Anders Roslund - The Beast

‘I don’t get this. It wasn’t his kid who was done, right?’

‘No. But it could’ve been. That matters for Dicky.’

‘Give over.’

‘That’s how he thinks. He’s got this photo of her. He had it blown up and put it up on the wall, it’s like a fucking big poster.’

Jochum threw his head back and laughed, a drunk’s wild laugh.

‘The tink has fucking lost it, no question. There he is, head stuffed fit to burst with what might’ve happened but didn’t and can’t any more ’cause the nonce is a goner, he’s been shot to bits. The guy is dreaming, must be in worse shape than I thought. He needs a shot of your brew, more than anyone.’

Hilding stiffened, scared again.

‘Fuck’s sake! Don’t tell him!’

‘What?’

‘About us having a drink.’

‘Scared of the Diddler, are you?’

‘Just take it easy. Don’t tell him.’

Jochum laughed again and gave Hilding the finger. Then he turned back to the set.

More reports about the nonce killing.

The prosecutor, a dead correct-looking bugger with a blond fringe; they had squeezed him up against a wall in the court stairwell and stuck a microphone in his face.

Just the type, a climber, no experience. He needed shaking up a bit.

Lars Ågestam did not quite grasp the full implications of it all until he had seen Fredrik Steffansson in the interrogation room.

At first the case had seemed a gift from the good fairy. Then the fairy shape-changed into an evil witch, the case came to involve a grieving parent and his just anger, and Ågestam had thrown up in the CPS office toilet from utter dread.

But once Steffansson was arrested, the prosecutor had ceased to be simply someone about to become a has-been, as far as his legal career went.

Now his situation was far worse.

Worse because of his constant fear, a fear that meant he could not cross the street without looking over his shoulder. A fear of death.

In court, he entered a plea that Steffansson should be kept in custody until his trial, on the basis that he was someone ‘on sufficient grounds suspected of murder’. For the defence Kristina Björnsson, his opponent in the Axelsson case, argued that custody was not required, since her plea was that Steffansson had acted with ‘reasonable force’. Expanding on this, she claimed that if freed, Steffansson would not represent any danger to the public, nor act so as to complicate the investigation, nor defect prior to the trial. Björnsson’s conclusion was that her client should be ordered to report daily to the police in Eskilstuna.

Van Balvas, the sitting judge, took only a minute or two to decide that Fredrik Steffansson was indeed suspected of murder on sufficient grounds and should therefore remain in custody until tried. The date of the trial would be determined presently.

She rapped the desk with her gavel. Then all hell broke loose.

First, the crowd inside, near the front door. They wielded microphones and pushed him up against the wall of the stairwell.

Steffansson has become a popular hero.

Has he?

He saved the lives of two little girls.

So far, we have no proof of this.

Bernt Lund had their photos.

Steffansson is accused of having murdered somebody.

Lund knew the girls’ names. He kept watch on their nursery school.

Allegedly, Steffansson has committed murder. If that is so, his act must be my chief concern.

In your opinion, should someone who has prevented the death of innocent citizens be rewarded by a long prison sentence?

No comment. Your question is out of order.

In your opinion, did Steffansson do the right thing?

Bringing about someone’s death can never be the right thing.

Why?

If it is proven that we have a case of premeditated murder, there is no option in law.

Is that so?

Premeditated murder must be judged for what it is.

A lifetime prison sentence, then?

The most severe punishment available in law must be considered.

You would prefer that the two little girls had been violated and killed, would you?

What I’m saying is that there is no exemption for grieving dads who commit murder.

Do you have any children?

Afterwards, he confronted the rest of them. The public. People had watched, listened, read. Now they shouted at him, threatened him, phoned him to say vile things. Every time he put the receiver down the phone rang again, demanded more of him.

You’re a shit. Establishment lackey.

I’m only doing my job.

Fucking tin soldier. Paragraph-crazy bureaucrat.

If someone is suspected of breaking the law, it is my duty to prosecute that person.

You’re a dead man if you go for that dad.

What you just said is intimidation and against the law.

DIE!

Intimidation is a punishable offence.

We’ll kill your family, one by one.

He was frightened. All this was for real. The menacing callers were mad, of course, but also representative of a wider public hatred. And they meant what they said. This was serious.

He went off in search of Ewert Grens.

Their last talk, when he had exposed his worries about the prosecution, should have changed things, opened doors to a new understanding. Or so he had hoped. Not at all; the old boy was just as difficult, just as unapproachable. In fact, he received the news that Ågestam was scared by threats to himself and his family with a broad grin. The young prosecutor was close to tears, he didn’t want to be, not here of all fucking places, but Grens pretended he hadn’t noticed. Instead he said that threats were par for the course, something a tough prosecutor had to expect, and when there was something more concrete than voices on the phone to report, he was welcome back.

Lars slammed the door behind him when he left.

A slow walk back through the hot, stale city air. He had been passing concentrated, dark-yellow urine for days; he supposed it was because the heat and humidity made him sweat so much. Stopping at a newsagent’s for a bottle of mineral water and a copy of the big morning paper, he saw that his picture was on the front page, under the headline Prosecutor insists: life for popular hero.

Everyone stared at him, even the tourists; he met droves of them, dripping with cameras and camcorders and whatever.

He walked as fast as he could, quick march all the way to the CPS office.

He stepped into his room and the phone rang.

He just looked at it. It rang eight more times.

He focused on the police investigation documents, read and reread, until the ringing stopped.

Bengt Söderlund went over the story about Baxter again, how the dog had been nailed to the spot all day, all evening and through the night until the following morning, when he obeyed his master’s command to leave. They had heard all this twice before, Elisabeth who didn’t want to hear at all, Ove and Helena, who had seen it from the beginning, Ola Gunnarsson and Klas Rilke, who laughed louder every time. The same thing had happened in school, when someone had found out something new about a teacher, maybe a smart nickname, and they kept having hysterics about it all through upper school; or in the men’s locker room at the Tallbacka Sports Club, when they fixed boot-studs and put on embrocation for aching muscles, going over and over the time the opponents’ fat, useless goalie had been kicked in the balls.