The Beast (34 page)

    Two
days ago that was. Soon he'd attack. Hilding waited and scratched.

    One
more round. The hundredth.

    Sweat
was pouring off him. Maybe he should do another hundred. It was almost like
getting high, this steady walking in the hot sun. His thoughts flowed slowly
and easily. He decided to keep going until someone else came outside.

    After
one hundred and fifty-seven goes, the Russian turned up with a ball under his
arm. Hilding went to take a cold shower; the water burned in his sore. Then he
put on clean kit, pants, socks and shorts, and started walking in the corridor,
driven by his anxiety. Three hundred times he passed the cells, reached the
pool table and turned back. Everything was quiet, apart from the telly. It was
on, as usual. The news was about the murder of the little girl and then about
Lund. He forced himself to listen to distract himself from his growing fear.

    He
hadn't been in such a state for years, ever since he came under Dickybird's
protection. But now he was the one who'd screwed up. He had to do something
different, blow his mind. Must.

    He knocked
on the door to Jochum's cell, first once, then again when there was no reply.
Jochum opened up. He had been asleep, it showed.

    'What
the fuck?'

    'I'm
Hilding.'

    'So
what? Beat it.'

    'Just
wondered if you were thirsty.'

    He
had made up his mind. He had to do it, anything to get rid of that piss-awful
ache inside him. So it meant more stealing. It would help if Jochum came along.
Dickybird had too much respect to mess with him.

    Jochum
came outside.

    'Where
is it?'

    'Come.
I'll show you.'

    Jochum
went back inside his cell, then came out again wearing a pair of slippers. He
closed the cell door behind him.

    That
sod never left the door open. No one ever caught as much as a glimpse inside
his cell. Hilding led the way along the route he had just walked three hundred
times, past the kitchen, the shower-room, the pool corner.

    Fixed
to the corridor wall was a fire-fighting contraption, a pipe made of
red-painted metal attached to a black hose. The instructions for use ran into
too many words to take in, especially with flames raging around you. Hilding
looked around. No screws. He produced a toothbrush mug from the pocket of his
shorts and unscrewed the stopper on the pipe.

    'Try
this. Plain fucking water, a loaf and some apples.' He filled the mug. The brew
smelled bad; he almost retched. 'This stuff is rotgut. Tastes like shit! But
what the fuck!' He swallowed the murky fluid. 'It kicks. Just don't fucking
taste it!'

    He
filled the mug again and handed it to Jochum.

    'It's
been settling for almost four weeks. It's clearing. And must be ten per cent,
easily.'

    Jochum
swallowed, gagged, held out the mug.

    'Another
one.'

    They
got through five mugs each. Warmth began to spread through their bodies, and
calm; the alcohol was reaching their souls.

    They
used to brew in the bucket at the back of the cleaners' cupboard, but doing it
in the emptied fire-gadget was better, it was a closed container and easier to
get at. The loaf was for alcohol, and the fruit helped the taste a bit.

    'Screw
coming!'

    Skåne
had been on the alert this time, warning everyone. It was rare for them to turn
up in the unit so suddenly. Hilding put the stopper in place and they wandered
off; they met a screw on the way, he looked hard at them but didn't stop them.

    Hilding
and Jochum, nicely pissed now, went along to sit on the sofa, united for a
while by booze; no one says no to a drink with a mate.

    The
TV news was still chewing over the Lund murder; the whole unit had followed the
hunt and by now most people had had enough. The kid's dad had blown the head
off the fucking nonce, showing the beasts what the score was. Hilding and
Jochum took no notice of the flow of words and images, just sat back feeling
relaxed.

    'Where's
that tinker mate of yours anyway? I haven't seen him for days.'

    'Dickybird?'

    'Yeah.
The Diddler.'

    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.