The Beast

by Anders Roslund

  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.

  'Now listen. If you want to survive today, listen fucking hard.'

  Axelsson nodded.

  'When I've left, you take your sick peddo body off to the screws' office. Tell them that you want a transfer to segregation wing. Get that? Voluntary stay in seg. Say we've got your indictment and then they won't argue. And not a fucking peep about who warned you. Is that clear?'

  Axelsson nodded, this time eagerly. Hilding stood over him, pushing down on the bar. He laughed suddenly, twisted his face while he sucked saliva into his mouth, then moved until his lips were over Axelsson's face so he could let the blob of spit fall straight down.

  * * *

  Ewert Grens didn't want to go home. Ever since learning that Lund had escaped, he hadn't left his office until late. He always stayed on when something out of the ordinary had happened.

  But he felt tired now; the years were catching up with him, that was for sure. Soon he would be sixty, an ageing, greying man. Running for the bus was harder, his body moved less easily, his arms didn't strike as hard, but still that bloody awful compulsion lurked inside him; if anything it was getting stronger, propelling him forward regardless how many fucking months of life it deprived him of. He had to find answers that made sense, were coherent and meaningful. The answer usually meant that some crazed bastard got locked away.

  Still a driven pro, but he caught himself speculating now and then about how he would cope with being pensioned off. The odds were that he would die. He was his job. Being respected as Detective Chief Inspector Grens was satisfying, but poor compensation compared to the threatening loneliness soon to come, chiefly self-imposed but all the more ugly because of it. He was nobody's father, or grandad, or even son, not any more.

  Instead of going home that evening, he wandered the corridors, played some of Siw's songs and, towards midnight, fell asleep in one of the visitor's chairs. After four or five hours of fitful sleep, the light woke him. He felt fine, ready to push hard again. First, while the air was fresh, he'd go for a short walk in the small park nearby, the park with no name.

  He was setting out when someone called his name. Sven came hurrying along, his thin face flushed with tension.

  'You look stressed.'

  'I am stressed. Something else has turned up.'

  Ewert pointed in the general direction of the exit.

  'I'm off for a walk, need some fresh air. Come along if you want to tell me something.'

  Ewert walked as slowly as usual and Sven impatiently shortened his stride, while he was thinking about the right way to begin his story.

&
nbsp; 'So there's a problem?'

  'Look, I did what we agreed I'd do,' Sven said, hesitating before starting up again. 'I followed up Ågestam's taxi idea. I phoned round and got the answers we need from a company called Enköping Taxis.'

  Ewert breathed in deeply. Rarely had city centre air felt so good.

  'I'll be buggered. Tell me more.'

  'Here's the snag. The woman I spoke to was on the ball, knew everything about the company and so on. Then she said she didn't understand why I'd called again about the same thing. After all, she had replied to my questions that morning.'

  They had reached the tiny park round the corner, just a lawn, a few trees and a playground, but tempting with shade and greenery.

  'What's this? Had you called?'

  'Listen. Ågestam was right. The Enköping woman confirms that Lund had eight school bookings. She gave me the addresses, four in Enköping and four in Strängnäs. The Dove was one of them.'

  Ewert stopped.

  'Christ almighty!'

  'I've been in touch with Securitas and the local stations, and told them to intensify the surveillance at the eight addresses.'

  'Anyway, now we know. The sick bastard won't be able to stop himself. He'll be there.'

  Ewert started walking again, then stopped in mid-step.

  'So what's this about you phoning twice?'

  'I didn't. Apparently someone calling himself Sven Sundkvist did call and asked the same questions about Lund's school bookings. Someone who'd worked out the connection and wants to get Lund, but not to hand him over to the lawyers. Presumably.'

  They walked on in silence for a bit. Sven was obviously still full of things to tell him, but Ewert wanted his bit of peace first and kept whistling 'Girls in the Back of the Car' loudly and out of tune. He sensed the elements of the case were jelling; Lund must be getting desperate and time was passing and that weakened hunted men, he knew. He had lived with these sick bastards for so long, had met them, known them. He knew so much.

  They sat down on the bench by the playground sandpit, where three toddlers were playing.

  'OK, Sven. Give me the full story.'

  'The media have focused on Ewert Grens. You've done the interviews. I haven't been part of the picture for most people outside the force. A few officials or technicians have met me, but apart from people like that, only Marie Steffansson's friends and relatives fit the bill and they're the only ones with a motive. I started by checking out the father, and stopped with him.'

  Ewert nodded and waved his hand impatiently.

  'I've spoken to Fredrik Steffansson's partner, Micaela

  Zwarts. She hasn't seen Fredrik since the funeral. Naturally she's worried, she knows that he has been in very bad shape and isn't likely to get any better because he hasn't allowed himself to mourn. Just kept himself to himself. She feels no one can reach him. He came home yesterday morning and left a note for her, basically saying "Back soon". That was all.'

  He caught his breath. Ewert flapped his hand again.

