The Beast

by Anders Roslund

  Jochum grinned. Hilding grinned. Fucking good that, the Diddler.

  'Holing up in his cell, he can't hack all that. The shit on the telly.'

  'He can't stand the fucking telly?'

  'It's like… I don't know. The stuff about the girl and the nonce. It spooks Dicky. Or something. Like, he knows he could've done Lund in himself. Before he scarpered.'

  'So what? It's been done.'

  'But the kid wouldn't have been… you know.'

  'Happens.'

  Hilding looked around, noted the screw on his way out and lowered his voice.

  'Dicky has a daughter too. That's why.'

  'And so?'

  'He's got to think like that.'

  'Why just him? Lots do. Don't you?'

  'Sure. But his daughter lives near where it happened. Strängnäs. Well, Dicky thinks so, anyway.'

  'Thinks? Doesn't he know?'

  'Never even clapped eyes on her in his life.'

  Jochum slid his hand across his shaved scalp, turned away from the TV for a moment to look at Hilding.

  'I don't get this. It wasn't his kid who was done, right?'

  'No. But it could've been. That matters for Dicky.'

  'Give over.'

  'That's how he thinks. He's got this photo of her. He had it blown up and put it up on the wall, it's like a fucking big poster.'

  Jochum threw his head back and laughed, a drunk's wild laugh.

  'The tink has fucking lost it, no question. There he is, head stuffed fit to burst with what might've happened but didn't and can't any more 'cause the nonce is a goner, he's been shot to bits. The guy is dreaming, must be in worse shape than I thought. He needs a shot of your brew, more than anyone.'

  Hilding stiffened, scared again.

  'Fuck's sake! Don't tell him!'

  'What?'

  'About us having a drink.'

  'Scared of the Diddler, are you?'

  'Just take it easy. Don't tell him.'

  Jochum laughed again and gave Hilding the finger. Then he turned back to the set.

  More reports about the nonce killing.

  The prosecutor, a dead correct-looking bugger with a blond fringe; they had squeezed him up against a wall in the court stairwell and stuck a microphone in his face.

  Just the type, a climber, no experience. He needed shaking up a bit.

  * * *

  Lars Ågestam did not quite grasp the full implications of it all until he had seen Fredrik Steffansson in the interrogation room.

  At first the case had seemed a gift from the good fairy. Then the fairy shape-changed into an evil witch, the case came to involve a grieving parent and his just anger, and Ågestam had thrown up in the CPS office toilet from utter dread.

  But once Steffansson was arrested, the prosecutor had ceased to be simply someone about to become a has-been, as far as his legal career went.

  Now his situation was far worse.

  Worse because of his constant fear, a fear that meant he could not cross the street without looking over his shoulder. A fear of death.

  In court, he entered a plea that Steffansson should be kept in custody until his trial, on the basis that he was someone 'on sufficient grounds suspected of murder'. For the defence Kristina Björnsson, his opponent in the Axelsson case, argued that custody was not required, since her plea was that Steffansson had acted with 'reasonable force'. Expanding on this, she claimed that if freed, Steffansson would not represent any danger to the public, nor act so as to complicate the investigation, nor defect prior to the trial. Björnsson's conclusion was that her client should be ordered to report daily to the police in Eskilstuna.

  Van Balvas, the sitting judge, took only a minute or two to decide that Fredrik Steffansson was indeed suspected of murder on sufficient grounds and should therefore remain in custody until tried. The date of the trial would be determined presently.

  She rapped the desk with her gavel. Then all hell broke loose.

  First, the crowd inside, near the front door. They wielded microphones and pushed him up against the wall of the stairwell.

  Steffansson has become a popular hero.

  Has he?

  He saved the lives of two little girls.

  So far, we have no proof of this.

  Bernt Lund had their photos.

  Steffansson is accused of having murdered somebody.

  Lund knew the girls' names. He kept watch on their nursery school.

  Allegedly, Steffansson has committed murder. If that is so, his act must be my chief concern.

  In your opinion, should someone who has prevented the death of innocent citizens be rewarded by a long prison sentence?

  No comment. Your question is out of order.

  In your opinion, did Steffansson do the right thing?

  Bringing about someone's death can never be the right thing.

  Why?

  If it is proven that we have a case of premeditated murder, there is no option in law.

  Is that so?

  Premeditated murder must be judged for what it is.

  A lifetime prison sentence, then?

  The most severe punishment available in law must be considered.

  You would prefer that the two little girls had been violated and killed, would you?

  What I'm saying is that there is no exemption for grieving dads who commit murder.

  Do you have any children?

