Anders Roslund - The Beast

They had been clutching each other when they left.

He had been running, corridor, stairs, door, crying as if he would never stop.

Ewert left too. Walking past Sven, he patted the younger man’s shoulder.

‘I’ll be in the car. Take your time, take all the time you need.’

How much time had passed? Ten minutes? Twenty? He had no idea. He had wept until he felt empty, until no more tears came. He wept with them and for them, as if they did not have enough room for the grief, as if their sadness had to be shared out.

When he climbed into the car Ewert touched his cheek lightly.

‘I’ve been sitting here listening to the piss-poor radio. News on every fucking channel and they’re pumping out stuff about Bernt Lund and the murder of Marie. They’ve got what they needed, a summer murder, and from now on they’ll be snapping at our heels all day long.’

Sven had put his hands on the steering wheel. Now he gestured at it, then at Ewert.

‘What about you driving?’

‘Nope.’

‘Only just now, for a while. I don’t feel up to it.’

‘I’ll wait until you’re ready to start the engine. We’re in no more hurry than that.’

Sven sat back. A minute or two passed. The radio changed from one pop hit that sounded identical to all the rest of them, and started on another one just the same.

Sven turned to look at the rear window shelf.

‘Do you fancy some cake?’

He reached for his bags, first the birthday gateau, then the wine, and put the would-be feast in his lap.

‘Princess Gateau. Jonas said it was his favourite. Two roses on top, one for me and one for him.’

He opened the box and sniffed tentatively.

‘Christ, it’s off. Twenty-four hours in this heat. It’s far gone.’

Ewert shuddered at the sudden wave of rancid smell, made a disgusted face and pushed the whole carton as far away as possible. Then he started fiddling with the radio dial. The mantra was the same, in newscast after newscast.

Little Girl Murdered. Escaped Sex Killer. Bernt Lund. Aspsås Prison. Police Hunt. The Grief. The Fear.

‘I can’t bear listening to this shit any more. Can’t stand having it shoved down my throat. Turn it off, please, Ewert.’

Sven checked the label on one of the bottles, nodded and unscrewed the top.

‘I reckon I need some.’

He swallowed a mouthful. Another one. And another.

‘Ewert, listen. Yesterday was my fortieth birthday. Celebration time. So I drive to Strängnäs to interview an elderly lady who’s found the body of a murdered little girl under a tree. Then, as a follow-up, I come here to look at the girl and to be told that she’s got semen in her anus and a sharp object jammed into her vagina. I watch her parents go to pieces as they see their daughter for the last time. Now I can’t get my mind round this. Not any of it. I want to go home.’

‘Time to get going.’

Ewert took the bottle, then reached out for the top. Sven handed it to him and he screwed it on.

‘Sven, you’re not the only one. We all feel it. Frustration, alienation. But what’s the point of that? We’ve got to get him. That’s what we’re meant to do. Get him, before he strikes again.’

Sven started the engine and reversed gingerly out of the parking lot. The forensic building was next to Karolinska, the main Stockholm hospital, and everyone had parked capital- city-style, cramming the cars as tightly as they would go.

‘I know what he’s like,’ Ewert went on. ‘I’ve interrogated him. I’ve read his stash of reports. Every single fucking line that the forensic psychos have penned. He’ll do it again; the only question is when. And where. He’s beyond any kind of control. He’ll go on until we get him or he kills himself.’

Dickybird was looking for shade. There were no trees in the exercise yard, no walls or fences, nothing to hide behind to get the sun off his back; sweat was pouring off him. The large expanse of gravel had become a huge dust cloud contained within the grey stone of the perimeter wall. They had tried a game of football, five-a-side, with five thousand in the pot, but had to stop, their shoulders red and burning, every breath hurting. The two teams had collapsed on the ground behind the goals. Reps from each team had met in the centre circle to negotiate, both arguing the same case, saying that their boys were ready for more, but it was obvious that the opposition was dead beat, so the bet was off for now, surely?

Skåne had been their rep. When he returned, he sat down between Dickybird and Hilding.

‘They came round. They’re clapped out. The Russian couldn’t fucking breathe.’

‘Good.’

‘We’ll go for it on Monday, play the second half. And I raised the stake. Double. That lot can’t kick a fucking ball. No way.’

Hilding stirred, looking anxiously at Dickybird, scratching the sore near his nostril. Bekir was silent, Dragan was silent.

Dickybird spat into the gravel.

‘Did you so? Doubled the stake. And who pays if we screw up?’

‘Shit, Dickybird, we won’t screw up. Fuck’s sake, they haven’t even got a proper goalie.’

Dickybird lifted his head to examine the other team; everyone was still lying down as if the sun had sapped their collective strength.

‘Skåne, you’re full of shit. Your brain’s stoned senseless. Like, haven’t you seen the boys play? Have you been here at all? We’ve had crap luck, that’s a fact. But fine, fine. OK, shithead. OK. We’ll go for it, double the fucking pot. But your dosh is on the line if we lose. You’ll pay up, I’ll see to that. And if we win, we share and share alike. That’s fair. Two grand each.’

Skåne shook his head, he didn’t give a monkey’s. He moved a few metres away, went down on his belly in the dust and started doing press-ups. He counted aloud to let them hear, ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred and fifty, two hundred and fifty. His shaved skull and thick neck were gleaming with sweat, it dripped on the ground; he groaned and pushed, emptying himself of frustration and summer and having four years to go.

Dickybird closed his eyes. He stared wide-eyed at the sun for as long as he could stand it, letting in the blinding rays. When he lowered his eyelids there were patterns of rhythmic light, dots and colours and wavy bands; this was a trick he’d played since childhood, closing your eyes made you vanish.

‘What news about the big boy? The hitman?’

Hilding realised what he was after, but didn’t want to know.

‘How do you mean, what news?’

‘Like, where is he? I haven’t seen him today.’

‘How should I fucking know?’

‘Make it your fucking job, that’s how. Jochum Lang and Håkan Axelsson, the new guys, it’s up to you to keep tabs. And let ’em know what’s fucking what.’

‘Like you did with Jochum?’

‘Shut it.’

A breeze was blowing, the first wind for days. It started suddenly, fanning their faces gently so that they forgot about arguing for a while. Dickybird sat up to suck strength from what was no longer unyielding heat. Turning his head towards the wall he saw the man on the running path circling the endless concrete. He had reddish-blond hair and a beard, one of the two new guys; this was the one who had arrived in the morning. Dickybird’s eyes followed him, step by step, while he pulled a half-smoked fag out of his packet, one of the many fag-ends inside it. He became agitated and started waving his arms about, his eyes still glued to the stranger.

‘Look, there he goes. Axelsson. Not a fucking peep about who he is. He says he’s in for GBH. Fuck’s sake, the prissy cunt isn’t up to pissing against the wind. He’s a beast, I can smell it. I fucking sniff these perverts out.’