The Beast Page 30

  'Would you like a cuppa? Tea or coffee?'

  'No thanks,' Ewert said. 'We've had some already. When we interviewed Jochum Lang.'

  Dickybird appeared not to have heard the last bit.

  'OK. I'll have some myself.' He busied himself with topping up the water in the kettle, tipping spoonfuls of tea leaves into a pot. 'Sit you down. Try the bed.'

  They sat down. The cell was very tidy and smelled clean. He even had a room-scenter.

  'Nicely fixed-up place you've got,' Ewert said, making a sweeping gesture.

  'I've got a fair stretch and not that fucking much of a home outside.'

  'Fancy that, curtains. And pot-plants.'

  'Just like your home, innit, Grensie?'

  Ewert clenched his jaw and the thought passed through Sven's head that he had no idea whether Ewert had plants and curtains at home. He had never visited his old colleague, strangely enough. Ewert had come for supper with himself and Anita several times, but had never asked them back.

  Dickybird sipped the hot tea. Ewert waited until he had put the mug down.

  'We've seen a lot of each other, Stig. Over the years.'

  'That's a fair comment.'

  'I remember you when you were in your teens. Picked you up in Blekinge that time you'd jammed an ice-pick into your uncle's balls.'

  The images crowded back into Dickybird's mind. Per was there, bleeding. How he'd wanted that, cut the old bastard's balls off and laugh.

  'You know you're under suspicion for having carved somebody again. Or don't you? You see, we think you might have cut Steffansson a couple of hours ago. Well and truly killed him, as it happens.'

  Dickybird sighed and rolled his eyes heavenwards, acting out mock-innocence.

  'Oh, don't I know it. I'm under suspicion. Like the rest of the lads in the unit.'

  'I'm talking to you.'

  'Give over, it's not as bad as that. All I'll tell you is that the peddo got what was coming to him.' Dickybird had turned serious. 'Fucking beast.'

  Ewert heard, but didn't understand.

  'Stig, are we on the same wavelength? I mean, you might call Fredrik Steffansson many things, but not a peddo. The reverse, rather. If anything.'

  Dickybird had just lifted the mug of tea to his lips. Now he put it down, staring at the two policemen. When he spoke, his voice was rough, angry.

  'What the fuck are you saying?'

  Ewert registered the man's surprise and his mood change. This was no theatre.

  'You heard me. Don't you ever watch the TV news?'

  'Happens. So what?'

  'You must have followed the reports about the dad who shot his little daughter's killer?'

  'Followed, well, I wouldn't say that. I don't like stuff like that. You know, what with this little one and all.' He looked briefly at the blonde girl in the photo. 'I didn't watch a lot. Enough to get the message. That dad was a regular fucking hero. No question. Pervs like that should be shot, all of them. Beasts. What's all that got to do with anything?'

  Ewert and Sven exchanged a glance. They both thought the same thing and neither spoke.

  'Grensie, out with it! What's all this got to do with that dead fucker?'

  'The name of that dad, your hero, was Fredrik Steffansson.'

  Dickybird shot upright, his face twitching.

  'Give over! Fuck's sake! Stop sitting here talking fucking crap like that!'

  'Stig, I wish it was crap.' Ewert turned to Sven. 'Let's have a look at the papers.'

  Sven rummaged in his briefcase until he had found copies of the two main evening papers, dated the day Fredrik Steffansson had been arrested for shooting at and killing Bernt Lund. Ewert lined them up for Dickybird to see.

  'Here. If you don't trust me, just have a look.'

  The headlines, the type as large and the ink as black on both front pages, screamed the same message.

  He Shot His Daughter's Killer. Saved Two Girls' Lives.

  The photographs too were the same in both papers. The ones Errfors had found in Lund's pockets. The pictures showed his intended victims. They sat side by side, in the playground of their Enköping nursery. Both were smiling. One of them had her blonde hair in neat plaits.

  Dickybird stared. At the text. At the pictures. And then at the photo in the frame and the magnified one on the wall.

  As if it were she. His little daughter, on the front pages of the papers.

  He was still standing.

  He screamed.

  AUTHORS' NOTE

  Writing a novel sometimes struck us as a very strange thing to do. You rule the world by tapping on your keyboard, sending out instructions about how it should look. We used our power to create prisons and woodland and roads that no one will ever see. We have moved nursery school locations and described nonexistent rooms in some of the official buildings in Stockholm.

  We have also written about things which we wished were pure invention, exaggerations, in order to sell our book on its dramatic plot.

  Not so.

  Destructive people who spit on their own humanity and end by exterminating themselves exist in real life. Men like Bernt Lund, with his sadistic obsessions and inability to engage emotionally with others, walk the streets. So do men like Dickybird, abused as a child until he wants to cut down anyone who reminds him of it. The two Steffanssons, Fredrik and Agnes, are the kind who can lose everything and still search for a way to survive. There are quite a few Lennart Oscarssons, who despise the paedophiles they are meant care for. Hilding Oldéus, who has packed away emotion and keeps the lid on with drugs, who is always afraid and who turns himself into an arselicker for protection by someone less fearful; he exists in reality. Flasher-Göran, condemned for life because his one mistake is never forgotten, and Bengt Söderlund, out to defend his precious property and his precious children by taking the law into his own hands if necessary; they exist too.

  All these characters, absurd as they may seem, walk among us.

  Our thanks to the many who helped us. Thanks to Rolle, for sharing your thoughts about being inside. To our publisher Sofia Brattselius Thunfors, for being both generous and demanding, for keeping our feet on the ground without stopping occasional flights of fancy. To Fia, reader of our virgin manuscript, for forcing us to rewrite, and to Ewa, who opened her door to us when we needed it. To Dick, for giving us the courage to try. And to those of you who have read it all and put up with us from beginning to end.

  Anders Roslund and Börge Hellström

  STOCKHOLM, MARCH 2004