  Afterwards, he confronted the rest of them. The public. People had watched, listened, read. Now they shouted at him, threatened him, phoned him to say vile things. Every time he put the receiver down the phone rang again, demanded more of him.

  You're a shit. Establishment lackey.

  I'm only doing my job.

  Fucking tin soldier. Paragraph-crazy bureaucrat.

  If someone is suspected of breaking the law, it is my duty to prosecute that person.

  You're a dead man if you go for that dad.

  What you just said is intimidation and against the law.

  DIE!

  Intimidation is a punishable offence.

  We'll kill your family, one by one.

  He was frightened. All this was for real. The menacing callers were mad, of course, but also representative of a wider public hatred. And they meant what they said. This was serious.

  He went off in search of Ewert Grens.

  Their last talk, when he had exposed his worries about the prosecution, should have changed things, opened doors to a new understanding. Or so he had hoped. Not at all; the old boy was just as difficult, just as unapproachable. In fact, he received the news that Ågestam was scared by threats to himself and his family with a broad grin. The young prosecutor was close to tears, he didn't want to be, not here of all fucking places, but Grens pretended he hadn't noticed. Instead he said that threats were par for the course, something a tough prosecutor had to expect, and when there was something more concrete than voices on the phone to report, he was welcome back.

  Lars slammed the door behind him when he left.

  A slow walk back through the hot, stale city air. He had been passing concentrated, dark-yellow urine for days; he supposed it was because the heat and humidity made him sweat so much. Stopping at a newsagent's for a bottle of mineral water and a copy of the big morning paper, he saw that his picture was on the front page, under the headline Prosecutor insists: life for popular hero.

  Everyone stared at him, even the tourists; he met droves of them, dripping with cameras and camcorders and whatever.

  He walked as fast as he could, quick march all the way to the CPS office.

  He stepped into his room and the phone rang.

  He just looked at it. It rang eight more times.

  He focused on the police investigation documents, read and reread, until the ringing stopped.

  * * *

  Bengt Söderlund went over the story about Baxter again, how the dog had been nailed to the spot all day, all evening and through the night until the following morning, whe
n he obeyed his master's command to leave. They had heard all this twice before, Elisabeth who didn't want to hear at all, Ove and Helena, who had seen it from the beginning, Ola Gunnarsson and Klas Rilke, who laughed louder every time. The same thing had happened in school, when someone had found out something new about a teacher, maybe a smart nickname, and they kept having hysterics about it all through upper school; or in the men's locker room at the Tallbacka Sports Club, when they fixed boot-studs and put on embrocation for aching muscles, going over and over the time the opponents' fat, useless goalie had been kicked in the balls.

  This evening they had spent some time playing the gaming machines in the bar and then wandered off to sit at their usual table, before they lost too much of their hard-earned money. Everyone had a beer, enjoyed being there and toasted Baxter, who had made them laugh.

  They were only halfway through the first pint; a warm- up, there was more to come, at least another three or four.

  The discussion would take off, alcohol stimulated the flow of words.

  Bengt drank more slowly than usual. He had made up his mind during the week and prepared himself properly by reading a lot of deadly dull law handbooks. He had the evening all worked out in his head.

  He raised his glass to his companions.

  'Drink up, boys and girls. I've got something to say afterwards.'

  They drank. Bengt signalled to the barman to bring another round, and then he began.

  'I've been thinking. Drawn up a plan of action, you might say. We had better get some law and order round here.'

  The others moved closer, stopped drinking and sat still. Elisabeth clenched her jaw and stared down at the tabletop. Her face was flushed.

  'Remember last time we were here? Remember what Helena said?'

  He smiled at Helena.

  'Right at the end, before closing time, she stood up and asked us to listen. The late-night news was all about the killing of the paedophile, the father who shot that sex maniac. Afterwards Helena said something that stayed with me. She said, that man is a hero. A hero of our time. He wasn't going to let a fucking pervert get away with murder. He didn't hang about waiting for the police. They had messed up before, so he took it in his own hands to act.'

  Helena beamed.

  'I meant what I said. That man is a hero. Good-looking, too.'

  She pushed playfully at her Ove, smiled at him. Bengt nodded impatiently. He had more on his mind.

  'The trial will start soon. It will take five days and the sentence will come at some point during the last couple of days. We'll be around when it is.'

  He looked around triumphantly.

  'The defence is pushing for something called "reasonable force", and so are ordinary folk all over the country; they'll fucking riot if the court comes out in favour of locking him up. I bet it won't take the risk. The set-up will be the usual, only the judge has law training and the rest are magistrates, not trained in the law so they won't stick to paragraphs. See what I'm saying? He might well go free, and that's when we strike. Then it's our turn.'

