The Beast (ewert grens) Page 16

  Defiantly, Ågestam returned to his chair and sat down.

  ‘No. I want to know where we’re at. And when you’ve told me what you know, I’ll let you have a clue that I think you don’t know about. If I’m right, I stay. If not, I’ll leave. Deal?’

  Ewert had just made up his mind to manhandle the little prat, throw him out bodily. He despised the prosecutors, the whole fucking lot of them were academics, career boys, who had never been out there getting hurt. This one would crawl away from here if he had anything to do with it. He was on his way when Sven got up.

  ‘Ewert, cool down. Think. Give him a chance. If he’s got a clue he must tell us. If we know about it already he’ll go away.’

  Ewert hesitated and Ågestam grabbed the opportunity, turning quickly to Sven.

  ‘Fine. Now, where have we got with this case?’

  Sven cleared his throat.

  ‘Ah. Well, we’ve investigated all Lund’s past addresses. Nothing so far, but we’re keeping an eye on them. And we’ve checked up on all his paedophile pals. Again, they’re under observation.’

  ‘Any hints from the public?’

  ‘Flooding in, we’re up to our necks already. What with the news, broadcast and press, people know what’s happened and think they see things. Lund has been observed everywhere in the country by now. We’re sifting through the tip- offs, checking everything, but so far there’s been nothing worth while.’

  ‘What about Lund’s possible targets?’

  ‘We’re keeping watch on as many as possible. Which also means that we’re in regular communication with all nursery and primary schools within a fifty-kilometre radius of his last one.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘In other words, you’re stuck?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Ågestam waited. Ewert slapped his diary against the desk.

  ‘Get on with it, you little prat,’ he said angrily. ‘And then leave.’

  The young prosecutor got up, walked slowly round the room, from wall to wall.

  ‘I’ve got a lot of experience of the taxi trade,’ he began. ‘Driving taxis was how I financed my five years at university. I drove people all over the area. Good money. It was in the days before deregulation. It’s different now, with a taxi lurking at every street corner.’

  ‘So bloody what?’ Ewert raged.

  Ågestam ignored the aggression, the hatred.

  ‘I learned a lot about how the trade works, so much so that I had enough material for a webpage called Taxilnfo. You know the kind of thing, stuff not normally put together, like telephone numbers, business structures, price comparisons. The lot. As a matter of fact, I made myself into some kind of expert. People turned to me, like tourist agencies and so on. The press.’

  Ewert was stirring again; it was hard to work out whether he had actually taken in one single thing, he kept thumping on the desk and breathing noisily. Sven had seen him in bad moods before, barking at people or whingeing, but never quite like this, beyond any dignity or control.

  ‘You stuck-up twit, now what?’

  ‘Bernt Lund has been a taxi driver, isn’t that so?’

  Sven nodded.

  ‘Even set up his own business, B. Lund Taxis or something?’

  He had turned to Ewert now, and was waiting quietly for a reply.

  Four minutes passed.

  That is a long time to wait when a room is out of kilter and thoughts, feeling, bodies all seem out of sync with each other.

  ‘He did,’ Ewert hissed. ‘A long time ago. We’ve been all over it, turned that fucking bankruptcy nest inside out.’

  Ågestam no longer walked from one wall to the next; he had set his thin legs free and was almost running about, as if in a hurry or a state of jittery nerves. His light- coloured, slightly too long hair flopped, his large glasses misted over and his whole being reverted to a kind of boyishness; he became a rebellious, determined schoolboy once more.

  ‘I understand, you’ve checked the firm’s economic base, found out how it was set up and how big it was. Good. But did you look at what he actually did?’

  ‘He drove a car. Taxied the locals from A to B and trousered the fare.’

  ‘Whom did he drive?’

  ‘There are no fucking records.’

  ‘No, not of individuals, but bookings are recorded if they are made by named organisations, local councils for instance.’

