The Beast Read online

  'How do you do? I'm Detective Chief Inspector Ewert Grens. We met yesterday.'

  'Hello. Fredrik Steffansson. I recognise you. This is Agnes Steffansson, Marie's mother.'

  They went down a flight of stairs and along a short hospital-type corridor. The other policeman, the one who'd led the interrogations yesterday, was waiting in a doorway, and behind him, a white-coated doctor with tired eyes.

  'Good afternoon. We didn't get introduced yesterday. I'm Sven Sundkvist, Detective Inspector. And this is Dr Ludvig Errfors from the Forensic Science Service. He is responsible for Marie's autopsy. '

  Marie's autopsy.

  The phrase was a howled obscenity. It cut to the quick, was hateful, final.

  The last twenty-four hours ached inside them, hours of hell hope hell hope hell. Yesterday, sometime after midday, Fredrik had said goodbye to the human being that they both lived and breathed for. Now, in a sterile forensic mortuary, they were to look at her destroyed body and admit it was hers. They clung to each other.

  Sometimes people cling to each other until they break.

  * * *

  Summer was at a standstill.

  The stagnant air was too heavy to breathe, but Sven didn't notice.

  He was crying.

  He had concentrated on hanging on; soon it would be over, soon air, soon life, soon soon soon, he mustn't break down now as the two people in front of him had done, two parents who had held on tightly to each other as they stood by the mortuary trolley, nodding confirmation when they were shown her face. The father had kissed his little girl's cheek and the mother had leaned over the child's body and collapsed, her head resting on the cover, then they had both wailed, screams that were unlike anything he had ever heard; these two had died in front of his eyes. He had tried to fix his gaze somewhere else, on the wall somewhere; soon he'd get away from here, from the trolley and this whole fucking awful place, soon he'd be running upstairs towards air that was not heavy with death.

  They had been clutching each other when they left.

  He had been running, corridor, stairs, door, crying as if he would never stop.

  Ewert left too. Walking past Sven, he patted the younger man's shoulder.

  'I'll be in the car. Take your time, take all the time you need.'

  How much time had passed? Ten minutes? Twenty? He had no idea. He had wept until he felt empty, until no more tears came. He wept with them and for them, as if they did not have enough room for the grief, as if their sadness had to be shared out.

  When he climbed into the car Ewert touched his cheek lightly.

  'I've been sitting here listening to the piss-poor radio. News on every fucking channel and they're pumping out stuff about Bernt Lund and the murder of Marie. They've got what they needed, a summer murder, and from now on they'll be snapping at our heels all day long.'

  Sven had put his hands on the steering wheel. Now he gestured at it, then at Ewert.

  'What about you driving?'

  'Nope.'

  'Only just now, for a while. I don't feel up to it.'

  'I'll wait until you're ready to start the engine. We're in no more hurry than that.'

  Sven sat back. A minute or two passed. The radio changed from one pop hit that sounded identical to all the rest of them, and started on another one just the same.

  Sven turned to look at the rear window shelf.

  'Do you fancy some cake?'

  He reached for his bags, first the birthday gateau, then the wine, and put the would-be feast in his lap.

  'Princess Gateau. Jonas said it was his favourite. Two roses on top, one for me and one for him.'

  He opened the box and sniffed tentatively.

  'Christ, it's off. Twenty-four hours in this heat. It's far gone.'

  Ewert shuddered at the sudden wave of rancid smell, made a disgusted face and pushed the whole carton as far away as possible. Then he started fiddling with the radio dial. The mantra was the same, in newscast after newscast.

  Little Girl Murdered. Escaped Sex Killer. Bernt Lund. Aspsås Prison. Police Hunt. The Grief. The Fear.

  'I can't bear listening to this shit any more. Can't stand having it shoved down my throat. Turn it off, please, Ewert.'

  Sven checked the label on one of the bottles, nodded and unscrewed the top.

  'I reckon I need some.'

  He swallowed a mouthful. Another one. And another.

  'Ewert, listen. Yesterday was my fortieth birthday. Celebration time. So I drive to Strängnäs to interview an elderly lady who's found the body of a murdered little girl under a tree. Then, as a follow-up, I come here to look at the girl and to be told that she's got semen in her anus and a sharp object jammed into her vagina. I watch her parents go to pieces as they see their daughter for the last time. Now I can't get my mind round this. Not any of it. I want to go home.'

  'Time to get going.'

  Ewert took the bottle, then reached out for the top. Sven handed it to him and he screwed it on.

  'Sven, you're not the only one. We all feel it. Frustration, alienation. But what's the point of that? We've got to get him. That's what we're meant to do. Get him, before he strikes again.'

  Sven started the engine and reversed gingerly out of the parking lot. The forensic building was next to Karolinska, the main Stockholm hospital, and everyone had parked capital- city-style, cramming the cars as tightly as they would go.

