Anders Roslund - The Beast

‘What can I fucking do? I’m stuck where I am.’

Hilding pushed down again, just once more, and Axelsson coughed, fought for air.

‘Now listen. If you want to survive today, listen fucking hard.’

Axelsson nodded.

‘When I’ve left, you take your sick peddo body off to the screws’ office. Tell them that you want a transfer to segregation wing. Get that? Voluntary stay in seg. Say we’ve got your indictment and then they won’t argue. And not a fucking peep about who warned you. Is that clear?’

Axelsson nodded, this time eagerly. Hilding stood over him, pushing down on the bar. He laughed suddenly, twisted his face while he sucked saliva into his mouth, then moved until his lips were over Axelsson’s face so he could let the blob of spit fall straight down.

Ewert Grens didn’t want to go home. Ever since learning that Lund had escaped, he hadn’t left his office until late. He always stayed on when something out of the ordinary had happened.

But he felt tired now; the years were catching up with him, that was for sure. Soon he would be sixty, an ageing, greying man. Running for the bus was harder, his body moved less easily, his arms didn’t strike as hard, but still that bloody awful compulsion lurked inside him; if anything it was getting stronger, propelling him forward regardless how many fucking months of life it deprived him of. He had to find answers that made sense, were coherent and meaningful. The answer usually meant that some crazed bastard got locked away.

Still a driven pro, but he caught himself speculating now and then about how he would cope with being pensioned off. The odds were that he would die. He was his job. Being respected as Detective Chief Inspector Grens was satisfying, but poor compensation compared to the threatening loneliness soon to come, chiefly self-imposed but all the more ugly because of it. He was nobody’s father, or grandad, or even son, not any more.

Instead of going home that evening, he wandered the corridors, played some of Siw’s songs and, towards midnight, fell asleep in one of the visitor’s chairs. After four or five hours of fitful sleep, the light woke him. He felt fine, ready to push hard again. First, while the air was fresh, he’d go for a short walk in the small park nearby, the park with no name.

He was setting out when someone called his name. Sven came hurrying along, his thin face flushed with tension.

‘You look stressed.’

‘I am stressed. Something else has turned up.’

Ewert pointed in the general direction of the exit.

‘I’m off for a walk, need some fresh air. Come along if you want to tell me something.’

Ewert walked as slowly as usual and Sven impatiently shortened his stride, while he was thinking about the right way to begin his story.

‘So there’s a problem?’

‘Look, I did what we agreed I’d do,’ Sven said, hesitating before starting up again. ‘I followed up Ågestam’s taxi idea. I phoned round and got the answers we need from a company called Enköping Taxis.’

Ewert breathed in deeply. Rarely had city centre air felt so good.

‘I’ll be buggered. Tell me more.’

‘Here’s the snag. The woman I spoke to was on the ball, knew everything about the company and so on. Then she said she didn’t understand why I’d called again about the same thing. After all, she had replied to my questions that morning.’

They had reached the tiny park round the corner, just a lawn, a few trees and a playground, but tempting with shade and greenery.

‘What’s this? Had you called?’

‘Listen. Ågestam was right. The Enköping woman confirms that Lund had eight school bookings. She gave me the addresses, four in Enköping and four in Strängnäs. The Dove was one of them.’

Ewert stopped.

‘Christ almighty!’

‘I’ve been in touch with Securitas and the local stations, and told them to intensify the surveillance at the eight addresses.’

‘Anyway, now we know. The sick bastard won’t be able to stop himself. He’ll be there.’

Ewert started walking again, then stopped in mid-step.

‘So what’s this about you phoning twice?’

‘I didn’t. Apparently someone calling himself Sven Sundkvist did call and asked the same questions about Lund’s school bookings. Someone who’d worked out the connection and wants to get Lund, but not to hand him over to the lawyers. Presumably.’

They walked on in silence for a bit. Sven was obviously still full of things to tell him, but Ewert wanted his bit of peace first and kept whistling ‘ Girls in the Back of the Car’ loudly and out of tune. He sensed the elements of the case were jelling; Lund must be getting desperate and time was passing and that weakened hunted men, he knew. He had lived with these sick bastards for so long, had met them, known them. He knew so much.

They sat down on the bench by the playground sandpit, where three toddlers were playing.

‘OK, Sven. Give me the full story.’

‘The media have focused on Ewert Grens. You’ve done the interviews. I haven’t been part of the picture for most people outside the force. A few officials or technicians have met me, but apart from people like that, only Marie Steffansson’s friends and relatives fit the bill and they’re the only ones with a motive. I started by checking out the father, and stopped with him.’

Ewert nodded and waved his hand impatiently.

‘I’ve spoken to Fredrik Steffansson’s partner, Micaela

Zwarts. She hasn’t seen Fredrik since the funeral. Naturally she’s worried, she knows that he has been in very bad shape and isn’t likely to get any better because he hasn’t allowed himself to mourn. Just kept himself to himself. She feels no one can reach him. He came home yesterday morning and left a note for her, basically saying “Back soon”. That was all.’

He caught his breath. Ewert flapped his hand again.

‘Right. OK. Next I phoned Marie’s mother, Agnes Steffansson. The call was switched to her mobile, because she was in Strängnäs to collect Marie’s things from The Dove. She is distracted with grief, but sensible and quick on the uptake. She confirmed everything Zwarts said. Apparently Fredrik phoned her a couple of times and she thought it was just about trying to stay in touch. My call got her worried. Then she suddenly broke off, saying she had to check something and would call me back. Twenty minutes later she did. She explained that she’d driven across town to her deceased father’s old flat. Fredrik had asked her about some of her father’s possessions, which had been left bundled up in the attic.’

Sven cleared his throat, he was upset and had a hard time organising what he had to say.

‘Her father’s hunting rifle had been kept there. It’s a biggie - a 30-06 Carl Gustav, powerful enough for elk hunting, good optics, with long-range laser sight. People will keep dangerous weapons in a fucking unlocked storeroom!’

Ewert waited. Sven delayed, as if his silence might stop bad things from happening.

‘By then she was very frightened, crying. The rifle had gone.’

Lars Ågestam felt sick. He had left his desk at the Crown Prosecution Service to go and lean over a basin in the toilet. Everything had looked so straightforward, so good. He had got the brief of his dreams. To top it all, his knowledge of the taxi business would help to catch Lund, and at the same time he had scored against that bitter old has-been of a policeman.

One call from Sven Sundkvist had ruined everything. Suddenly he was landed with a case of a father out to avenge the murder of his daughter.

It was only too easy to see what would happen next. For the media, and the public at large, the Marie story was about right versus wrong. The sexual violation and murder of a five-year-old girl had no shades of grey, no areas of doubt. But now there was this new player, a father distracted with grief and equipped with a gun good enough to hit a reasonably still human target at three hundred metres. The image of the mourning parent, that was something else. Ågestam knew that if he ended up prosecuting Marie’s father, he’d be regarded as spitting in the face of goodness itself. He would embody the nightmarish state executioner who acts regardless of the ordinary citizen. His big brief had become a noose round his own neck.