to do.

‘Wonder how things are with Gunvald,’ said Rönn. ‘I wouldn't mind trading places with him. Bullfights and palm trees and expense-account dinners, boy oh boy!’

Rönn specialized in giving Martin Beck a guilty conscience. Why couldn't he have been offered that trip, he who certainly needed more encouragement than anyone else?

It was impossible to tell Rönn the truth – that he had actually been discriminated against simply because they considered it impossible to send out a runny-nosed northerner, a man with a notably unrepresentative appearance who could only with the greatest goodwill be said to speak passable English.

But Rönn was a good detective. He had been nothing much to start with, but now he was undoubtedly one of the section's greatest assets.

As usual, Martin Beck tried but failed to find something encouraging to say, and shortly he left.

Now he was sitting with Rhea, and that in truth was quite a different matter. The only trouble was that she seemed sad.

‘This trial,’ she said. ‘Christ, it's depressing! And the people who decide things! The prosecutor is just a buffoon. And the way he stared at me, as if he'd never seen a woman before.’

‘Bulldozer,’ said Martin Beck. ‘He's seen lots of women and besides he's not your type.’

‘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?’

‘I don't remember. Nothing came of it.’

Crasher had returned to his table. He rummaged around in his papers and said, ‘At the police interrogation, Rebecka said that she had made the following remarks: “I loathe dirty old men” and “I think you're disgusting.”’ Crasher repeated in a loud voice: ‘Dirty old men.’ With a gesture of his cigar, he implied that as far as he was concerned the interrogation was over.

‘I do not understand at all what this has to do with the case,’ said Bulldozer without even looking up.

The witness stepped down with an injured air.

Then it was Martin Beck's turn. The formalities were as usual, but Bulldozer was now more attentive and followed the defence's questions with obvious interest.

‘Yesterday,’ said Crasher when the preliminaries were over, ‘I received word that a certain Filip Trofast Mauritzon had been refused the right to appeal to the High Court. As you may remember, Chief Inspector Beck, Mauritzon was convicted over eighteen months ago of murder in connection with armed robbery of a bank. The prosecutor in the case was my perhaps not-all-that-learned friend, Sten Robert Olsson, who at that time went under the title of Royal Prosecutor. I myself had the thankless and for my profession often morally burdensome task of defending Mauritzon, who undoubtedly was what we call in everyday speech a “criminal”. I would now like to ask one single question: Do you, Chief Inspector Beck, consider that Mauritzon was guilty of the bank robbery and the murder connected with it, and that the investigation presented by present counsel for the prosecution, Mr Olsson, was satisfactory from a police viewpoint?’

‘No,’ said Martin Beck.

Although Bulldozer's cheeks had suddenly taken on a pink hue which matched his shirt and enhanced even further his monstrous tie with its golden mermaids and hula-hula dancers, he smiled happily and said, ‘I, too, would like to ask a question. Did you, Chief Inspector Beck, take any part in the investigation of the murder at the bank?’

‘No,’ said Martin Beck.

Bulldozer slapped his hands together in front of his face and nodded in a self-satisfied way.

Martin Beck stepped down and went to sit beside Rhea. He rumpled her blonde hair, which won him a cross look. ‘I thought there'd be more than that,’ she said.

‘I didn't,’ said Martin Beck.

Watching them, Bulldozer Olsson's eyes were almost insane with curiosity. Crasher, however, appeared quite unaware of the situation. With his limping walk he had moved over to the window behind Bulldozer. In the dust on the pane he wrote the word IDIOT.

Then he said, ‘As my next witness I call Police Constable Karl Kristiansson.’

Kristiansson was shown in. He was an uncertain man who had lately come to the conclusion that the police force constituted a class system of its own, in which superiors behaved as they did, not to exploit anyone, but quite simply to make the lives of their subordinates hell.

After a long wait, Crasher turned around and began to walk back and forth across the room. Bulldozer did the same, but at quite a different pace, so that they looked like two somewhat peculiar sentries on duty. Finally, with a colossal sigh, Crasher began the interrogation.

‘According to my information, you've been a policeman for fifteen years.’

‘Yes.’