  'I know what he's like,' Ewert went on. 'I've interrogated him. I've read his stash of reports. Every single fucking line that the forensic psychos have penned. He'll do it again; the only question is when. And where. He's beyond any kind of control. He'll go on until we get him or he kills himself.'

  * * *

  Dickybird was looking for shade. There were no trees in the exercise yard, no walls or fences, nothing to hide behind to get the sun off his back; sweat was pouring off him. The large expanse of gravel had become a huge dust cloud contained within the grey stone of the perimeter wall. They had tried a game of football, five-a-side, with five thousand in the pot, but had to stop, their shoulders red and burning, every breath hurting. The two teams had collapsed on the ground behind the goals. Reps from each team had met in the centre circle to negotiate, both arguing the same case, saying that their boys were ready for more, but it was obvious that the opposition was dead beat, so the bet was off for now, surely?

  Skåne had been their rep. When he returned, he sat down between Dickybird and Hilding.

  'They came round. They're clapped out. The Russian couldn't fucking breathe.'

  'Good.'

  'We'll go for it on Monday, play the second half. And I raised the stake. Double. That lot can't kick a fucking ball. No way.'

  Hilding stirred, looking anxiously at Dickybird, scratching the sore near his nostril. Bekir was silent, Dragan was silent.

  Dickybird spat into the gravel.

  'Did you so? Doubled the stake. And who pays if we screw up?'

  'Shit, Dickybird, we won't screw up. Fuck's sake, they haven't even got a proper goalie.'

  Dickybird lifted his head to examine the other team; everyone was still lying down as if the sun had sapped their collective strength.

  'Skåne, you're full of shit. Your brain's stoned senseless. Like, haven't you seen the boys play? Have you been here at all? We've had crap luck, that's a fact. But fine, fine. OK, shithead. OK. We'll go for it, double the fucking pot. But your dosh is on the line if we lose. You'll pay up, I'll see to that. And if we win, we share and share alike. That's fair. Two grand each.'

  Skåne shook his head, he didn't give a monkey's. He moved a few metres away, went down on his belly in the dust and started doing press-ups. He counted aloud to let them hear, ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred and fifty, two hundred and fifty. His shaved skull and thick neck were gleaming with sweat, it dripped on the ground; he groaned and pushed, emptying himself of frustration and summer and having four years to go.

  Dickybird closed his eyes. He stared wide-eyed at the sun for
as long as he could stand it, letting in the blinding rays. When he lowered his eyelids there were patterns of rhythmic light, dots and colours and wavy bands; this was a trick he'd played since childhood, closing your eyes made you vanish.

  'What news about the big boy? The hitman?'

  Hilding realised what he was after, but didn't want to know.

  'How do you mean, what news?'

  'Like, where is he? I haven't seen him today.'

  'How should I fucking know?'

  'Make it your fucking job, that's how. Jochum Lang and Håkan Axelsson, the new guys, it's up to you to keep tabs. And let 'em know what's fucking what.'

  'Like you did with Jochum?'

  'Shut it.'

  A breeze was blowing, the first wind for days. It started suddenly, fanning their faces gently so that they forgot about arguing for a while. Dickybird sat up to suck strength from what was no longer unyielding heat. Turning his head towards the wall he saw the man on the running path circling the endless concrete. He had reddish-blond hair and a beard, one of the two new guys; this was the one who had arrived in the morning. Dickybird's eyes followed him, step by step, while he pulled a half-smoked fag out of his packet, one of the many fag-ends inside it. He became agitated and started waving his arms about, his eyes still glued to the stranger.

  'Look, there he goes. Axelsson. Not a fucking peep about who he is. He says he's in for GBH. Fuck's sake, the prissy cunt isn't up to pissing against the wind. He's a beast, I can smell it. I fucking sniff these perverts out.'

  The cooler air had alerted Hilding. He sat up to watch Axelsson's slow progress.

  'I listened to the screws earlier on, and they were on about him, that bugger over there. Like, this place is full up. Every single cell set aside for beasts has someone in it. And that's why he's here, because there was no room anywhere else.'

  Dickybird kicked irritably at the gravel and a white cloud of dust rose against the blue sky. He threw the fag-end at the whiteness and it glowed for a while before going out.

  'Skåne.'

  'Yes, what?'

  'You've got a mission.'

  'What fucking mission?'

  'You've got a six-hour leave coming up. Right?'

  'Right.'

  'No supervision?' 'Right.'

  'You know what you've got to do, then. Like, check out Axelsson's sentence.'

  'That's not on. I've got business to see to. Like, I've got a bird, and only six shitty hours.'

  Dickybird laughed.

  'Forget the bird. Shitheads who double the pool after a drawn first half shouldn't push their luck.'

  He pointed at them, first Skåne, then Hilding, then Skåne again.