  'Right. OK. Next I phoned Marie's mother, Agnes Steffansson. The call was switched to her mobile, because she was in Strängnäs to collect Marie's things from The Dove. She is distracted with grief, but sensible and quick on the uptake. She confirmed everything Zwarts said. Apparently Fredrik phoned her a couple of times and she thought it was just about trying to stay in touch. My call got her worried. Then she suddenly broke off, saying she had to check something and would call me back. Twenty minutes later she did. She explained that she'd driven across town to her deceased father's old flat. Fredrik had asked her about some of her father's possessions, which had been left bundled up in the attic.'

  Sven cleared his throat, he was upset and had a hard time organising what he had to say.

  'Her father's hunting rifle had been kept there. It's a biggie - a 30-06 Carl Gustav, powerful enough for elk hunting, good optics, with long-range laser sight. People will keep dangerous weapons in a fucking unlocked storeroom!'

  Ewert waited. Sven delayed, as if his silence might stop bad things from happening.

  'By then she was very frightened, crying. The rifle had gone.'

  Lars Ågestam felt sick. He had left his desk at the Crown Prosecution Service to go and lean over a basin in the toilet. Everything had looked so straightforward, so good. He had got the brief of his dreams. To top it all, his knowledge of the taxi business would help to catch Lund, and at the same time he had scored against that bitter old has-been of a policeman.

  One call from Sven Sundkvist had ruined everything. Suddenly he was landed with a case of a father out to avenge the murder of his daughter.

  It was only too easy to see what would happen next. For the media, and the public at large, the Marie story was about right versus wrong. The sexual violation and murder of a five-year-old girl had no shades of grey, no areas of doubt. But now there was this new player, a father distracted with grief and equipped with a gun good enough to hit a reasonably still human target at three hundred metres. The image of the mourning parent, that was something else. Ågestam knew that if he ended up prosecuting Marie's father, he'd be regarded as spitting in the face of goodness itself. He would embody the nightmarish state executioner who acts regardless of the ordinary citizen. His big brief had become a noose round his own neck.

  The thought made his need to vomit acute. He stuck his fingers down his throat to get it over with. He must be able to think clearly, as he usually did.

  * * *

  He had been sitting in the car watching for half an hour by now. It was getting close to five o'clock. Another hour to go before the nursery school called Freja would close.

  Freja's location was pretty, in a valley with low hills rising on every side. When he arrived Fredrik had parked his car in a meadow near the top of the highest hill, which gave him a clear view of the whole site. Just as at the other schools, he began by going off to search the grounds, circling the building systematically.

  It was when he returned to his hillside vantage point and was about to open the car door that he had seen him, quite close, crouching down.

  They had picked the same sight-line, but he had settled on a slight rise a little further down the slope, some two hundred metres from the two white school buildings. Wearing a green tracksuit and sheltering behind low bushes, with his back protected by the roots of a fallen tree, he was well hidden. He was sitting there motionless, holding a pair of binoculars trained on the school playground, observing the children playing inside the fence. Fredrik had looked him over through his own binoculars. There was no question in his mind. This was the man he had nodded to six days ago, this was Lund.

  Everything fitted: his face, his build, something about his posture.

  That man had killed his child, taken her away for ever. There he was. Fredrik had tried to stop feeling, to chase the pain into hiding.

  Down there, two fed-up police officers were counting the endless dull hours of watching a locked gate. Their patrol car must be blisteringly hot and stuffy. In the last half an hour alone, both officers had got out twice. The smoke of their cigarettes hung in the still air.

  Only the odd snatch of birdsong and the distant rumbling from the motorway ruffled the drowsy calm on the hillside. Fredrik got out, paced round the car and kneeled in different places, pretending to aim and checking where he could rest his elbows. His light suit, already crumpled and stained, got greenish patches at the knees. In the end he found a comfortable position.

  He was breathing deeply, easily. His body was flexible and willing. He felt alert.

  Next, he pulled the heavy rifle from the boot. He hadn't used it for many years, not since he had gone hunting with Birger. That was well before Marie was born, maybe seven or eight years ago. He and his father-in-law had tried hard to find something they could share other than their love of Agnes. Hunting was just about the only thing they could at least pretend to enjoy together.

  Fredrik balanced the gun in his hand, rocking it up and down. Then
he returned to the place he had located, kneeled and lifted the rifle, his hands steadied by leaning on the hood of the car. He got Lund in his sights and centred the cross hairs on his back.

  He waited. He wanted to hit him from in front.

  Another quarter of an hour passed and then Lund rose. The roots of the tree and the bushes no longer protected him as he stretched to exercise his stiffened joints.

  The laser beam searched him out, moved tremblingly over the breathing body. Fredrik held it for a moment on the target's crotch. Then upwards.

  Suddenly Lund discovered the red dot and swatted at it as if at a wasp, pointlessly flapping his arms about.

  Fredrik released the trigger. The first shot shattered the silence.