‘Your superior officers consider you lazy, unintelligent, but honest and generally as suitable – or unsuitable – as your other colleagues on the Stockholm Police Force.’

‘Objection! Objection!’ cried Bulldozer. ‘Counsel is insulting the witness.’

‘Am I?’ said Crasher. ‘If I were to say that the counsel for the prosecution, like a zeppelin, is one of the country's, yes even the world's most interesting and eloquent gasbags, there'd be nothing insulting about that, would there? Now I'm not saying that about the counsel for the prosecution, and as far as the witness is concerned, I am merely pointing out that he is an experienced policeman, as capable and intelligent as the other policemen who adorn our city. I'm just trying to bring out his excellent qualifications and good judgement.’

Rhea Nielsen laughed out loud. Martin Beck placed his right hand over her left one. She laughed even more loudly. The judge pointed out that spectators were expected to keep quiet, then turned to look irritably at the two lawyers. Bulldozer gazed so intently at Rhea that he almost missed the beginning of the interrogation.

Crasher, on the other hand, showed no reaction. He asked, ‘Were you first into the bank?’

‘No.’

‘Did you seize this girl, Rebecka Olsson?’

‘No.’

‘Rebecka Lind, I mean,’ said Crasher, after a few sniggers.

‘No.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I grabbed the other one.’

‘Were there two girls present at the robbery?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Kristiansson pondered a moment. ‘So she wouldn't fall.’

‘How old was this other girl?’

‘About four months.’

‘And so it was Kvastmo who seized Rebecka Lind?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think you might say that he employed violence or excessive force in doing so?’

‘I don't understand what counsel for the defence is trying to get at,’ said Bulldozer banteringly.

‘I mean that Kvastmo, whom we all saw earlier today …’

Crasher rummaged for a long time among his papers. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Kvastmo weighs over fourteen stone. He is, among other things, a specialist in karate and wrestling. He is regarded by his superiors as a keen and zealous man. Inspector Norman Hanson, who submitted the evidence, says however that Kvastmo is all too often overzealous on duty and that many of those taken into custody complain that Kvastmo used violence against them. The evidence also says that Kenneth Kvastmo has received various reprimands and that his ability to express himself leaves much to be desired.’

Crasher put down the document and said, ‘Would the witness now answer the question as to whether Kvastmo used violence.’

‘Yes,’ said Kristiansson. ‘You could say that.’ Experience had taught him not to lie where duty was concerned, at least not too much or too often. Also, he disliked Kvastmo.

‘And you took custody of the child?’

‘Yes, I had to. She was carrying it in a sort of harness, and when Kvastmo was taking the knife away from her, she almost dropped the child.’

‘Did Rebecka offer any resistance?’

‘No. When I took the kid, she just said, “Careful you don't drop her!”’

‘That all seems clear enough,’ said Crasher. ‘I will return to the possible continued use of force later. Instead, I should now like to ask you about another matter –’

‘Yes,’ said Kristiansson.

‘Since no one from the special unit concerned with protecting the banks' money visited the scene of the crime,’ said Crasher and stopped short with an imperious look at the prosecutor.

‘We work day and night,’ said Bulldozer, ‘and this was considered an insignificant case, one of many.’

‘Which means that the initial interrogations were conducted by whatever police happened to be present,’ said Crasher. ‘Who spoke to the cashier?’

‘Me,’ said Kristiansson.

‘And what did she say?’

‘She said the girl came up to the counter with the kid in a harness and put her shoulder bag on the marble slab. The cashier saw the knife right away, so she started stuffing notes in the bag.’

‘Did Rebecka take out the knife?’

‘No, she had it in her belt. Around in the back.’

‘Then how could the cashier have seen it?’

‘I don't know. Yes, of course, she saw it afterwards when Rebecka turned around, and then she screamed, “A knife, a knife, she's got a knife!”’

‘Was it a sheath knife or a stiletto?’

‘No, it looked like a small kitchen knife. Like the kind you have at home.’

‘What did Rebecka say to the cashier?’

‘Nothing. At least, not right away. Then they said she laughed and said, “I didn't know it was so easy to borrow money.” And then she said, “I suppose I have to leave a receipt or something.”’

