Anders Roslund - The Beast

Bertolsson had picked up the accusation in Lennart’s eyes, but wanted to avoid trouble. Not another row, not again. He interrupted.

‘More coordination between wings, is that what you want?’

‘Yes, it is. Coordination outside the walls is a different matter. This is a jail. It’s an unreal place, the exception is the rule inside. Everyone here knows it. At least, ought to know it.’

Lennart kept his eyes fixed on Eva. Bertolsson hated conflicts, but that was too bad. No way would he be allowed to hide this problem out of sight.

‘If the wrong type from a normal unit comes across one of my lot, that’s it. End of story. Everything goes straight to hell, that’s well known. If a nonce gets killed, it’s applause all round.’

He pointed at Eva.

‘The old lag who stirred it yesterday was a case in point. He’s from your unit.’

Now they were both angry. Eva never took the coward’s way out, he had to admit that. She didn’t scare easily and now she was staring back at him. Ugly and stupid, but brave.

‘If you mean 0243 Lindgren, why not say it straight out?’

‘I mean Lindgren all right.’

‘Lindgren can be a bastard when he’s in the mood. The rest of the time he’s a model prisoner, calm and quiet. Does zilch in fact. Lies in his cell smoking handrolls, lets the hours pass, doesn’t read or watch the telly. He has served forty- two different sentences, and done a total of twenty-seven years inside. Look, he’s one of the few who still can speak the old prison lingo. He only stirs up trouble when somebody new turns up. Has to show who’s done most time, who knows the score. It’s all about hierarchy. Hierarchy and respect.’

‘Come off it. Yesterday he wasn’t trying to impress a newcomer. He would have killed my man if he hadn’t been spotted in time.’

The other officers were becoming restive. What was happening to the proper agenda? Bertolsson let this confrontation run on without comment. Maybe he found it interesting. Maybe he was too fed up to bother.

‘Let me finish,’ Eva went on. ‘Sex offenders are different, Lindgren goes wild at the sight of them. It’s something stronger than disgust. I’ve been through his file and found some reasons why he tries to kill them. For one thing, he was abused himself as a child. Many times.’

Lennart drained the last drop of sweet bubbly muck from the can. Caffeine. He knew perfectly well who Stig ‘Dickybird’ Lindgren was, no need to lecture him. Dickybird had been a dealer, mostly smalltime, in whatever came his way. By now he was so institutionalised that he was terrified every time he was released. He’d piss against the prison wall hoping that the gate staff would see him. If that didn’t do the trick he’d beat up the driver of the first likely bus into town, like the last time out. One way or another he’d be back inside within a few weeks, back to the only place where he felt at home, the only place where people cared enough to know his name.

Lennart told himself that he must stop eyeballing that silly frump. Look at Nils instead. But Nils kept his eyes down, scribbling away, no, he was doodling. How did he take this? Did he feel uneasy? Ashamed? Lennart knew that Nils didn’t care for the way he challenged Eva and had said so, asking him to leave it. Fuelling the general dislike of her just meant that they would never take any notice of the good work she often did. Admittedly.

Lennart knew that he wanted to talk to Nils about that bloody awful secret, their secret. And he waited to see if Nils would look up, just for a moment. I need your help now, Nils, look at me, what the fuck do we do next? I must tell Karin.

‘Did I hear you mention something about a prison language? You said Stig Lindgren could speak it.’

Månsson, the new recruit from Malmö, sounded interested. What was the man’s first name? Now he wanted to know more.

‘That’s right.’

‘Could you explain?’

Eva was pleased that the exchange with Lennart was over, and that she had the upper hand now. She was in charge. As she turned to Månsson, she smiled in the self-satisfied way she had, which fuelled the general dislike.

‘I suppose it’s natural that you wouldn’t know.’

This Månsson boy was new, but he had just learned something useful. Which was not to mess with her.

‘Sorry. Forget it.’

‘No, no. No problem. This prison-speak was used by the inmates all the time. It was a special communication, for cons only. By now it’s practically extinct. Only old lags like Lindgren know it. Men who’ve led their lives more inside than outside the walls.’

She felt good. Lennart had jumped on her, suggesting that she was ignorant of prison life. She’d shown everyone that she knew all right. What a loser, he’d been so stupid he reckoned he could muzzle her. Must have forgotten that she got the last word every time he tried it on.

Bertolsson had managed to start the overhead and an image showed on the screen. The agenda. He looked as relieved as he felt. This meeting had been about to run off the rails, but now he was back in control. He acknowledged the ironic applause from his colleagues.

Then a phone rang. It wasn’t his mobile. He had switched it off, as everyone should have done. The governor, already fed up, was close to blowing a fuse.

Lennart got up.

‘Sorry. It’s mine. Christ, I forgot all about it.’

A second ring. He didn’t recognise the number. A third. He shouldn’t answer. A fourth. He gave in.

‘Oscarsson here.’

Eight people were listening in. Not that it bothered him.

‘And?’ He sat down. ‘What the fuck are you saying?’

His voice had changed. It sounded screechy. Upset.

Nils, who knew him well, was instantly convinced that this was serious. He couldn’t remember Lennart ever sounding so alarmed.

‘Not him!’ A cry, in that high-pitched voice. ‘Not him! It can’t be! You heard me, it can’t be.’

His colleagues were very still. Lennart seemed close to a breakdown. He, who was always cool and collected. And now he was shaking.

‘Bloody fucking hell!’

Lennart ended the call. His face was flushed, he was breathing through his mouth. His dignity had gone. The room waited.

Lennart got up, took one step back, as if to take in the whole scene.

‘It was the man on the gate, that idiot Bergh. Told me we’ve got a runner. One of mine, on transfer to Southern General Hospital. Bernt Lund. He beat up both guards and went off in the van.’

Siw Malmqvist’s winsome voice was flooding the police station at Berg Street in Stockholm. At least, the corridor at the far end of the ground floor was awash, as it was every morning. The earlier it was, the louder the voice. It came from a huge, ancient cassette player, as big as any ghetto-blaster. The old plastic hulk had run the same tapes for thirty years, three popular compilations with Siw’s voice singing her songs in different combinations. This morning it was ‘My Mummy is Like Her Mummy’ followed by ‘No Place is as Good as Good Old Skåne’, A- and B-sides of the same 1968 Metronome single, with a black-and-white shot of Siw at a microphone stand, holding a broom and wearing a mini version of a cleaner’s overall.

Ewert Glens had been given his music machine for his twenty-fifth birthday and brought it to the office, putting it on the bookshelf. As time went by he changed office now and then, but always carried it to its new home, cradling it in his arms. He was Detective Chief Inspector now, still always the first in and never later than half past five in the morning; that meant he had two or three hours without any prats bothering him, invading his space in person or on the phone. Round about half past seven he would lower the volume; it caused a lot of bloody moaning from the useless crew pottering about outside. Still, he would always make them whinge for a while. They fucking well wouldn’t catch him turning the sound down unless someone asked first.