The Beast (47 page)

    A man
wearing a pair of odd, blue-framed spectacles objected noisily to the order.
'We should stay in here.'

    'No.
If we need you we'll let you know. This interrogation is no spectator sport.'

    Ewert
Grens (EG): I'm turning on the recorder now.

    Jochum
Lang (JL): Fine.

    EG:
Please state your full name.

    JL:
Jochum Hans Lang.

    EG:
Good. And do you know why we are here?

    JL:
No.

    Ewert
glanced at Sven, feeling tired already. He would need help, and soon. This bugger
didn't want to cooperate. He knew, but didn't want to.

    EG:
You must answer the questions. For instance, tell us why Fredrik Steffansson
fell forward when he managed to open the shower-room door. And next, why
Steffansson was alive one minute and dead the next.

    For a
minute or so the room was silent. Ewert's eyes were fixed on Jochum, and the
big man's were on the barred window.

    EG:
Enjoying the view?

    JL:
Yes.

    EG:
Fuck's sake, Jochum! We know Dickybird knifed Steffansson.

    JL:
Good for you.

    EG:
It's not news. We know.

    JL: I
said, good for you. Why question me?

    EG:
Because, for your own sweet reasons, you beat Dickybird senseless. I want to
know why.

    Ewert
waited for the reply. His adversary looked a hard man all right. Heavy build,
broad shoulders, big shaven head and calm eyes. He'd have made dead meat of
quite a few men outside.

    JL:
He owed me money. EG: Come off it!

    JL:
Quite a lot.

    EG:
Crap! Dragan tricked some of the officers. You knocked Dickybird out cold. You
wanted to make him pay for knifing Steffansson.

    Grens
stood up, red in the face. Bending over Jochum, he lowered his voice.

    EG:
Pull yourself together, man. For once, we're on the same side. If you simply
confirm that Dickybird did it, I promise I won't let on it was you who said.
Get this: if no one in the unit tells us what happened, Steffansson's murderer
will go free.

    JL: I
didn't see what happened.

    EG:
Give me a break.

    JL: I
didn't see a thing.

    EG:
Screw that.

    JL:
You can switch your machine off now.

    Ewert
turned to Sven, shrugged. Sven nodded. After fumbling for a bit, Ewert switched
the tape recorder off.

    'Satisfied
now?'

    Jochum
checked that the tape had really stopped running, and then looked up. His face
was tense.

    'Grens,
you know what gives here. Rule number one is
don't grass.
You're
finished if you do, never mind what's up. So listen hard now. Yes, Grens, we
know who used the blade on Steffansson. That bastard will be on his way out of
here soon enough. Feet first. Think about it. And now the goons outside can
take me back.'

    He
got up and walked to the door. No one tried to stop him.

    Jochum
Lang's interrogation had lasted less than half an hour. It was still only
quarter past eight. Ewert sighed. Not that he had expected anything other than
silence. No one in prison ever told a cop anything. Fucking cons' honour. Cutting
someone, no problem, but grassing - never. Honour my arse! He slapped his hand
on the table. Sven jumped. 'What do you think, mate? What do we do now?' 'We
haven't much choice.'

    Ewert
started the tape, ran it back to the beginning and listened to the interview
again to check it. Jochum's voice, slow and indifferent. His own, angry and
pressurised. It always surprised him to hear how loud and aggressive he
sounded.

    Sven
listened too, looking at a distant point on the floor. He turned to Ewert.

    'I
think we should leave him alone for tonight. All we'll get is this kind of
thing. He won't say any more than Jochum did. Let's just drop in, chat
informally, that kind of thing. Harmless.'

    Arne
Bertolsson, the governor of Aspsås, decided that evening to isolate Unit H in
its entirety, which meant keeping all the prisoners locked up in their cells.

    Banged
up, they ate, shat and counted the hours alone.

    Meanwhile
Ewert and Sven strolled along the empty corridor, inspecting the place where a
man they had learned to respect, even like, had just been killed.

    They
looked over the broken furnishings that littered the cubicle where Jochum had
silenced Dickybird by slamming his head against the wall. Torn wallpaper and
traces of blood marked the spot. Mirror glass, bits of electronics crunched
against the soles of their shoes. The sitting room was a mess of broken glass,
water, sodden cards and dead fish, their shiny scales fading. The plastic
flooring was slippery. Leaving damp footprints, they passed the cell doors.

    There
was a large puddle of blood at the end of the corridor. That was where Fredrik
had fallen. They shook their heads at each other and followed the trail of
blood into the shower-room. He must have been cut several times just after
stepping inside. The white tiles glowed red near the washbasin.