  He stopped and stood still between Ewert, seated at his desk, and Sven, in the visitor’s chair, continuing to talk and carefully including both of them, turning this way and that to show that they were both being addressed.

  ‘It is problematic for small outfits in the taxi business to manage on occasional fares, from pick-ups and so on. Most of them like to have fixed runs on their books, we call them school runs. Fixed bookings pay less well but you can count on the income. Typically, actual school runs involve young children, who are ferried to nursery or primary school. If you’ve been in the trade for as long as Lund had, the odds are that you’ve got several runs of this kind. And, of course, it’s especially likely with somebody as sick as he is. In other words, I suggest you trace his regular bookings record. My prediction is that you’ll find some for little kids to be taken to places which he’ll have got to know well. And fantasised about, and maybe wants to return to.’

  Ågestam pulled a comb from a trouser pocket and tidied his short-back-and-sides. His appearance mattered, it was correct, white shirt and discreet tie, grey suit; he liked feeling proper, complete, prepared.

  ‘Will you investigate this?’

  Ewert stared ahead in silence, bursting with anger; he had to give vent to it or let it die a death. He had rarely been so provoked. This was his room, his music, his way of working. You either respected it or you could stay outside in the corridor with the rest of the goons. He couldn’t fathom the origin of his accumulated rage, or why it had grown so overwhelming, but never mind, that’s how he felt, and now when all that time had passed and he had aged in his job, he could just be himself, without having to explain why he was this way or that. True, some people used the word bitterness to describe his mindset. No matter, he wasn’t interested in their fucking choice of words and had no urge to be liked by all and sundry. He knew who he was and had learned to put up with it.

  He realised that the young prosecutor had pointed out something that should be one of their next tasks, but it went against the grain to admit it.

  Sven reacted differently. He sat up straight and looked appreciative.

  ‘This sounds like a good lead. It could well be just as you say, and if so, our catchment area, as it were, could be significantly reduced. We’ve gone all out on this case, tried to find time and resources, but we’re short of both. That’s a fact. If you turn out to be right, we’ll gain time and we can focus on resource use. And it should bring us closer to him. I’ll start checking this at once.’

  He left. They heard his swift footsteps disappear down the corridor, but stayed were they were, without speaking. Ewert had no more energy left for shouting and Ågestam realised how drained he felt, and how tense he had been.

  An interlude. Stillness, silence. Then Ågestam moved away from the centre of the room, walking past Ewert and over to the bookshelf. He started the tape recorder. ‘Throw It Away’, originally called ‘Lucky Lips’ in 1966.

  I’ve heard what they say, you have been aroun’

  Squiring pretty girls all about town

  Scratchy. Too jolly. Desperate rhymes.

  Ågestam went away and closed the door behind him.

  It had stopped raining. The last drops were splashing on the ground when he came out on the front steps. The air was clear and easy to breathe. The clouds had thinned, letting the sun through, and soon it would be hot, dry, dusty again.

  Fredrik crossed the street quickly, carrying the sack. He put it on the back seat of his car. He was preoccupied; inside his head he was talking to two
small boys about death. David and Lukas had been sitting close to him on the hard brick floor, listening to him and understanding, but always throwing his answers back at him, batting new questions his way; at five and seven years of age they were grappling with their wonder about body and soul and the dark that no one can see.

  Marie came back to him. He had thought of her every single moment since Tuesday; the image of her still, withdrawn face had blocked every attempt to see anything else. Now he actively tried to recall her as she had been before she died, the little being for whom he lived. What had she thought about death? They had never talked about death and dying, never had a reason to.

  Had she understood?

  Had she been frightened?

  Had she closed her eyes? Fought?

  Had she realised, in any sense, that death could happen, just like that, and death meant eternal solitude, inside a flower-decked white coffin underneath a freshly mowed lawn?

