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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 defense 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 defense’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 defense 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 properlyinvestigated. 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 garbage heap 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 jurymen 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 favor.”
    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 dame, 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