‘The money appears to have been scattered all over the floor,’ said Crasher. ‘How did that come about?’

‘Well, Kvastmo was standing there holding on to the girl while we waited for reinforcements. And then the cashier started counting the money to see if any was missing. And then Kenneth started shouting, “Stop, that's illegal.”’

‘And then?’

‘Then he yelled, “Karl, don't let anyone touch the loot.” I was carrying the kid so I only got hold of one of the handles and dumped it on the floor by accident. It was mostly small denominations, so they flew all over the place. Well, then along came another patrol car. We gave the child to them, and then took the prisoner to the station on Kungsholm. I drove and Kenneth sat in the back seat with the girl.’

‘Was there trouble in the back seat?’

‘Yes, a little. At first she cried and wanted to know what we'd done with her kid. Then she cried even louder and then Kvastmo was trying to put handcuffs on her.’

‘Did you say anything?’

‘Yes, I said I was sure she didn't need them. Kvastmo was twice as big as her and anyway she wasn't offering any resistance.’

‘Did you say anything else in the car?’

Kristiansson sat in silence for several minutes. Crasher waited silently.

Kristiansson gazed at his uniform-clad legs, looked guiltily around and said, ‘I said, “Don't hit her, Kenneth.”’

The rest was simple. Crasher rose and went over to Kristiansson. ‘Does Kenneth Kvastmo usually hit the people he arrests?’

‘It has happened.’

‘Did you see Kvastmo's shoulder flap and the almost torn-off button?’

‘Yes. He mentioned it. Said his wife didn't keep his things in order.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘The day before.’

‘The prosecution's witness,’ said Crasher gently.

Bulldozer caught Kristiansson's eye and held it. How many cases had been wrecked by stupid policemen? And how many had been saved?

‘No questions,’ said Bulldozer lightly. Then, as if in passing, ‘The prosecution withdraws the charge of assaulting a police officer.’

What happened next was that Braxén requested a recess, during which he lit his first cigar and then made the long trek to the men's room. He came back after a while and stood talking to Rhea Nielsen.

‘What sort of women do you run around with?’ Bulldozer Olsson asked Martin Beck. ‘First she laughs at me while the court's in session and now she stands there chatting with Crasher. Everyone knows Crasher's breath can knock an orang-utan unconscious at fifty yards.’

‘Good women,’ answered Martin Beck. ‘Or rather, one good woman.’

‘Oh, so you've married again? Me, too. It gives life a little more zip.’

Rhea came over to them. ‘Rhea,’ said Martin Beck, ‘this is the senior public prosecutor, Mr Olsson.’

‘So I gather.’

‘Everyone calls him Bulldozer,’ said Martin Beck. He turned to Olsson. ‘I think your case is going badly.’

‘Yes, one half has collapsed,’ said Bulldozer. ‘But the rest of it'll stick. Bet me a bottle of whisky?’

At that moment the case was called again and Bulldozer Olsson rushed into the courtroom.

The defence called its next witness, Hedy-Marie Wirén, a suntanned woman of about fifty.

Crasher sorted his papers, finally finding the right one, and said, ‘Rebecka did not do well in school. She left at sixteen with grades far too low to enable her to go on to high school. But did she do equally poorly in all subjects?’

‘She was good at my subject,’ said the witness. ‘One of the best pupils I've ever had. Rebecka had a lot of ideas of her own, especially when it came to vegetables and natural foods. She was aware that our present diet is objectionable, that most of the food sold in supermarkets is in one way or another poisoned. Rebecka realized at a very early age the importance of a healthy way of life. She grew her own vegetables and was always prepared to gather what nature had to offer. That was why she always carried a gardening knife in her belt. I have talked a great deal to Rebecka.’

‘About biodynamic turnips?’ Crasher yawned.

‘Among other things. But what I would like to say is that Rebecka is a sound child. Her academic education is perhaps limited, but that was a conscious decision on her part. She does not wish to burden her mind with a mass of inessentials. The only thing that really interests her is how the natural environment can be saved from total destruction. She is not interested in politics other than that she finds society as such incomprehensible and its leaders either criminal or insane.’

