Read Online The Terrorists by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö
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person who missed Kollberg, and that was Martin Beck.
When he had come out of hospital more than two years earlier, he also had problems of a more personal nature. He had felt lonely and isolated in a way he had never felt before. The case he had been given as occupational therapy had been unique in that it seemed to come straight from the world of detective stories. It concerned a locked room, and the investigation had been mystifying and the solution unsatisfactory. He had often had the feeling that it was he himself who was seated in the locked room, instead of a rather uninteresting corpse.
He had found the murderer, although Bulldozer Olsson at the subsequent trial had chosen to have the accused charged with murder in connection with a bank robbery, of which the man in question was entirely innocent—the case that Braxén had referred to earlier in the day. Martin Beck had found things a bit difficult with Bulldozer since then, as the whole affair had been so deliberately manipulated, but their relations weren’t all that bad. Martin Beck was not resentful and he liked talking to Bulldozer, even if it did amuse him to put a spoke in the public prosecutor’s wheel as he had done earlier that day.
But luck had come his way again—in the shape of RheaNielsen. When he met her, it took him only ten minutes to realize he was extremely interested, and she had made little effort to hide her interest in him. Perhaps most meaningful to him, at least at first, was that he had made contact with not only a human being who had at once understood what he meant, but also one whose own intentions and unspoken questions had been quite clear, without misunderstandings or complications.
So it had begun. They had met often, but only at her place. She owned an apartment house in Tulegatan and ran it, more and more dejectedly during the last year, as a kind of collective household.
Several weeks had gone by before she had come to the Köpmangatan apartment. She had cooked dinner that evening, because good food was one of her interests. The evening had also revealed that she had certain other interests, and that their interests on that point were more or less mutual.
It had been a good evening. For Martin Beck, perhaps the most successful ever.
They had had breakfast together in the morning, Martin Beck preparing it as he watched her dress. He had seen her naked several times before, but he had a strong feeling that it would be many years before he had looked his fill. Rhea Nielsen was strong and well built. It could be said that she was rather stocky, but also that she had an unusually functional and harmonious body—just as it could be said that her features were as irregular as they were strong and individual. What he liked most of all were five widely disparate things: her uncompromising blue eyes, her flat round breasts, her large light-brown nipples, the fair patch of hair at her loins, and her feet.
Rhea had laughed hoarsely. “Go on looking,” she said. “Sometimes it’s damned good to be looked at.” She pulled on her pants.
Soon afterward they were breakfasting on tea and toast and marmalade. She looked thoughtful, and Martin Beck knew why. He was troubled himself.
A few minutes later, she left, saying, “Thanks for one hell of a nice night.”
“Thanks yourself.”
“I’ll call you,” said Rhea. “If you think too long’s gone by,then call me.” She looked thoughtful and troubled again, then thrust her feet into her red clogs and said abruptly, “So long then. And thanks again.”
Martin Beck was free that day. After Rhea had gone, he took a shower, put on his robe and lay down on the bed. He still felt troubled. He got up and looked at himself in the mirror. It had to be admitted that he did not look forty-nine, but it also had to be admitted that he was. As far as he could see, his features hadn’t altered markedly for a number of years. He was trim and tall, a man with slightly yellow skin and a
When he had come out of hospital more than two years earlier, he also had problems of a more personal nature. He had felt lonely and isolated in a way he had never felt before. The case he had been given as occupational therapy had been unique in that it seemed to come straight from the world of detective stories. It concerned a locked room, and the investigation had been mystifying and the solution unsatisfactory. He had often had the feeling that it was he himself who was seated in the locked room, instead of a rather uninteresting corpse.
He had found the murderer, although Bulldozer Olsson at the subsequent trial had chosen to have the accused charged with murder in connection with a bank robbery, of which the man in question was entirely innocent—the case that Braxén had referred to earlier in the day. Martin Beck had found things a bit difficult with Bulldozer since then, as the whole affair had been so deliberately manipulated, but their relations weren’t all that bad. Martin Beck was not resentful and he liked talking to Bulldozer, even if it did amuse him to put a spoke in the public prosecutor’s wheel as he had done earlier that day.
But luck had come his way again—in the shape of RheaNielsen. When he met her, it took him only ten minutes to realize he was extremely interested, and she had made little effort to hide her interest in him. Perhaps most meaningful to him, at least at first, was that he had made contact with not only a human being who had at once understood what he meant, but also one whose own intentions and unspoken questions had been quite clear, without misunderstandings or complications.
So it had begun. They had met often, but only at her place. She owned an apartment house in Tulegatan and ran it, more and more dejectedly during the last year, as a kind of collective household.
Several weeks had gone by before she had come to the Köpmangatan apartment. She had cooked dinner that evening, because good food was one of her interests. The evening had also revealed that she had certain other interests, and that their interests on that point were more or less mutual.
It had been a good evening. For Martin Beck, perhaps the most successful ever.
They had had breakfast together in the morning, Martin Beck preparing it as he watched her dress. He had seen her naked several times before, but he had a strong feeling that it would be many years before he had looked his fill. Rhea Nielsen was strong and well built. It could be said that she was rather stocky, but also that she had an unusually functional and harmonious body—just as it could be said that her features were as irregular as they were strong and individual. What he liked most of all were five widely disparate things: her uncompromising blue eyes, her flat round breasts, her large light-brown nipples, the fair patch of hair at her loins, and her feet.
Rhea had laughed hoarsely. “Go on looking,” she said. “Sometimes it’s damned good to be looked at.” She pulled on her pants.
Soon afterward they were breakfasting on tea and toast and marmalade. She looked thoughtful, and Martin Beck knew why. He was troubled himself.
A few minutes later, she left, saying, “Thanks for one hell of a nice night.”
“Thanks yourself.”
“I’ll call you,” said Rhea. “If you think too long’s gone by,then call me.” She looked thoughtful and troubled again, then thrust her feet into her red clogs and said abruptly, “So long then. And thanks again.”
Martin Beck was free that day. After Rhea had gone, he took a shower, put on his robe and lay down on the bed. He still felt troubled. He got up and looked at himself in the mirror. It had to be admitted that he did not look forty-nine, but it also had to be admitted that he was. As far as he could see, his features hadn’t altered markedly for a number of years. He was trim and tall, a man with slightly yellow skin and a
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