  He set out to drive through the narrow streets of his hometown. There were four addresses on his list here, and four in Enköping. He was certain of being right. Lund would be sitting outside one of these schools, waiting, as he had done outside The Dove. Fredrik remembered the old policeman and what he had said when they met in the cemetery, how utterly convinced he had been that Lund would violate again and again, until someone stopped him.

  First call, The Dove. It was on the list and Lund might as well have returned there as gone elsewhere, like an animal returning to a place where it has once fed. Fredrik had driven this route for almost four years now, and knew every house, every street sign. He hated it. The appearance of safe, contented habit held within it a suffocating grief. He was at home, but it would never be home again.

  He parked a few hundred metres away. A Securitas van with truncheon-carrying guards had drawn up near the gate, and a little further away was a police patrol car with two uniformed officers. How strange to sit here again, as he had done six days earlier, when he had left his daughter at the school for a few short hours. Why? They had been so late that day. But Marie had nagged and he had felt guilty because he had stayed in bed all morning. If only he had said no and taken her hand to go for a walk, maybe into town to buy an ice-cream at the harbour, as they often did. If only he had told her that she mustn’t go outside in the afternoon heat, but stay in with the other children.

  He sat in the car for a little longer and then went into the woodland that began near the gate. He looked everywhere, checking all the surrounding area until he was convinced that Lund wasn’t anywhere around, watching the school. Next he went on to The Wood, a nursery school a few kilometres away and closer to the centre of town, listening to the radio news as he drove. The top item was the aeroplane accident near Moscow, one hundred and sixteen fatalities probably due to a technical malfunction in a poorly maintained Russian plane.

  After that, most of the time was spent on Marie and the murder hunt. There was an interview with the prosecutor who was leading the investigation, but he had nothing much to add. The older of the two policemen from the cemetery told the reporter rather loudly to get lost. The last part was an interview with a forensic psychiatrist, who had examined Lund several times in the past. He warned of what he called Lund’s obsessional need to repeat his behaviours; the man was under constant internal pressure, which could only be relieved by acting out violent fantasies.

  Fredrik pulled up near The Wood. Checked, and drove on to The Park and The Stream.

  Everywhere, security guards and police cars.

  Bernt Lund wasn’t at any of these schools. Probably hadn’t gone back to any of them.

  Fredrik left Strängnäs on Road 55 to Enköping, driving quickly. Four addresses to go.

  He glanced at the sack in the back seat.

  He felt no hesitation.

  Right was right.

  At a stroke the treeless exercise yard became bearable. The rain had come sweeping in over Aspsås and for a few hours dozens of the half-naked inmates, wearing only the regulation blue shorts, ran up and down, roaring with joy at not having to narrow their eyes against harsh sunlight, cough in dust-laden air, sweat heavily even with the slightest move.

  The second half of the interrupted football match had got under way, stake doubled, ten thousand big ones in the pot. Now it was full time and still a draw. The teams were stretched out behind the goals, now as then, but this time it rained and they turned their faces towards the sky and the coolness.

  Dickybird was lying between Hilding and Skåne. Then he got up to lie further away and the others followed him.

  ‘Look, Skåne, you sad fucker, how could you be such a moron? Why go and fucking double, when the team doesn’t have the faintest? I mean, right from the start?’

  Skåne shifted about, looked at Hilding for support but didn’t get any.

  ‘We haven’t lost, it’s a fucking draw. What’s your problem?’

  ‘We haven’t lost! You thick cunt! What have we got to show? Zero, that’s what. Who’s touched the ball this time round?’ Dickybird looked at his mates. ‘Nobody. True or false, eh? Has any of us done one fucking thing except chasing after the other lot? What’s it now? Fucking extra time! Right? So we can carry on chasing and they can carry on kicking the ball between them. You useless motherfucking loser!’

