Dennis Lehane - The Terrorists

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.’