Free The Terrorists by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö Page B

Beck ate three of them and drank two bottles of Hof. Rhea devoured seven, drank half a bottle of red wine and was still hungry enough fifteen minutes later to go foraging in the refrigerator for more.
    “Are you staying over?” Martin Beck asked.
    “Yes, please,” she said. “It seems to be that sort of day.”
    “What sort of day?”
    “The sort of day that suits us, of course.”
    “Oh, that sort of day.”
    “We could celebrate Swedish Flag Day, for instance. And the King’s name day. We’ll have to think up something original when we wake up.”
    “Oh, I expect that can be arranged.”
    Rhea curled up in the armchair. Most people would probably have thought she looked comical in her strange position and that mysterious long sweater. But Martin Beck did not think so. After a while it looked as if she had fallen asleep, but at that moment she said, “Now I remember what it was I was going to say just as you raped me.”
    “Yes? What was it?”
    “That girl, Rebecka Lind, what’ll happen to her?”
    “Nothing. They released her.”
    “Sometimes you really do say stupid things. I know they released her. The question is what might happen to her psychologically. Can she look after herself?”
    “Oh, I think so. She isn’t as apathetic and passive as a lot of her contemporaries. And as far as the trial—”
    “Yes, the trial. What did she learn from it? Presumably that it’s possible to be arrested and maybe sent to prison withoutever having done anything.” Rhea frowned. “I’m worried about that girl. It’s difficult to manage on your own in a society you don’t understand at all, when the system is alien to you.”
    “From what I could gather that American boy is okay and really does want to take care of her.”
    “Maybe he just can’t,” said Rhea, shaking her head.
    Martin Beck looked silently at her for a while, then said, “I’d like to disagree with you, but the fact is I was worried myself when I saw that girl. Another fact is that unfortunately we can’t do much to help her. Of course we could help her privately, with money, but I don’t think she’d accept that kind of help and anyway I don’t have any money to give away.”
    Rhea scratched the back of her neck for a while. “You’re right,” she said. “I think she’s the type who wouldn’t accept charity. She’ll never even go willingly to the social welfare office. Perhaps she’ll try to get herself a job, but she’ll never find one.” She yawned. “I haven’t the energy to think anymore,” she said. “But one thing seems clear. Rebecka Lind will never become a noted citizen in the land.”
    She was wrong there, and soon afterward fell asleep.
    Martin Beck went out to the kitchen, did the dishes and put things away. He was still there when Rhea woke up and he heard her switch on the TV. She had decided not to have a set of her own, presumably for the sake of the children, but she occasionally liked to watch his. He heard her call something, put down what he was doing and went into the room.
    “There’s a special news bulletin,” she said.
    He had missed the actual beginning, but there was no doubt about the subject matter. The newscaster’s voice sounded dignified and serious.
    “…  the assassination occurred before the arrival at the palace. An explosive charge of very great force was detonated beneath the street just as the motorcade was passing. The President and the others in the bulletproof car were killed immediately and their bodies badly mutilated. The car itself was thrown over a nearby building. A number of other people were killed by the explosion, among them several security men and civilians in the area. The chief of the City Police announced that sixteen people had definitely been killed, but the final number may beconsiderably higher. He also emphasized that security measures for the state visit had been the most comprehensive ever undertaken in the history of the country. In a broadcast from