Anders Roslund - The Beast

He sat in the car for a little longer and then went into the woodland that began near the gate. He looked everywhere, checking all the surrounding area until he was convinced that Lund wasn’t anywhere around, watching the school. Next he went on to The Wood, a nursery school a few kilometres away and closer to the centre of town, listening to the radio news as he drove. The top item was the aeroplane accident near Moscow, one hundred and sixteen fatalities probably due to a technical malfunction in a poorly maintained Russian plane.

After that, most of the time was spent on Marie and the murder hunt. There was an interview with the prosecutor who was leading the investigation, but he had nothing much to add. The older of the two policemen from the cemetery told the reporter rather loudly to get lost. The last part was an interview with a forensic psychiatrist, who had examined Lund several times in the past. He warned of what he called Lund’s obsessional need to repeat his behaviours; the man was under constant internal pressure, which could only be relieved by acting out violent fantasies.

Fredrik pulled up near The Wood. Checked, and drove on to The Park and The Stream.

Everywhere, security guards and police cars.

Bernt Lund wasn’t at any of these schools. Probably hadn’t gone back to any of them.

Fredrik left Strängnäs on Road 55 to Enköping, driving quickly. Four addresses to go.

He glanced at the sack in the back seat.

He felt no hesitation.

Right was right.

At a stroke the treeless exercise yard became bearable. The rain had come sweeping in over Aspsås and for a few hours dozens of the half-naked inmates, wearing only the regulation blue shorts, ran up and down, roaring with joy at not having to narrow their eyes against harsh sunlight, cough in dust-laden air, sweat heavily even with the slightest move.

The second half of the interrupted football match had got under way, stake doubled, ten thousand big ones in the pot. Now it was full time and still a draw. The teams were stretched out behind the goals, now as then, but this time it rained and they turned their faces towards the sky and the coolness.

Dickybird was lying between Hilding and Skåne. Then he got up to lie further away and the others followed him.

‘Look, Skåne, you sad fucker, how could you be such a moron? Why go and fucking double, when the team doesn’t have the faintest? I mean, right from the start?’

Skåne shifted about, looked at Hilding for support but didn’t get any.

‘We haven’t lost, it’s a fucking draw. What’s your problem?’

‘We haven’t lost! You thick cunt! What have we got to show? Zero, that’s what. Who’s touched the ball this time round?’ Dickybird looked at his mates. ‘Nobody. True or false, eh? Has any of us done one fucking thing except chasing after the other lot? What’s it now? Fucking extra time! Right? So we can carry on chasing and they can carry on kicking the ball between them. You useless motherfucking loser!’

Hilding stared upwards at the falling rain. It was difficult to stay still, to keep his finger off his sore. He was restless because he was miles away; who cared about a shitty football match with a few thousand at stake, he was worrying about worse things. Now and again he glanced at Skåne and tried to catch his attention. So far they were the only ones who knew and also knew Dickybird well enough to believe that he would murder that peddo.

Skåne had been off on his home leave, six hours starting at seven o’clock in the morning. Out in town alone, no screws. First move, off to borrow his brother’s car. Next, drive to Täby, and the two-bedroom flat of his own queen of hearts. They had a coffee first and then undressed each other, feeling almost shy after all this time. Afterwards, when he was lying close to her naked body, she had caressed his cheek and told him that she had waited for him, fantasised about him and longed for him, and realised that, the way she felt, she would put up with waiting for another four years. He had stayed with her longer than he had time for and then driven back to the centre much faster than he should have. He’d hit maddening queues where the main route to town joined the inner city streets, so he had parked the car near a hamburger stall and run to catch the bus to Fleming Street, then run again into the court building. The fucking scribbler behind the counter had taken his time, but he had got the indictment and shot away, run all the way to the car, and driven like crazy to Aspsås, where he rang the bell with seventeen minutes to spare.

Of course the indictment contained exactly what he had feared. When he turned up in the unit just before the football was due to start, he promised Dickybird he’d give an account of what he’d found out as soon as the final whistle had blown. Their premonitions were right: Axelsson had been convicted of possession of child pornography and had been one of the seven men in that weird paedophile network.

He had got hold of Hilding for a brief moment during the match and let him know the worst; he had got the drift all right and started scratching his fucking nose. If Dickybird got to know before they had got Axelsson out of the way there would be an execution and neither of them had the stomach for that; anyway, bloody murder was pointless, the only outcome was heightened security, endless hours of bang-up, constant visitations. The screws would be all over the place, turning cells upside down until they finally took on board that nobody would tell them one single useful thing.

Hilding got up and shook off the gravel sticking to his wet skin, irritating Dickybird.

‘Fuck’s sake, what’s your problem? There’s a game on.’

‘Off to the crappers. No play for a bit yet. I can’t fucking well dump out here.’

He walked towards the open door on one gable of the grey lump of a building, then ran to Axelsson’s cell. Empty. He checked the toilets, the showers, the kitchen. All empty. He kept scratching, his nose was bleeding now, and ran to the gym. Outside he hung back for a few seconds, glanced around, then went inside and looked first in the weight- training corner.

There he was, on his back on a bench with hands round a barbell raised above his chest. He was doing bench-presses and had just let the bar with eighty kilograms of discs down. Now he started pushing up again. Hilding watched. Axelsson breathed out and lowered the bar. In a few long strides Hilding was there before the bar went up again. He grabbed hold of it and, leaning on it with his whole weight, squashed it down across Axelsson’s throat.

‘Are you listening? I’m not doing this because I like you.’

Axelsson went red in the face, tried to kick him, but had a hard time drawing breath.

‘What are you fucking on about?’

Hilding screamed with anger and pushed the bar downwards.

‘Shut the fuck up, creep!’

Axelsson stopped trying to kick or resist, and Hilding reduced the pressure a little.

‘I’ve just heard from Skåne, he’s got your indictment! You filthy beast, you fuck little kids!’

Now Axelsson was really frightened. He couldn’t speak, but his eyes, Christ, he knew.

‘You’re a beast, but you’re in luck, because I don’t want no murders in the unit. Not worth it. Here’s your chance. I’ll wait for ten minutes before I tell Dickybird. When he gets to know, you’ll be bloody lucky if you leave this place in an ambulance.’

Axelsson’s red face went paler, almost white, and he was kicking wildly, trying to wrench free.

‘Why are you telling me?’

‘Pay attention. I don’t give a monkey’s for you. Just that, I don’t want a killing.’