The Terrorists. Dennis Lehane

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      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.’

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