The Beast (33 page)

    A
handgun. A knife. Two photographs. A hand-written note.

    'The
gun, you'll be able to check it out, was in a holster strapped to his lower
leg. The knife was also in a strap-on holster, on his forearm this time. By the
way, this type of knife is new to me. The edge is exceptionally sharp.'

    Ewert
took charge of the plastic bags with the weapons. So Lund had been armed,
prepared to defend himself.

    'Fancy
that young idiot going for life. Banging up someone who rid the land of an
armed crazy, out hunting little girls.'

    Sven
took the bags with the photos and piece of paper. He looked at them under the
light and was still staring at the amateurish images when he started to speak.

    'New
photos, these. Little girls, same ones on both pics. Photographed outside the
nursery school where Lund was lurking when he got shot. Seems that the girls
went to that school. We'll confirm it of course, but it's likely.'

    Ewert
wanted to see.

    'Christ,
look at this. Lund must've made a note of their names. It looks like he wanted
two victims this time too.'

    He
looked at the photographs once more. Two little girls, about the same age as
Marie Steffansson, blonde hair bleached by the summer sun, sitting on the edge
of a sandpit, smiling towards life. He cackled, as he had when speaking to
Ågestam earlier that day.

    'What
have we got here? Proof that Steffansson saved the lives of two children by
killing Lund. It's thanks to the accused that two sweet six-year-olds can still
smile today.'

    Then
he did the weird thing that Sven had observed before, slapped the body on the
trolley, pinched it and shook it a bit, mumbling inaudibly with his head turned
away.

    Bengt
Söderlund and his family were spending the summer holidays at home for the
fifth year running. Once they'd tried Gotland, the lovely island everyone
talked about, but never again. Hiring the cottage was expensive, it rained all
the time, there was nothing to do and the week they had paid for seemed endless.
The following year they hired a cottage in Ystad on the south coast instead,
but the whole place was windy and dead flat. They travelled around a bit but
Osterlen looked just the same, so that was that, no need to go back for more.
Two years in a caravan, but what with gridlocked roads and kids who wouldn't go
to sleep that was a wash-out, and then, to cap it all, that stay on Rhodes in a
nightmare heatwave lasting the entire fortnight, well, thanks, but no thanks.
They had figured a city break in Stockholm might be a good idea, but even that
was a disappointment; the place was packed with crazed townies, the types who
walk up escalators.

    They
had agreed that enough was enough. Staying at home meant Bengt could keep an
eye on the business. It was good for family life too. They could take the kids
swimming in the lake, go for walks in peace, even get some sex in peace when
the girls were away on sleepovers with their friends. And they could see more
of their own friends, drink coffee in the garden, have folks round for supper
once in a while.

    Bengt
and Elisabeth were drinking morning coffee when Ove and Helena came strolling
past their open kitchen window. They waved. Come in! Time for elevenses, coffee
and cinnamon rolls, two each. Ove and Helena were easy to get on with. Almost
ten years ago now, things had become tense for a while, just a silly episode at
a party when Ove and Elisabeth had ended up doing rather more than holding
hands. The coolness between the couples lasted until it dawned on everyone that
Tallbacka was too small to hide in. They had a shouting match, it cleared the
air and afterwards they tacitly agreed to bury the whole affair. Both Ove and
Elisabeth had had a bit too much to drink, but it had been a harmless fling;
neither had had the slightest intention of ruining their marriages.

    Ove
had brought a morning paper and over the coffee and buns the four of them
started talking about the case that dominated that national news. Now that the
Russian plane accident had been sorted, the headlines were all about the
paedophile who had killed a little girl, and the dad who then shot his
daughter's killer. They could all engage with this; the girl and the dad were
part of every family in the land.

    In
fact, since the first reports of the crime, they had talked about this story
whenever they'd met. All, that is, except Elisabeth. She fell silent every
time, and when they asked her why, she said they were getting far too excited
and far too angry and it was no good. They tried to persuade her, but when she
still would have none of it, they carried on regardless. Getting excited was no
crime, and if she wasn't interested, too bad.

    Now
it was all cosy and familiar.

    Bengt
poured the coffee, dark-roast, its scent filling the kitchen. There was real
cream with it, and the buns of course, saved since yesterday to give them the
dry, crispy crust that made them especially nice to dunk in coffee.

    Then
he pointed at the passport photo of Fredrik Steffansson that the papers had
used since his arrest.

    'That
guy. I'd have done the same. Wouldn't have thought twice.'

    Ove
soaked a piece of bun in his mug.

    'Me
too. You know, if you've girls in the house that's it, you've to think like he
did.'

    Bengt
examined the page in the paper closely.

    'But
I wouldn't have done it just because of what he said, you know, because he was
thinking of other kids. I would've done it for me. To get my own back.'