    They
found Dickybird in bed in his cell. He was wearing only a pair of tracksuit
bottoms. His face was badly cut, one eye had disappeared in swollen tissue. The
gold chain gleamed on his chest. He grinned broadly at his visitors.

    'Grensie
himself. And his sidekick. Fuck's sake! Why the honour?'

    The
cell interested them. This prisoner had been around for some time, regarded
this as his home and had made the bare room positively cosy. A small TV set, a
coffee-maker, a couple of flowerpots. Even curtains, red and white checked
cotton. One wall was covered in posters, and on the other was just one, hugely
magnified photograph.

    He
noticed them noticing.

    'My
daughter. And here too.'

    Dickybird
pointed to a framed photo on the bedside table. A smiling little girl, her
blonde hair in plaits, finished with neatly tied ribbons.

    'Would
you like a cuppa? Tea or coffee?'

    'No thanks,'
Ewert said. 'We've had some already. When we interviewed Jochum Lang.'

    Dickybird
appeared not to have heard the last bit.

    'OK.
I'll have some myself.' He busied himself with topping up the water in the
kettle, tipping spoonfuls of tea leaves into a pot. 'Sit you down. Try the
bed.'

    They
sat down. The cell was very tidy and smelled clean. He even had a room-scenter.

    'Nicely
fixed-up place you've got,' Ewert said, making a sweeping gesture.

    'I've
got a fair stretch and not that fucking much of a home outside.'

    'Fancy
that, curtains. And pot-plants.'

    'Just
like your home, innit, Grensie?'

    Ewert
clenched his jaw and the thought passed through Sven's head that he had no idea
whether Ewert had plants and curtains at home. He had never visited his old
colleague, strangely enough. Ewert had come for supper with himself and Anita
several times, but had never asked them back.

    Dickybird
sipped the hot tea. Ewert waited until he had put the mug down.

    'We've
seen a lot of each other, Stig. Over the years.'

    'That's
a fair comment.'

    'I
remember you when you were in your teens. Picked you up in Blekinge that time
you'd jammed an ice-pick into your uncle's balls.'

    The
images crowded back into Dickybird's mind. Per was there, bleeding. How he'd
wanted that, cut the old bastard's balls off and laugh.

    'You
know you're under suspicion for having carved somebody again. Or don't you? You
see, we think you might have cut Steffansson a couple of hours ago. Well and truly
killed him, as it happens.'

    Dickybird
sighed and rolled his eyes heavenwards, acting out mock-innocence.

    'Oh,
don't I know it. I'm under suspicion. Like the rest of the lads in the unit.'

    'I'm
talking to you.'

    'Give
over, it's not as bad as that. All I'll tell you is that the peddo got what was
coming to him.' Dickybird had turned serious. 'Fucking beast.'

    Ewert
heard, but didn't understand.

    'Stig,
are we on the same wavelength? I mean, you might call Fredrik Steffansson many
things, but not a peddo. The reverse, rather. If anything.'

    Dickybird
had just lifted the mug of tea to his lips. Now he put it down, staring at the
two policemen. When he spoke, his voice was rough, angry.

    'What
the fuck are you saying?'

    Ewert
registered the man's surprise and his mood change. This was no theatre.

    'You
heard me. Don't you ever watch the TV news?'

    'Happens.
So what?'

    'You
must have followed the reports about the dad who shot his little daughter's
killer?'

    'Followed,
well, I wouldn't say that. I don't like stuff like that. You know, what with
this little one and all.' He looked briefly at the blonde girl in the photo. 'I
didn't watch a lot. Enough to get the message. That dad was a regular fucking
hero. No question. Pervs like that should be shot, all of them. Beasts. What's
all that got to do with anything?'

    Ewert
and Sven exchanged a glance. They both thought the same thing and neither
spoke.

    'Grensie,
out with it! What's all this got to do with that dead fucker?'

    'The
name of that dad, your hero, was Fredrik Steffansson.'

    Dickybird
shot upright, his face twitching.

    'Give
over! Fuck's sake! Stop sitting here talking fucking crap like that!'

    'Stig,
I wish it was crap.' Ewert turned to Sven. 'Let's have a look at the papers.'

    Sven
rummaged in his briefcase until he had found copies of the two main evening
papers, dated the day Fredrik Steffansson had been arrested for shooting at and
killing Bernt Lund. Ewert lined them up for Dickybird to see.

    'Here.
If you don't trust me, just have a look.'

    The
headlines, the type as large and the ink as black on both front pages, screamed
the same message.

    He
Shot His Daughter's Killer. Saved Two Girls' Lives.

    The
photographs too were the same in both papers. The ones Errfors had found in
Lund's pockets. The pictures showed his intended victims. They sat side by
side, in the playground of their Enköping nursery. Both were smiling. One of
them had her blonde hair in neat plaits.