‘No more questions,’ said Crasher. At this stage he appeared bored, interested in nothing but going home.

‘I'm interested in that knife,’ said Bulldozer, suddenly jumping up from his place. He went over to the table in front of the judge and picked up the knife.

‘It's an ordinary gardening knife,’ said Hedy-Marie Wirén. ‘The same kind she's always had. As anyone can see, the handle is worn and the tool well used.’

‘Nonetheless, it can be said to be a dangerous weapon,’ said Bulldozer.

‘I don't agree at all. I wouldn't even attempt to kill a sparrow with that knife. Rebecka also has a totally negative attitude towards violence. She doesn't understand why it occurs and she herself would never dream of giving anyone so much as a slap.’

‘Nevertheless, I maintain that this is a dangerous weapon,’ said Bulldozer, waving the gardening knife about.

He did not, however, seem altogether convinced, and although he was smiling at the witness, he was forced to summon up all his benignity to accept her next comment with his famous good humour.

‘That means that you are either malevolent or else simply stupid,’ said the witness. ‘Do you smoke? Or drink?’

‘No more questions,’ said Bulldozer.

‘The interrogation is now over,’ said the judge. ‘Does anyone wish to ask any questions before the character appraisals and the closing arguments?’

Braxén, limping and smacking his lips, approached the bench.

‘Character appraisals are seldom more than routine essays, written to allow the writer to earn his fifty kronor, or whatever it is. So I would like – and I hope other responsible people will join me – to ask Rebecka Lind herself some questions.’

He turned to the accused for the first time. ‘What is the name of the King of Sweden?’

Even Bulldozer looked surprised.

‘I don't know,’ said Rebecka Lind. ‘Do I have to know that?’

‘No,’ said Crasher. ‘You don't. Do you know the name of the Prime Minister?’

‘No. Who is that?’

‘He is the head of the government and the leading politician of the country.’

‘Then he's a bad man,’ said Rebecka Lind. ‘I know that Sweden has built an atomic power station in Barsebåck in Skåne, and it's only twenty-five kilometres from the centre of Copenhagen. They say the government is to blame for the destruction of the environment.’

‘Rebecka,’ said Bulldozer Olsson in a friendly way, ‘how do you know about things like atomic power when you don't even know the name of the Prime Minister?’

‘My friends talk about that sort of thing, but they aren't interested in politics.’

Crasher let everyone think that over. Then he said, ‘Before you went to see this bank director, whose name I have unfortunately forgotten, presumably for eternity, had you ever been inside a bank before?’

‘No, never.’

‘Why not?’

‘What for? Banks are for the rich. I and my friends never go into such places.’

‘And nevertheless you did go there,’ said Crasher. ‘Why?’

‘Because I needed money. One of my friends said that you could borrow money from a bank. Then when that horrible bank manager said that there were banks owned by the people, I thought maybe I could get some money there.’

‘So when you went to the PK Bank, you really thought you could borrow some money from them?’

‘Yes, but I was surprised it was so easy. I never even had time to say how much I needed.’

Bulldozer, who had now realized what line the defence was taking, hurried to intervene. ‘Rebecka,’ he said, a smile covering his face, ‘there are some things I simply don't understand. How is it possible, with all today's mass media, that a person can avoid learning the simplest facts about society?’

‘Your society isn't mine,’ said Rebecka Lind.

‘You're wrong, Rebecka,’ said Bulldozer. ‘We live together in this country and we have mutual responsibility for what is good or bad. But I would like to know how a person can avoid hearing what is said on the radio and television and entirely miss what is written in the newspapers.’

‘I have neither radio nor TV and the only things I read in the papers are the horoscopes.’

‘But you went to school for nine years, didn't you?’

‘They just tried to teach us a lot of nonsense. I didn't listen.’

‘But money,’ said Bulldozer, ‘money is something everyone's interested in.’

‘Not me.’

‘Where did you get the money to live on?’

‘Welfare. But I needed very little. Until now.’

The judge then read out the character appraisal which was not quite so lacking in interest as Braxén had predicted.