    He
looked at the people round the table to gauge their reactions. Both Ove and
Helena nodded. Elisabeth stuck her tongue out.

    'Are
you crazy? What's that for?'

    'I'm
fed up with you lot. All you ever do is jabber on and on, morning, noon and
night. Flasher-Göran, paedophiles, always the same stuff. Every time we meet.
Hate, hate, hate.'

    'Bugger
off then. You don't have to stay.'

    'I
mean, listen to you! It's just crap. Revenge for what? All Göran ever did was
stand naked next to the flagpole. He didn't touch anyone. What's the harm in
that?' Elisabeth breathed out in a sob, and after clearing her throat to steady
her voice, her eyes were still shining with tears. 'I don't seem to know you
any more. You sit in my kitchen pretending to care, but you're just spoiling
for a fight. I've had enough! You're pathetic!'

    Helena
put her mug down and grasped Elisabeth's hand.

    'Hey,
Elisabeth. Calm down.'

    Defiantly,
Elisabeth pulled her hand away.

    'Let
her piss off if that's what she wants. She must like them, the paedophiles. Eh?
Is that it?' Bengt raised his voice and turned to his wife. 'I've worked my
whole life, slaved like a fucking dog. And the society I live in locks up
someone who's saved children's lives! But I don't deserve any better. Is that
how you see it?'

    He
turned to the window and spat. And heard a door open.

    He
knew just which door.

    'Fuck's
sake. That's him, that sodding pervert. He's going out.'

    Flasher-Göran
was locking his front door. Bengt looked round at Elisabeth.

    'Pathetic?
Wasn't that what you said?'

    Then he
stuck his head out through the window.

    'You
deaf or something?' he roared. 'I don't want to see you. Stay inside. Filthy
swine!'

    Göran
looked towards the familiar voice, and continued walking down the gravel path
to the gate. Bengt snapped his fingers, twice.

    His
Rottweiler came padding along obediently.

    'Baxter.
Come.'

    The
dog ran up to the window to stand by his master. Bengt grabbed its collar, held
it, then let go with a sudden command.

    'Baxter!
Go! Get him!'

    The big
dog leapt out through the window, ran across the lawn and jumped the fence to
the garden next door, barking loudly as it went. Göran heard it and realised
what was happening. His heart started thumping with fear. He ran. The garden
shed was the nearest safe place. His stomach was out of order, he couldn't
control it, he shat himself, ran the last bit with faeces trickling down his
legs, grabbed the door handle, got inside, pulled the door shut. The dog threw
itself against the door, barking excitedly.

    Bengt
was watching from the window, Helena and Ove at his side. He was almost
hysterical, applauding his dog and shouting to it.

    'Good
dog! Well done, Baxter! The peddo is where he belongs. Baxter! Watch!'

    The
dog stopped barking, sat down and fixed its eyes on the door handle.

    Bengt,
laughing now, clapped his hands for a little longer. Then he turned away from
the window and caught the look in Elisabeth's eyes, saw how much she despised
him. She shook her head slightly at him.

    He
suddenly realised that she was ugly, old and ugly, with her sneering face and
flabby tits.

    She
could never make him want her, long for her again, not any more.

    The
cool release brought by the rain seemed a distant memory now. The heat was
back. It was more obvious in the prison, where the high perimeter wall trapped
the air over the flat expanse of the gravel yard. Hilding had gone out for a
walk, wearing a pair of shorts and nothing on the bony upper half of his body.
No one else was around. He was worried. Dickybird would soon discover it, he'd
know who'd done it, and that it was his closest friend and ally would mean
zilch. Hilding would be worked over. He expected it. If you nick from your mate
you get hammered, simple as that. And he had nicked something important.

    He
had got Axelsson out of harm's way. The peddo had got the message, crawled off
to the screws and licked arse. They saw his point right enough and tucked the
fucking nonce away in seg wing. Sure enough, Dickybird had lost it when he
heard; he figured the beast had been warned off, but couldn't be sure. Above
all, he couldn't be sure who'd done it. He went berserk, screaming and kicking
at the wall. Still, he had calmed down afterwards. He even agreed to a couple
of games and magically got two tens of diamonds in one of the rounds.

    Hilding
scratched his sore and kept walking, from one pair of goal posts to the other.
He counted each round. Sixty-seven so far. Thirty-three left.

    He
shouldn't have gone and smoked all the shit. But what the fuck, the Axelsson
business had taken it out of him, he'd had it by then. He had earned just a
small one, like a prize, kind of. Alone in the shower-room, he got the resin
out and rolled himself one. It had been as fucking bloody marvellous as last
time, his body felt all relaxed, he smoked another small one and then, somehow,
the rest went the same way. It felt brilliant. But that night he suddenly
realised that this time he was really asking for it. Afterwards he stayed
awake, waiting for the morning and the beating that would come. Except it
didn't.