The Terrorists by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö Read Free Book Online

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 RheaNielsen 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 defense’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 tone 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 blond 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 Assistant Karl Kristiansson.”
    Kristiansson was shown in. He was an uncertain man who had lately come to the conclusion that the