Rebecka Lind was born on 3 January 1956, and grew up in a lower middle class home. Her father was an office manager in a small building firm. Their home circumstances had been good, but Rebecka had very early on rebelled against her parents, and this antagonism had culminated when she was sixteen years old. She had been remarkably uninterested in school and had left after Year 11. Her teachers considered her fund of knowledge to be frighteningly inadequate. Although she did not lack intelligence, her attitudes were strange and divorced from reality. She had not been able to find work and showed no interest in doing so. When she was sixteen years old, life at home had become difficult and she moved out. Questioned by the investigator, the father said that this had been best for them all, as the parents had other children who were less of a disappointment to them.

At first she lived in a country cottage, which she had on more or less permanent loan from an acquaintance and which she kept after she managed to acquire a bedsit in a slum to the south of Stockholm. At the beginning of 1973 she met an American deserter named Jim Cosgrave and moved in with him. Rebecka soon became pregnant, which was her own wish, and in January 1974 she gave birth to a daughter, Camilla. Cosgrave had wanted to work but could find no job because he was long-haired and a foreigner. The only work he had during his years in Sweden was as a dishwasher for two weeks one summer on one of the ferries to Finland. Moreover, he longed to return to the United States. He had job experience and considered that he would have little difficulty in arranging things for himself and his family once he got home.

At the beginning of February, Cosgrave made contact with the United States Embassy and declared himself prepared to return voluntarily, provided he was given certain guarantees. They were anxious to get him home and promised him that his punishment would be mere formality.

Cosgrave flew back to the States on 12 February. Rebecka had reckoned on being able to follow in March, when her boyfriend's parents had promised to help with money, but the months had gone by and no word had come from Cosgrave. She went to the welfare office and was told that because Cosgrave was a foreign citizen, they could do nothing. That was when Rebecka decided to go to the United States on her own, to find out what had happened. To get money, she turned to a bank, with known results.

The character appraisal was mainly positive. It pointed out that Rebecka had been an excellent mother and that she had never sunk to vice or shown criminal tendencies. She was incorruptibly truthful, but had an unrealistic attitude towards the world and often showed signs of exaggerated gullibility. Cosgrave was also appraised briefly. According to his acquaintances, he was a purposeful young man who had not attempted to evade his responsibilities and who had implicitly believed in a future for himself and his family in the United States.

Bulldozer Olsson now rose to give his summation.

Rhea observed him through half-closed eyes. Apart from his hopeless clothes, he was a man who radiated enormous self-confidence and an intense interest in what he was doing. He had seen through Crasher's line of defence, but he was not going to let his actions be influenced by it. Instead, he expressed himself simply and briefly and stuck to his previous line of argument. He puffed out his chest – in fact mostly stomach – looked down at his unpolished brown shoes and began in a silky voice.

‘I wish to limit my summation to a repetition of proven facts. Rebecka Lind went into the PK Bank, armed with a knife and equipped with a capacious shoulder bag in which she intended to put her booty. Long experience with bank robberies of the simpler variety – in fact there have been hundreds during this last year – convinces me that Rebecka was behaving according to a pattern although her lack of experience caused her to be immediately apprehended. I personally feel sorry for the accused, who while so young has allowed herself to be beguiled into committing such a serious crime. All the same, my regard for the law obliges me to demand unconditional imprisonment. The evidence that has been produced in this court is incontestable. No amount of argument can undo it.’

Bulldozer fingered his tie, then concluded: ‘I therefore submit my case for the approval of the court.’

‘Is counsel for the defence prepared for his summation?’ asked the judge.

Crasher was apparently not in the least prepared. He shuffled his papers together unsorted, regarded his unlit cigar for a moment, then put it into his pocket. He looked round the courtroom, staring curiously at each person in turn, as if he had never seen any of them before. Then he rose and limped back and forth in front of the judge.

Finally he said, ‘As I have already pointed out, this young lady who has been placed on the accused's bench, or perhaps I should say chair, is innocent, and a speech in her defence is largely unnecessary. Nevertheless, I shall say a few words.’

Everyone wondered nervously what Crasher might mean by ‘a few words’.

