The Beast (18 page)

    Now,
five cars ahead, driving slowly, a small red car hauling an enormous caravan
that tilted dangerously on the bends and made the next car keep a respectful
distance. Fredrik kept trying to overtake, but was forced back by the curves in
the road.

    A
slip-road, a right turn, then the bridge and central Strängnäs.

    He
spotted the crowd from far away.

    People
were clustering at the gate, in the playground and in the street outside The
Dove. Five nursery school teachers, two catering assistants from the kitchen,
four policemen with dogs, some parents he recognised and some he didn't.

    One
of them, carrying a small child, was pointing towards the wood. A policeman with
a dog went off in that direction, then two more followed.

    Fredrik
stopped outside the gate and stayed in the car for a while.

    When
he got out, Micaela came towards him. She hadn't been outside, but had been
waiting for him inside the school.

    His
coffee was black. No messing about with effing milk, especially no latte or
cappuccino or any of that fashionable crap, just no-frills, real Swedish black
coffee, filtered to get rid of the dregs. Ewert Grens contemplated the coffee
machine; he wouldn't pay a penny extra to get a dollop of evil-tasting
emulsified muck in his mug, but Sven had to have his dose of the glop, he was
prepared to pay good money to get this pale-brown chemical-flavoured stuff in
his cup. Ewert kept the plastic cups well apart in case Sven's was toxic and
limped gingerly back along the shiny corridor floor to his room. Sven was
slumped in the visitor's chair. He looked exhausted.

    'Your
poison. Here.'

    Sven
roused himself enough to take his cup.

    'Thanks.'

    Ewert
stopped in front of him; there was something new in Sven's eyes.

    'What's
up with you? It can't be that fucking bad to work on your fortieth.'

    'No.'

    'So
what's wrong?'

    'Jonas
called me. While you were struggling with the coffee machine.'

    'And?'

    'He
asked why I hadn't come home. I'd told him I would. He said grown-ups lie all
the time.'

    'What
did he mean, lie?'

    'It
seems he saw the TV news about Lund. So he asked why grown-ups lie, like they
tell a child they'll show it a dead squirrel or a nice doll, but all the
grown-up wants is to do bad things to the child with his willy and then hit the
child. That's word for word what Jonas said to me.'

    Sven
sank back in his chair and sipped his coffee in silence. Absently, he started swivelling
the chair, left, then right, back again. Ewert was rooting among his tapes.

    'So
how do you reply? Daddy lies, all grown-ups lie, some of them lie and poke at
you with their willy and hit you. I can't stand this, Ewert. It's too bloody
awful.'

    
Siw
was singing now. '
Seven Great Guys', with Harry Arnold's Radio Band, 1959.

    
They
listened.
My first friend was slender, built like an arrow, My second was
blonde and I loved him so much

    The
song was bland and silly, but offered a kind of escape because it was so
pointless. Ewert closed his eyes, wagging his head to the beat. For a few
minutes he was in another, more peaceful time.

    There
was a knock on the door.

    They
exchanged glances. Ewert shook his head irritably, but there was another,
firmer knock.

    'Yes!'

    It
was Ågestam. Ewert recognised the neatly combed fringe and the ingratiating
face in the doorway; he had no time for busy little boys and especially none
for the busy boys who pretended to be public prosecutors but couldn't wait to
get on and up in the world.

    'What
are you after?'

    Ågestam
was visibly taken aback, though it wasn't clear what bothered him most, Ewert's
bad temper or the room resounding with Siw's voice.

    'It's
about Lund.'

    Ewert
put his coffee cup to the side.

    'What
about him?'

    'He
has turned up.'

    Ågestam
explained that the duty officer had just concluded a telephone conversation
with someone who'd reported a sighting outside a nursery school in Strängnäs,
just a few hours ago. The father of one of the children had called on his
mobile; he had sounded sane and articulate, but very frightened, after
realising that he had recognised the man wearing a baseball cap who had been
sitting on a bench outside the school gate. He had seen this man when he
delivered his daughter to the school, and now the girl had disappeared.

    Ewert
scrunched up the plastic mug, threw it in the bin.

    'Christ
bloody fucking almighty.'

    Those
interrogations came back to him. The worst ever, the ugliest.

    The
man in front of him, there was something about him that wasn't human. Those
eyes that evaded his own.

    Grens,
you must fucking listen to me.

    Lund,
I want you to look at me.

    Grensie,
they're sluts, you should know that.

    I'm interrogating
you, Lund. And I want you to look at me.

    Sluts.
Little ones, really small horny sluts, needing it.

    Look
at me now. Or else I'll suspend the interrogation immediately.

    You
want to know this. About their tight tiny cunts. I knew you would.

    Why
not look at me? Don't you dare?

    The
cunts want cock inside. Hard cock.

    Good.
Now we're looking at each other.

    Small,
very small cunts. They want plenty of seeing to.

    How
do you feel now, when you're looking me in the eye?

    And
you've got to teach them, you know. They mustn't think of fucking all the time.

