Free The Terrorists by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö Page A

“Shall we go and eat now?”
    Though they seldom went out to eat, they had gone to an expensive restaurant where the headwaiter had looked at Rhea’s clogs with distaste. Afterward they had walked home and lain in the same bed, which neither of them had planned on.
    Since then almost two years had gone by and Rhea Nielsen had been to Köpmangatan innumerable times. Naturally she had to some extent left her mark on the apartment, especially in the kitchen, which was wholly unrecognizable. She had also stuck a poster of Mao Tse-tung above the bed. Martin Beck never expressed opinions on political matters and said nothing this time, either. But Rhea had said, “If anyone wanted to do an ‘At Home With …’ article, you’d probably have to take it down. If you were too cowardly to leave it up.”
    Martin Beck had not answered, but the thought of the tremendous dismay the poster would cause in certain circles decided him at once to leave it there.
    When they went into Martin Beck’s apartment on the fifth of June, 1974, Rhea began at once to take off her sandals.
    “These damned straps rub,” she said. “But they’ll be all right in a week or two.” She flung the sandals aside. “What a relief.”she said. “You did a good job today. How many policemen would have agreed to testify and answer those questions?”
    Martin Beck continued to say nothing.
    “Not one,” said Rhea. “And what you said turned the whole case. I could tell right away.” She studied her feet and said, “Pretty sandals, but they rub like hell. It’s nice to get them off.”
    “Take everything else off if you feel like it,” said Martin Beck. He had known this woman long enough to know exactly how the situation might develop. Either she would immediately fling off all her clothes, or she would start talking about something completely different.
    Rhea glanced at him. Sometimes her eyes looked luminous, he thought. She opened her mouth to say something and at once closed it again. Instead she flung off her shirt and jeans, and before Martin Beck had time to unbutton his jacket, her clothes were lying on the floor and she herself lay naked on the bed.
    “God, how slowly you undress,” she said, with a snort. Her mood had suddenly changed. This showed too in that she lay flat on her back almost throughout, her legs wide apart and straight up, the way she thought was the most fun, which was not to say that she always or even usually thought it was the best way.
    They came simultaneously and that had to be that for the day.
    Rhea rummaged in the wardrobe and extracted a long lilac-colored knit sweater, which was clearly her favorite piece of clothing and which she had found as difficult to leave behind at Tulegatan as her personal integrity. Before she had even put it on, she began to talk about food.
    “A hot sandwich or maybe three, or five, how does that sound? I’ve bought all sorts of goodies, ham and paté, the best Jarlsberg cheese you’ve ever tasted.”
    “I believe you,” said Martin Beck. He was standing over by the window, listening to the wolf howls of police cars, which could be heard very clearly, although in fact he lived in a very secluded spot.
    “It’ll be ready in five minutes,” said Rhea.
    It was the same every time they slept together. She at once became extremely hungry. Sometimes it was so urgent that sherushed stark-naked out to the kitchen to start cooking. Her preference for hot food didn’t make things easier.
    Martin Beck had no such problems—on the contrary. True, his stomach trouble seemed to have left him as soon as he left his wife. Whether the trouble had been due to her erratic cooking or whether it had had psychosomatic origins was not easy to say. But he could still easily satisfy his caloric needs—especially when on duty or when Rhea was not within reach—with a couple of cheese sandwiches and a glass or two of milk.
    But Rhea’s hot open sandwiches were very difficult to resist. Martin