Crasher unbuttoned his jacket, belched with relief, thrust out his stomach and said, ‘As counsel for the prosecution has pointed out, a great many bank robberies occur in this country. The wide publicity they are given, as well as the often spectacular attempts of the police to stop them, have not only made the public prosecutor a famous man but have also caused a general hysteria.’

Crasher paused and stood for a moment with his eyes on the floor, presumably trying to concentrate, then resumed.

‘Rebecka Lind has not had much help or joy from society. Neither school, nor her own parents, nor the older generation in general have on the whole offered her support or encouragement. That she has not bothered to involve herself in the present system of government cannot be blamed on her. When, in contrast to many other young people, she tries to get work, she is told that there is none. I am tempted here to go into the reasons why there is no work for the younger generation, but I shall abstain.

‘At any rate, when she finally finds herself in a difficult situation, she turns to a bank. She has not the slightest idea of how a bank works, and is led to the mistaken conclusion that the PK Bank is less capitalistic, or that it is actually owned by the people.

‘When the bank cashier catches sight of Rebecka, she at once thinks the girl has come to rob the bank, partly because she cannot understand what such a person would be doing in a bank, and partly because she is inflamed by the innumerable directives that have been heaped on bank employees recently. She at once sounds the alarm and begins to put money into the bag the girl has placed on the counter. What happens then? Well, instead of one of the public prosecutor's famous detectives, who have no time to bother with such futile little cases, along come two uniformed policemen in a patrol car. While one of them, according to his own words, leaps on the girl like a panther, the other manages to scatter the money all over the floor. Beyond this contribution, he also questions the cashier. From this interrogation it appears that Rebecka did not threaten the bank staff at all and that she did not demand money. The whole matter can then be called a misunderstanding. The girl behaved naïvely, but, as you know, that is no crime.’

Crasher limped over to his table, studied his papers, and with his back to the judge and jury said, ‘I ask that Rebecka Lind be released and that the charge against her be declared void. No other plea is possible, because anyone with any sense must see that she is not guilty and that there can be no question of any other verdict.’

The court's deliberations were quite brief. The result was announced in less than half an hour.

Rebecka Lind was declared free and immediately released. On the other hand, the charges were not declared void, which meant that the prosecution could appeal the verdict. Five of the jury had voted for release and two against. The judge had recommended conviction.

As they left the courtroom, Bulldozer Olsson came up to Martin Beck and Rhea and said, ‘You see? If you'd been a bit quicker, you'd have won that bottle of whisky.’

‘Are you going to appeal?’

‘No. Do you think I've nothing better to do than sit in the High Court for a whole day arguing the toss with Crasher? In a case like this?’ He rushed away.

Crasher also came up to them, limping worse than ever. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. ‘Not many people would have done that.’

‘I thought I understood your train of thought,’ said Martin Beck.

‘That's what's wrong,’ said Braxén. ‘Lots of people understand one's train of thought, but hardly anyone will come and support it.’

Crasher looked thoughtfully at Rhea as he snipped off the top of his cigar.

‘I had an interesting and profitable conversation with Miss … Mrs … this lady during the recess.’

‘Nielsen's her name,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Rhea Nielsen.’

‘Thank you,’ said Crasher with a certain warmth. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I don't lose a lot of cases just because of this name business. Anyhow, Mrs Nilsson should have gone in for law. She analysed the whole case in ten minutes and summarized it in a way that would have taken the public prosecutor several months, if he were bright enough to manage it at all.’

‘Mmm,’ said Martin Beck. ‘If Bulldozer wanted to appeal, he would be unlikely to lose in a higher court.’

‘Well,’ said Crasher, ‘you have to reckon with your opponent's psyche. If Bulldozer loses in the first instance, he doesn't appeal.’

‘Why not?’ said Rhea.

‘He would lose his image as a man who is so busy that he really has no time for anything. And if all prosecutors were as successful as Bulldozer usually is, then half the population of the country would be in prison.’

Rhea grimaced.

‘Thanks again,’ said Crasher and limped away.

Martin Beck watched him go with some thoughtfulness, then turned to Rhea. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘Home.’

‘Your place or mine?’

‘Yours. It's beginning to be a long time ago.’

To be precise, long ago was four days.