The Terrorists (6 page)

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 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 judgment.”

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 defense 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 two hundred pounds. 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 department 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 teller?”

“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 teller 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 teller have seen it?”

“I don’t know. Yes, of course, she saw it afterward 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 teller?”

“Nothing. Anyhow, 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 onto the girl while we waited for reinforcements. And then the teller 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 bills, 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 dumb 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 washroom. 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 orangutan 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 defense 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 stage the importance of a healthy way of life. She raised 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
toward 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 humor.

“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 Barsebäck in Skåne, and it’s only twenty-five kilometers from the center 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 forever, 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 defense 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.