    You
can't stand it much longer now. Your eyes look shifty. Cowardly.

    The
smallest cunts are the worst, they're the horniest. That's why you've got to be
firm, teach them a lesson.

    You
want me to switch the tape recorder off and have a go at you. You want me to
lose control.

    Grens,
have you ever tasted cunt on a nine-year-old?

    He
turned the music off. Removed the cassette gently, put it away in the proper
plastic box.

    'So
he's allowed himself to be seen before he's got hold of a kid. If he's that
desperate the risk is that all his inhibitions have gone west.'

    He
took his jacket from its hook by the door.

    'I was
in charge of interrogating Lund. I know how his mind works. And I've read the
forensic psychiatrist's report. It just confirmed what I knew already. Lund has
got pronounced sadistic tendencies.'

    Actually,
he had not only read the psych report, he had gone through it word by word
because he was determined to understand any fucking ghastly thing there was to
be understood. Nobody and nothing had affected him like the sessions with Lund;
during the interrogations and afterwards, the man evoked hatred and fear and
more.

    Ewert
would willingly admit that his years in the police had made him rather cold,
even hard and difficult; allowing himself to have feelings would have made most
days pretty hellish. But Lund's crimes and total alienation had made him want
to give up, crawl away, sensing for the first time that his job might be of no
use. He had talked to the psychiatrist who wrote the report, discussed Lund and
his sadistic rapes and the anger that drove his sexuality, fusing lust with
inflicting pain, pleasure with forcing submission. Ewert had asked if Lund had
some kind of insight into what he was doing; did he have any understanding of
the feelings and reactions of the child and its parents and others who got
involved? Cautiously, the psychiatrist had shaken his head and gone on to speak
about Lund's childhood, how he'd been abused from an early age and how, in
order to stand it, he had shut out other people.

    Still
holding the jacket, Ewert turned and pointed at Sven, then at Ågestam.

    'But what
was the final conclusion? Minor psychological disorder. Do you get that? He
rapes little girls, but the diagnosis is minor psychological disorder.'

    'I
remember, I was a law student at the time.' Ågestam sighed. 'We were amazed and
furious.'

    Ewert
pulled on his jacket and commanded Sven to get the car.

    'Off
we go. Strängnäs. And keep your foot down.'

    Ågestam
had stayed where he was, obstructing the doorway.

    'I'll
join you.'

    Ewert
disapproved of the young prosecutor; he had shown it before and did so again.

    'What's
your angle exactly? Chief interrogator?'

    'Of
course not.'

    'Then
you'd better move over.'

    The
sun was sinking slowly, but it was still as hot as ever. The strong light stung
their eyes as they drove south-westwards along the E4. They left the centre
behind, then the inner suburbs, then the commuter towns. At last, the E20 to
Strängnäs. Sven relaxed a little and breathed more easily. Ewert stopped urging
him to go faster and moaning about the sun-visors. The quieter road and change
of direction, away from the sun, meant that Sven could increase his speed.

    They
didn't talk much. There wasn't much to say, apart from the fact that Lund had
been seen outside a nursery school and that a five-year-old girl was missing.
In their minds, they mulled over what was known and what events might have
followed, every scenario ending with the hope that the child had been found in
a forgotten play-room and that the father who raised the alarm had allowed his
terror to fuel his imagination, as so often was the case.

    They
made it in record time. The moment they were within sight of the school it
became obvious that nothing had sorted itself out. It had not been a false
alarm. Something had happened, and it could be the worst. People were milling
around; some must be teachers and nursery nurses, some parents of the children
who were running, jumping, playing everywhere. There were uniformed men and
impatient dogs standing near two patrol cars, and seen from a distance
everything about the people round the playground fence told them of confusion,
of questions and fears and perhaps, because of all this, a sense of community.

    Sven
stopped the car a little way away, to give Ewert and himself another minute, a
moment of stillness before pandemonium broke loose, a little silence before the
bombardment of questions started up. From inside their metal shell, he observed
the restless crowd. Worried people keep on the move. He watched them; they kept
tramping about and, framed by the car window, they looked like extras in a
play. He glanced at Ewert, realising that he too was watching and analysing,
trying to become part of the talk out there without having to leave the car.

    'What
do you think has happened?'

    'What
I can see has happened.'

    'What's
that, then?'

    'Things
couldn't be worse. Up shit creek.'

    They
got out and two of the policemen immediately came towards them to shake hands.
First was a large young man with crew-cut dark hair. Like others of his age,
maybe just over thirty, his bearing had a self-aware confidence, a kind of
brittle invulnerability.

    'Hi.
Leo Lauritzen. From Eskilstuna, the nearest station. We got here twenty minutes
ago.'

    'I
see. Sven Sundkvist. And this is Ewert Grens.'

    Lauritzen
smiled, surprised, and held Ewert's hand a fraction too long.

    'Great!
I've heard of you.'

    'Is
that so?'

    'It's
like, you know, meeting a celebrity. But you're shorter than I imagined. No
offence.'