  'Wildboy, you get Axelsson's ID number somehow and tell Skåne. He'll clutch it in his shaky junkie hands and use his leave tomorrow to get the boys at Stockholm registry office to hand over the beast's indictment. And then we'll fucking see. Oh, yeah.'

  Hilding scratched his sore until he bled. Then he cleared his throat, for too long. Dickybird interrupted before his lackey could speak.

  'Don't even think of arguing. Just do it.'

  Lennart Oscarsson stood by the window in his room. It looked out over the exercise yard and football pitch. He observed grown men, offenders who had threatened, beaten up and killed other men, lying on the ground behind the goals, gasping for air. He watched Dickybird and his harem, noted that they stared and pointed at Axelsson, who was walking along the jogging track. It made him gulp with anxiety; he had warned Bertolsson that to place someone with a child porn sentence among the normals could only end one way. In bloodshed. He had seen it before, and only someone unfamiliar with his strange reality could imagine anything different.

  He was dying. Another small death with every moment that passed.

  His two lives did not mean that he lived more, but that he lived less. Somehow his separate worlds cancelled each other out, consumed each other, so that loving two people, being embraced by two lovers, did not make him feel richer, but as if he'd lost out twice over.

  Now Nils was sitting opposite him. They had been holding each other, had agreed that they needed each other. And then Nils had stated his ultimatum.

  Lennart understood why. It wasn't that he did not see how living alone, just being somebody's second best, someone who didn't really exist for those who knew them both, would lead up to a point, like now, when they faced each other with an ugly either-or dividing them.

  He turned back toward the window, scanning the row of uniform villas just beyond the wall. He lived in one of them. His whole life was in one of those houses, and his wife, whom he had always loved.

  The man who stood close behind him now offered him a new life. He could grow old with Nils.

  He did not have the strength to keep carrying the lie.

  He knew that.

  Tomorrow must be the day when he stopped lying.

  * * *

  The whore had been screaming when he pulled off her red shoes. He'd pushed her down then, into the grass, little whores should scream, that was part of it, but there were too many outdoor types about, joggers and strolling OAPs. She hadn't liked it when he kissed the shiny red leather and the metal buckles, she'd screamed a lot, louder than the rest, true, but put it this way, she'd screamed real beautiful. He had to kiss her feet afterwards, maybe he was a bit rough then, more than he needed to be, he had pushed her face into the dry ground for a bit too long. It's hard to handle the little whores, if you're nice to them they just want more cock. This one was just the same.

  She'd had lovely feet. Pale pale skin, tiny toes. He had almost forgotten how it was to be with little whores. Four years it had been, how he'd longed for it, wanking wanking wanking, but now there was no need, he'd got at them again.

  They acted bad later on. When they had got what they wanted, cock, a hard seeing-to. And when they were silent.

  He had hidden this one. A big fir tree, its bottom branches reached the ground and she fitted in underneath. She'd been too mucky, shame to push her down so hard, but he had licked her feet clean. They had tasted of earth.

  He had been sitting here for three hours. A useful seat this, not too near but with a good view of everybody who was going in and out. This seemed a proper nursery, he had checked it out before and the children always looked happy.

  True, there were the guards. Ordinary baby cops, but always in the way. He'd have to work round them. Same types, in pairs, parked outside every place he'd tried in Strängnäs. But this was Enköping, thirty kilometres down the road, still, here they fucking well were.

  Little tiny whores.

  He had seen lots already.

  Lots with white-blonde hair, that's what he liked best, the pale ones because they were always so soft, their soft pale skin had blood vessels showing through and when he pressed hard with his fingers it left kind of reddish spots.

  * * *

  It was a beautiful church. White, proud and imposing, it dominated the small town, towering so demandingly over it that Fredrik often asked himself if it could ever have been suited to the congregation, or if it was a standard model in the long-ago days when Christianity was law and human beings walked taller.

  He liked it very much, regardless of his having left the Swedish Church long ago, because nothing that he couldn't see with his own eyes truly existed for him, and one of the things he could never see was whatever existence was supposed to follow death. Just this church, and just this cemetery, was important to him. It stood for life, for his childhood. Summer after summer, Fredrik had tagged along with his grandad, the church warden, admiring everything he did: digging deep graves, endlessly mowing the grass, arranging the golden numbers on the black board to tell people which hymns to sing. He liked to help. Grandad had allowed him to press the button that started the church bells tolling and, after the service, collect up the bibles on a little trolley with rusty wheels. The tall white altar candles in their heavy brass candlesticks were special and he had to look carefull
y to make sure that they were properly lined up.

  Maybe this was pure, overdecorated nostalgia, but never mind. What mattered was that he'd been very happy, so happy that his grandad had replaced George Best as his idol. He still loved the old man, now a silver-haired ninety-four- year-old, pottering around on his sore legs, sipping black coffee at all times of the day. Fredrik sometimes felt that this part of his past was his only future.