Anders Roslund - The Beast

‘Yes, she has.’

‘But you won’t get sad if I say her name?’

‘No, I promise I won’t.’

They stayed there for a good half-hour, while Fredrik told them about Marie being dead. He described her funeral, how the vicar had put spoonfuls of earth on her coffin before it was lowered into a hole in the ground. David and Lukas kept asking questions. Why do people have blood in their stomachs? How come a child can die before the grown-ups? How can it be that you talk to somebody one day and the next day you can’t ever again?

He hugged them both before they left, realising that this was the first time he had articulated the fact of Marie’s death. The boys had made him. They had listened to his explanations and asked more questions when they weren’t satisfied, forcing him to try harder. He had even spoken of his grief, admitting that he had not cried once. This shocked them and they wanted to know why. He said truthfully that he didn’t know the answer, but it must have to do with the way sadness could build up inside a person who somehow couldn’t let it out.

Then the attic door closed behind them and he was left alone in total silence. He pulled himself together, pushed his way back in among the objects in the store, where he found the two sacks tucked away behind everything else. He turned them upside down. Lots of stuff inside, books, clothes, crockery. He found what he was looking for in the second sack.

The rifle was so large it stuck in the rough weave.

It was a first-class hunting rifle, he had Birger’s word for that. Hunting anything, elk, deer, hare, had become an absorbing pastime of his later years. He had been proud of his rifle and cared for it meticulously. One of the images Fredrik retained was of the old man seated at the kitchen table, laboriously taking the gun apart, cleaning every piece and then putting it together again. Afterwards he would sit there pointing it at anybody or anything that came to mind.

Fredrik wrapped the rifle in one of the sacks and left with the package under his arm.

Siw’s voice was booming, loud enough to make the walls tremble. ‘You’ve Just Been Playing With Me’, originally called ‘Foolin’ Around’ in 1961. As the sound bounced around the room, it amplified itself, became louder still and more insistent.

You’ve just been playing with me, so Here’s your ring back and off you go Ewert Grens had snubbed his visitors, told them that as far as he was concerned three was a crowd, but that they could hang around if they stayed put and shut up. This was the third track from the tape he had picked, turning the volume up a little for each new tune. Sven Sundkvist and Lars Ågestam looked at each other. Ågestam was baffled. Sven shrugged dismissively: nothing doing, this is how it goes. All they could do was wait until Siw had sung her way through the programme. Ewert had produced the special photo of her that he had snapped himself in the Kristianstad Palais back in 1972 and was singing along. He knew every word and become louder each time the refrain came round.

At one point the singing stopped, the crunching sound of the needle on the long-playing record took over, and Ågestam was just opening his mouth to speak when the intro to the next item started up. Ewert waved irritably in his general direction, shut your face, and turned the volume up a bit more.

It’s clear you’re going to leave me, all they say about you is true

Ågestam had heard enough of Siw. He was in a hurry and, besides, he was in charge.

He was fed up to the teeth with sex maniacs, rapists, flashers, paedophiles. Not another pervert, he wanted something else, something better, to advance advance advance.

And then they handed him this brief. A sex crime. But also his ticket to advancement.

He had found it hard to stop himself from laughing wildly when he learned that he was to be the head of the pre-trial investigation of Bernt Lund, while the chase was still on. Every newscast, every front page was devoted to it, the whole country had ground to a halt; the murder of a five-year-old girl by an escaped convict, a known sex killer, this demanded every ounce of spare media capacity. So, this was his big chance. His breakthrough. For the duration, the nation’s interest was focused on his case and, therefore, on him.

I’m in love with you but it cannot be

You won’t get a single thing more from me

That’s it. No more crap like this, not one more daft line.

He rose, walked over to the bookshelf, had a look at the awkward tape recorder, found the off button and pressed it.

Silence.

The room was totally silent. Sven stared at the floor. Ewert was trembling with rage and his face had gone bright red.

Ågestam knew he had just broken the oldest unwritten rule in the building. Actually, he didn’t give a shit.

‘Grens, I’m sorry, but I’ve had enough. No more pathetic rhymes for today.’

‘Fuck off then!’ Ewert shouted. ‘Out of my room, you little arselicking creep!’

Ågestam had made up his mind.

‘You sit here listening to folk-pop from the nineteenth century instead of doing your job. Of course I had to shut off this bloody tosh!’

Ewert rose, still shouting at the top of his voice.

‘I’ve listened to this music and worked harder than anyone else while you were still filling your nappies. Now fuck off before I do something I shouldn’t!’

Defiantly, Ågestam returned to his chair and sat down.

‘No. I want to know where we’re at. And when you’ve told me what you know, I’ll let you have a clue that I think you don’t know about. If I’m right, I stay. If not, I’ll leave. Deal?’

Ewert had just made up his mind to manhandle the little prat, throw him out bodily. He despised the prosecutors, the whole fucking lot of them were academics, career boys, who had never been out there getting hurt. This one would crawl away from here if he had anything to do with it. He was on his way when Sven got up.

‘Ewert, cool down. Think. Give him a chance. If he’s got a clue he must tell us. If we know about it already he’ll go away.’

Ewert hesitated and Ågestam grabbed the opportunity, turning quickly to Sven.

‘Fine. Now, where have we got with this case?’

Sven cleared his throat.

‘Ah. Well, we’ve investigated all Lund’s past addresses. Nothing so far, but we’re keeping an eye on them. And we’ve checked up on all his paedophile pals. Again, they’re under observation.’

‘Any hints from the public?’

‘Flooding in, we’re up to our necks already. What with the news, broadcast and press, people know what’s happened and think they see things. Lund has been observed everywhere in the country by now. We’re sifting through the tip- offs, checking everything, but so far there’s been nothing worth while.’

‘What about Lund’s possible targets?’

‘We’re keeping watch on as many as possible. Which also means that we’re in regular communication with all nursery and primary schools within a fifty-kilometre radius of his last one.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘In other words, you’re stuck?’

‘That’s right.’

Ågestam waited. Ewert slapped his diary against the desk.

‘Get on with it, you little prat,’ he said angrily. ‘And then leave.’

The young prosecutor got up, walked slowly round the room, from wall to wall.

‘I’ve got a lot of experience of the taxi trade,’ he began. ‘Driving taxis was how I financed my five years at university. I drove people all over the area. Good money. It was in the days before deregulation. It’s different now, with a taxi lurking at every street corner.’