Anders Roslund - The Beast

There was Agnes, in the last row, across the aisle. Micaela had turned to look for a fraction too long and had been seen. They nodded politely at each other. It was strange, the way they had kept themselves to themselves. She had answered the phone a couple of times when Agnes called Marie, but all that meant was a brisk exchange of This is Agnes, I’d like to speak to Marie please and One moment,

I’ll get her, the sum total of knowing each other for three years.

Then she spotted the two policemen who had asked questions of everybody in and around the school that day. The older one with the limp was the boss. The younger one was nice and patient, he might be religious, free church probably. They had seen her and nodded, so she nodded back.

The room was almost full and she could hear protesting shouts from people outside, who realised they wouldn’t get in. Someone was booing at the guards, someone else was calling them ‘Fascist pigs’.

There was a door at the back of the dais, which she hadn’t noticed until it suddenly opened and the officials of the court filed in. The judge came first, a woman called van Balvas, followed by the magistrates, who all looked rather elderly, local politicians mostly, on their way out of active life. She had read about these people in the paper. There had been quite a lot about the prosecutor too, and she had seen him on the telly, such a puffed-up young man, somehow sounding like a precocious kid. He was maybe a couple of years older than herself, which made her feel very young. The defence lawyer was different, her manner as calm and in control as it had been when they had talked in her office.

Then Fredrik, last of all, flanked by two court officers.

They had made him wear a suit and tie, not like his usual style at all. How pale he was. He looked so frightened. He felt like she did. His eyes stayed fixed to the floor, avoiding the crowd in front of him.

Van Balvas (VB): Your full name, please.

Fredrik Steffansson (FS): Nils Fredrik Steffansson. VB: And your address?

FS: Hamngatan 28, Strängnäs.

VB: Are you aware of the reason why we are here today?

FS: What a weird question.

VB: I will ask you again. Do you understand why we are here today?

FS: Yes.

She smoked three cigarettes during the break in a sad- looking lobby with sombre oak-panelled walls and worn seating. One of the journalists spoke to her, he wanted to know how Fredrik was feeling and she explained that she had not been allowed to see him because she was only his partner. The journalist had offered her cigarettes of that strong kind without filters that people in southern Europe smoke. Just one ciggie made her feel dizzy. Fredrik detested her smoking and she hadn’t touched a cigarette for months.

Agnes had been standing alone a bit away, sipping mineral water. They both avoided eye contact; what was the point of seeking each other out? They had so little in common. They did not even share points of reference, except this, an experience complete in itself.

A young journalist with thinning hair and earphones was sitting on one of the wooden benches taking notes from a tape-recording. Next to him, an older reporter. One of the court artists was showing him a drawing of a moment she recognised from the hearing. There was Fredrik, making a gesture with his hand as the prosecutor held up a photo of the nursery school in Enköping, taken from the place where Fredrik had been when he shot that man.

Lars Ågestam (LÅ): Mr Steffansson, there is something I don’t understand. Why did you not inform the police officers, who were only a few hundred metres away, exactly in your line of sight?

FS: There was no time.

LÅ: No time?

FS: I knew that two guards couldn’t control Lund when he was a prisoner in chains. What chances had two policemen, half asleep anyway, against an unrestrained, armed Lund?

LÅ: So you didn’t even try to contact them?

FS: I couldn’t run the risk of him getting away. And maybe taking another girl with him. LÅ: But I still don’t understand. FS: Don’t you?

LÅ: Why did you have to murder Bernt Lund?

FS: What’s so fucking difficult about that?

VB: Mr Steffansson, sit down. And please refrain from swearing.

FS: Do you have a problem hearing what I say? The massed forces of law and order couldn’t treat Lund out of his madness or keep him safely locked up or catch him after he had murdered Marie. I don’t have to explain myself any more, surely?

VB: For the second time, Mr Steffansson, sit down. Perhaps your lawyer can help?

Kristina Björnsson (KB): Fredrik, calm down. If you want to state your case, you must be allowed to stay in here. FS: Could someone get rid of these two?

KB: If you remain seated and calm, the officers will sit down too.

Once only did their eyes meet. It was during the prosecutor’s first interrogation, which had started after the opening statements. Fredrik had become very angry, but they had made him sit down again and then he turned round, looking for her and Agnes, and he had tried to smile a little, she was sure he did. She had lifted her fingers to her lips to throw him a kiss. Her sense of loss seemed to solidify in her belly; she missed him so much and it was horrible to see him there in his suit and tie, white-faced, ready to be taken away.

LÅ: Mr Steffansson, I must remind you that Sweden, like very many other countries, has outlawed the death penalty.

FS: If the police had managed to catch him in the end the likely sentence would’ve been closed psychiatric care. It’s even easier to escape from institutions like that.

LÅ: Where does that take your argument?

FS: Obviously, putting Bernt Lund away inside, anywhere, means nothing more than delaying the inevitable. Sooner or later he is back on the run, ready to kill more children.

LÅ: And so it follows that you have the right to act as police, prosecutor, judge and executioner?

FS: You deliberately pretend not to understand me. You twist what I say.

LÅ: Not at all.

FS: I can only repeat what I’ve said before. I didn’t kill Lund because I personally wanted to punish him or get anything else out of it. I killed him because, for as long as he was alive, he was dangerous. It was like what people do with a mad dog.

LÅ: A mad dog?

FS: The reason for killing a rabid dog is that it is a risk to others. Bernt Lund was a rabid dog. I did what anyone might’ve done.

After every stage in the court proceedings she spent a long time waiting around, hoping that he would be escorted past her. She wanted to see him. They might even exchange a word or two. She tried different exits and entrances in turn, but saw neither him nor his guards.

After the first day, he stopped shaving and bothering with a tie. She felt that he cared less and less, that he was about to give up. Now and then they exchanged glances and she tried to look very calm and reassuring, as if she knew it would turn out all right in the end.

Agnes no longer came along.

A few journalists had dropped out, but one of the two policemen on the case was there every day. She spoke a little to Sundkvist and liked his mild-mannered style; he was much easier to relate to than most police.

Every day she drove back to Strängnäs and the home that belonged to them both. She had trouble sleeping at night.

He got out at his familiar metro station and strolled slowly home through the quiet suburban streets, humming a little to himself. It was that kind of evening, mild and warm and somehow long, as if the next day was far away.

The moment Lars Ågestam turned into his own street, he saw it. The car was eye-catching, the black lettering distinct against its shiny red surface.