The Beast (28 page)

    At a
stroke the treeless exercise yard became bearable. The rain had come sweeping
in over Aspsås and 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.

    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.

    '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.