  The rest of the group round the pub table still didn't see the point, but figured Bengt had checked things out, as he usually did.

  'Yeah? If the girl's dad is let off, that's it. The moment we hear, we have a licence to act, to deal with that perv once and for all. I, for one, won't put up with having a paedophile around this place. Not as a neighbour, not any- fucking-where in this community. We'll let him have it and then claim that we acted with reasonable force.'

  The overweight barman, ex-owner of one of the defunct grocer's shops, brought them another round, carrying three glasses in each hand. They got stuck in, feeling good, but then Elisabeth spoke up.

  'Bengt, listen. You're going over the top.'

  'Christ, we've been over this before. Go home if you don't like it.'

  'How can you think it's right to kill someone just to solve a problem? That dad is not a hero at all. He's setting a bad example.'

  Bengt slammed his glass down on the table.

  'So what does madam think he should've done then?'

  'Well… talked to the man who did it.'

  'What?'

  'You can always get somewhere by talking.'

  'Now I've fucking heard it all!'

  Helena turned to face Elisabeth, her eyes narrowing with dislike.

  'I must say I don't understand you, Elisabeth. Do you have a problem with seeing things the way they really are or what? Exactly what are you supposed to talk about with a crazy sex killer who's just murdered your own child? Maybe his tragic childhood? Maybe he had the wrong kind of toys? Lousy potty training? You must tell us.'

  Ove rose and put his hand on his wife's shoulder.

  'Fuck's sake, what do you think he was there for, outside that school? Well, I can tell you one thing, it wasn't the time and place for some kind of psycho session about what-a- very-sad-upbringing-blah-blah.'

  Helena had put her hand over Ove's and started to speak when her husband stopped to draw breath.

  'You can say the dad had no right to shoot that paedophile. But he would have been even more wrong not to kill him. That's obvious to me, anyway. OK, life is precious, I agree with that, but circumstances alter cases. If I'd been where he was and had a gun I could handle, I would've done just the same. What is it you don't understand about that, Elisabeth?'

  She made up her mind as she left the restaurant. This was the end for her and Bengt, she had given up on her husband for good.

  She walked straight back home and told her daughter, the one child she was responsible for, to pack just what she could carry. Then she filled two suitcases with their clothes and put everything in the car; she had to take that.

  The summer evening was darkening, turning into night, when she left Tallbacka for ever.

  * * *

  The cell was one hundred and seventy centimetres wide, two hundred and fifty centimetres long, and contained a narrow bed, a small bedside table and a washbasin handy for pissing at night and washing in the morning. He was wearing a greyish, sagging suit, with the prison initials stamped on the sleeves and trouser-legs. Full restrictions applied, which meant no newspapers, no TV or radio and no visitors, except the chief interrogator, the prosecutor, the defence lawyer, the prison chaplain and prison officers. Fresh air was permitted for one hour daily; it amounted to a supervised stroll in a steel cage on the roof. Just now the heat up there was suffocating and he had asked to be let off the last half-hour every day so far.

  He was lying on the bed. There was not a thought in his head. He had tried to eat and given up after a few mouthfuls. It tasted like shit, all of it. The tray with the plate and the glass of orange juice stood on the floor. He hadn't eaten since Enköping. Anything he tried had come back up, as if his stomach wanted to be left in peace.

  The walls around him were grey, empty. His eyes had nothing to look at and nothing to look away from. The harsh light from the fluorescent tube in the ceiling somehow got behind his closed lids, coating his eyeballs with a bright membrane.

  The observation panel on the door squeaked; someone was looking in at him.

  'Steffansson, you wanted to see the chaplain, right?'

  Fredrik met the staring eyes.

  'Call me Fredrik. I don't like being a surname.'

  'OK, start again. Fredrik, do you want to see the chaplain?'

  'Anyone, as long as he or she doesn't wear a uniform.'

  The officer sighed.

  'Make up your mind. Yes or no. She's right here, next to me.'

  'That's news. I'm stuck in here to isolate me from everybody else, some motherfucker's decided that I'm a danger to society, isn't that so? Or is everybody else a danger to me? Tricky. Do you know who I am, anyway?'

  He sat up on the edge of the bed abruptly. Then he kicked the tray. Bright yellow orange juice spread all over the floor.

  The officer sighed, he had seen this so often. The prisoners who broke down started by being aggressive, irrational, threat
ening, then they collapsed and pissed their pants. Steffansson was cracking up, obviously.

  Fredrik splashed the liquid around with his foot and went on talking.