The Beast Read online

  Then the attic door closed behind them and he was left alone in total silence. He pulled himself together, pushed his way back in among the objects in the store, where he found the two sacks tucked away behind everything else. He turned them upside down. Lots of stuff inside, books, clothes, crockery. He found what he was looking for in the second sack.

  The rifle was so large it stuck in the rough weave.

  It was a first-class hunting rifle, he had Birger's word for that. Hunting anything, elk, deer, hare, had become an absorbing pastime of his later years. He had been proud of his rifle and cared for it meticulously. One of the images Fredrik retained was of the old man seated at the kitchen table, laboriously taking the gun apart, cleaning every piece and then putting it together again. Afterwards he would sit there pointing it at anybody or anything that came to mind.

  Fredrik wrapped the rifle in one of the sacks and left with the package under his arm.

  * * *

  Siw's voice was booming, loud enough to make the walls tremble. 'You've Just Been Playing With Me', originally called 'Foolin' Around' in 1961. As the sound bounced around the room, it amplified itself, became louder still and more insistent.

  You've just been playing with me, so Here's your ring back and off you go Ewert Grens had snubbed his visitors, told them that as far as he was concerned three was a crowd, but that they could hang around if they stayed put and shut up. This was the third track from the tape he had picked, turning the volume up a little for each new tune. Sven Sundkvist and Lars Ågestam looked at each other. Ågestam was baffled. Sven shrugged dismissively: nothing doing, this is how it goes. All they could do was wait until Siw had sung her way through the programme. Ewert had produced the special photo of her that he had snapped himself in the Kristianstad Palais back in 1972 and was singing along. He knew every word and become louder each time the refrain came round.

  At one point the singing stopped, the crunching sound of the needle on the long-playing record took over, and Ågestam was just opening his mouth to speak when the intro to the next item started up. Ewert waved irritably in his general direction, shut your face, and turned the volume up a bit more.

  It's clear you're going to leave me, all they say about you is true

  Ågestam had heard enough of Siw. He was in a hurry and, besides, he was in charge.

  He was fed up to the teeth with sex maniacs, rapists, flashers, paedophiles. Not another pervert, he wanted something else, something better, to advance advance advance.

  And then they handed him this brief. A sex crime. But also his ticket to advancement.

  He had found it hard to stop himself from laughing wildly when he learned that he was to be the head of the pre-trial investigation of Bernt Lund, while the chase was still on. Every newscast, every front page was devoted to it, the whole country had ground to a halt; the murder of a five-year-old girl by an escaped convict, a known sex killer, this demanded every ounce of spare media capacity. So, this was his big chance. His breakthrough. For the duration, the nation's interest was focused on his case and, therefore, on him.

  I'm in love with you but it cannot be

  You won't get a single thing more from me

  That's it. No more crap like this, not one more daft line.

  He rose, walked over to the bookshelf, had a look at the awkward tape recorder, found the off button and pressed it.

  Silence.

  The room was totally silent. Sven stared at the floor. Ewert was trembling with rage and his face had gone bright red.

  Ågestam knew he had just broken the oldest unwritten rule in the building. Actually, he didn't give a shit.

  'Grens, I'm sorry, but I've had enough. No more pathetic rhymes for today.'

  'Fuck off then!' Ewert shouted. 'Out of my room, you little arselicking creep!'

  Ågestam had made up his mind.

  'You sit here listening to folk-pop from the nineteenth century instead of doing your job. Of course I had to shut off this bloody tosh!'

  Ewert rose, still shouting at the top of his voice.

  'I've listened to this music and worked harder than anyone else while you were still filling your nappies. Now fuck off before I do something I shouldn't!'

  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 rever
ted 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 a
nd 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.