  Hilding stared upwards at the falling rain. It was difficult to stay still, to keep his finger off his sore. He was restless because he was miles away; who cared about a shitty football match with a few thousand at stake, he was worrying about worse things. Now and again he glanced at Skåne and tried to catch his attention. So far they were the only ones who knew and also knew Dickybird well enough to believe that he would murder that peddo.

  Skåne had been off on his home leave, six hours starting at seven o’clock in the morning. Out in town alone, no screws. First move, off to borrow his brother’s car. Next, drive to Täby, and the two-bedroom flat of his own queen of hearts. They had a coffee first and then undressed each other, feeling almost shy after all this time. Afterwards, when he was lying close to her naked body, she had caressed his cheek and told him that she had waited for him, fantasised about him and longed for him, and realised that, the way she felt, she would put up with waiting for another four years. He had stayed with her longer than he had time for and then driven back to the centre much faster than he should have. He’d hit maddening queues where the main route to town joined the inner city streets, so he had parked the car near a hamburger stall and run to catch the bus to Fleming Street, then run again into the court building. The fucking scribbler behind the counter had taken his time, but he had got the indictment and shot away, run all the way to the car, and driven like crazy to Aspsås, where he rang the bell with seventeen minutes to spare.

  Of course the indictment contained exactly what he had feared. When he turned up in the unit just before the football was due to start, he promised Dickybird he’d give an account of what he’d found out as soon as the final whistle had blown. Their premonitions were right: Axelsson had been convicted of possession of child pornography and had been one of the seven men in that weird paedophile network.

  He had got hold of Hilding for a brief moment during the match and let him know the worst; he had got the drift all right and started scratching his fucking nose. If Dickybird got to know before they had got Axelsson out of the way there would be an execution and neither of them had the stomach for that; anyway, bloody murder was pointless, the only outcome was heightened security, endless hours of bang-up, constant visitations. The screws would be all over the place, turning cells upside down until they finally took on board that nobody would tell them one single useful thing.

  Hilding got up and shook off the gravel sticking to his wet skin, irritating Dickybird.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, what’s your problem? There’s a game on.’

  ‘Off to the crappers. No play for a bit yet. I can’t fucking well dump out here.’

  He walked towards the open door on one gable of the
grey lump of a building, then ran to Axelsson’s cell. Empty. He checked the toilets, the showers, the kitchen. All empty. He kept scratching, his nose was bleeding now, and ran to the gym. Outside he hung back for a few seconds, glanced around, then went inside and looked first in the weight- training corner.

  There he was, on his back on a bench with hands round a barbell raised above his chest. He was doing bench-presses and had just let the bar with eighty kilograms of discs down. Now he started pushing up again. Hilding watched. Axelsson breathed out and lowered the bar. In a few long strides Hilding was there before the bar went up again. He grabbed hold of it and, leaning on it with his whole weight, squashed it down across Axelsson’s throat.

  ‘Are you listening? I’m not doing this because I like you.’

  Axelsson went red in the face, tried to kick him, but had a hard time drawing breath.

  ‘What are you fucking on about?’

  Hilding screamed with anger and pushed the bar downwards.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, creep!’

  Axelsson stopped trying to kick or resist, and Hilding reduced the pressure a little.

  ‘I’ve just heard from Skåne, he’s got your indictment! You filthy beast, you fuck little kids!’

  Now Axelsson was really frightened. He couldn’t speak, but his eyes, Christ, he knew.

  ‘You’re a beast, but you’re in luck, because I don’t want no murders in the unit. Not worth it. Here’s your chance. I’ll wait for ten minutes before I tell Dickybird. When he gets to know, you’ll be bloody lucky if you leave this place in an ambulance.’

  Axelsson’s red face went paler, almost white, and he was kicking wildly, trying to wrench free.

  ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘Pay attention. I don’t give a monkey’s for you. Just that, I don’t want a killing.’

  ‘What can I fucking do? I’m stuck where I am.’

  Hilding pushed down again, just once more, and Axelsson coughed, fought for air.