Anders Roslund - The Beast

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.’

‘People imagine too much. Have you got anything sensible on your mind as well? What’s the situation here, for instance? Or are you as thick as you look?’

Lauritzen’s colleague, who’d been hanging back a little, now took a few steps forward. She didn’t bother with any greetings. Her blonde hair was glued to her temples; she was sweating copiously after working hard in the oppressive heat.

‘We got the first message about an hour ago. The Stockholm duty officer rang to say that one of the kids in this nursery had gone missing. A few minutes later more info came through. Bernt Lund had been seen in connection with the school and at the time of the disappearance. That was enough for us; a major alert went out. We mobilised members from the local Working Dog Owners’ club to search the woodland between the school and Enköping. Two helicopter crews are scanning the Lake Mälaren beaches near here. A team is lined up for a detailed area search. They’ll get going soon, but we’re holding off for the moment. The dogs need to check out the scents, before half Strängnäs starts combing the place.’

She apologised and went off to speak to the dog owners next, a group set apart by having the club emblem sewn on to their anoraks.

Sven and Ewert looked at each other; both held back from starting work, both reluctant to enter into the waiting darkness. Then Ewert cleared his throat and turned to Lauritzen.

‘The parents of the missing child. Where are they?’

Lauritzen pointed at a man wearing a brown corduroy suit and with his long hair gathered in a ponytail, who was seated near the end of a bench by the school gate. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned his head in his hands, staring at the gate or maybe at a shrub just behind it. A woman was sitting next to him, her arm round his shoulders, now and then stroking his cheek.

‘That’s the girl’s father, the man who phoned to say he’d seen Lund. Seen him twice, in fact, with some fifteen to twenty minutes between the sightings. Lund sat on that seat, in full view.’

‘His name is?’

‘Fredrik Steffansson. Divorced. Agnes Steffansson, the girl’s mother, lives in Stockholm. She’s got a flat in Vasastan, I believe.’

‘And who’s the woman?’

‘Micaela Zwarts. She works here in the school, and lives with Mr Steffansson. The missing girl, Marie, sometimes stays with one parent, sometimes with the other, officially half-and-half, but during the last year or so she has apparently preferred to have her main home here in Strängnäs, with Zwarts and Steffansson. She goes to her mother over most weekends. The parents have agreed to this, the girl’s welfare matters most to them. I must say I wish there was more of that attitude about. I mean, I’m divorced myself and…’

Ewert was not interested.

‘Leave it. I’ll have a word with Steffansson.’

The man on the bench was still leaning forward, his empty eyes gazing blindly ahead. He looked drained, as if the wound inside him had allowed all his strength to leach away and any residual joy of living drip into the grass, creating an ugly stain.

Ewert Grens did not have any children and had never wanted any. He realised that he would never understand fully what the man in front of him was feeling. But he didn’t need to understand, not now.

What his eyes told him was enough.

Rune Lantz would be sixty-six on his next birthday. His first year in retirement had almost passed. In July, a year ago, late one afternoon, he had emptied the big container of the apple juice mixer for the last time. He had done the usual, turned the switch to off, washed the drum out, waited for the night shift and for the mixer guy to put on earmuffs and hairnet. The hard bit of the job was adding the right amount of sugar. ‘Right’ depended on where the juice was going. The least sweetened juice went to Germany, a sweeter mix to Great Britain, an unbelievably sweet one to Italy and an undrinkably sticky concoction to Greece.