The Beast

by Anders Roslund

  'It's quite spooky, you know. I dealt with the victims in the Skarpholm case, then with the Steffansson girl, and here I am doing the PM on their killer.'

  Ewert slapped the dead man's leg lightly.

  'This monster was bound to end up here. But you feel sure he did it this time?'

  'As I said last week, the MO was as good as identical with the Skarpholm case. Gross violation. I've been doing this job for longer than they advise anyone should, and I must say, I haven't seen anything like it. Not towards a child.'

  'But you'll get your conclusive proof,' he went on, pointing at the body. 'In time for the trial we'll have checked the DNA in a semen sample and compared it with samples taken from the victims' bodies. You and the judges and so forth will get the data, in black and white.'

  'The prosecutor lad is going for life. For Steffansson.' Ewert paused, looked at the surprised faces. 'Oh, yes. Trying to grow into his posh suit.'

  Errfors pushed the trolley into the circle of strong light, then remembered about Sven.

  'I believe you took it a bit badly last time,' he said with a kind smile. 'This body is rather mauled, so maybe you'd better look away for a moment.'

  After registering a quick nod from Ewert, Sven turned away.

  'Obviously, the face is well and truly gone,' Errfors was saying. 'One of Steffansson's bullets hit the forehead, with explosive effect. The teeth were reasonably intact, so we could identify him from his dental record.'

  He adjusted the light to illuminate the lower torso.

  'The other bullet hit his hip. It seems to have been the first shot. The pelvic bone is partly shattered. The bullet went straight through the body, here. The two impact wounds fit with what the witnesses said about having heard two bangs. That's it. We've finished now.'

  Sven turned back to the shrouded body. He remembered Lund's face. What was the point of being Lund, of living with such sickness? If you must destroy your own species, do you still have the right to be counted as a human being? In this building, prompted by the presence of all the lifeless bodies, Sven felt unable to escape these apparently unanswerable questions.

  They got ready to leave.

  'Before you go, I think you'd want to see these. I kept them for you. Here. I found them on Lund's body when I undressed it.'

  A handgun. A knife. Two photographs. A hand-written note.

  'The gun, you'll be able to check it out, was in a holster strapped to his lower leg. The knife was also in a strap-on holster, on his forearm this time. By the way, this type of knife is new to me. The edge is exceptionally sharp.'

  Ewert took charge of the plastic bags with the weapons. So Lund had been armed, prepared to defend himself.

  'Fancy that young idiot going for life. Banging up someone who rid the land of an armed crazy, out hunting little girls.'

  Sven took the bags with the photos and piece of paper. He looked at them under the light and was still staring at the amateurish images when he started to speak.

  'New photos, these. Little girls, same ones on both pics. Photographed outside the nursery school where Lund was lurking when he got shot. Seems that the girls went to that school. We'll confirm it of course, but it's likely.'

  Ewert wanted to see.

  'Christ, look at this. Lund must've made a note of their names. It looks like he wanted two victims this time too.'

  He looked at the photographs once more. Two little girls, about the same age as Marie Steffansson, blonde hair bleached by the summer sun, sitting on the edge of a sandpit, smiling towards life. He cackled, as he had when speaking to Ågestam earlier that day.

  'What have we got here? Proof that Steffansson saved the lives of two children by killing Lund. It's thanks to the accused that two sweet six-year-olds can still smile today.'

  Then he did the weird thing that Sven had observed before, slapped the body on the trolley, pinched it and shook it a bit, mumbling inaudibly with his head turned away.

  * * *

  Bengt Söderlund and his family were spending the summer holidays at home for the fifth year running. Once they'd tried Gotland, the lovely island everyone talked about, but never again. Hiring the cottage was expensive, it rained all the time, there was nothing to do and the week they had paid for seemed endless. The following year they hired a cottage in Ystad on the south coast instead, but the whole place was windy and dead flat. They travelled around a bit but Osterlen looked just the same, so that was that, no need to go back for more. Two years in a caravan, but what with gridlocked roads and kids who wouldn't go to sleep that was a wash-out, and then, to cap it all, that stay on Rhodes in a nightmare heatwave lasting the entire fortnight, well, thanks, but no thanks. They had figured a city break in Stockholm might be a good idea, but even that was a disappointment; the place was packed with crazed townies, the types who walk up escalators.

  They had agreed that enough was enough. Staying at home meant Bengt could keep an eye on the business. It was good for family life too. They could take the kids swimming in the lake, go for walks in peace, even get some sex in peace when the girls were away on sleepovers with their friends. And they could see more of their own friends, drink coffee in the garden, have folks round for supper once in a while.

  Bengt and Elisabeth were drinking morning coffee when Ove and Helena came strolling past their open kitchen window. They waved. Come in! Time for elevenses, coffee and cinnamon rolls, two each. Ove and Helena were easy to get on with. Almost ten years ago now, things had become tense for a while, just a silly episode at a party when Ove and Elisabeth had ended up doing rather more than holding hands. The coolness between the couples lasted until it dawned on everyone that Tallbacka was too small to hide in. They had a shouting match, it cleared the air and afterwards they tacitly agreed to bury the whole affair. Both Ove and Elisabeth had had a bit too much to drink, but it had been a harmless fling; neither had had the slightest intention of ruining their marriages.

  Ove had brought a morning paper and over the coffee and buns the four of them started talking about the case that dominated that national news. Now that the Russian plane accident had been sorted, the headlines were all about the paedophile who had killed a little girl, and the dad who then shot his daughter's killer. They could all engage with this; the girl and the dad were part of every family in the land.

  In fact, since the first reports of the crime, they had talked about this story whenever they'd met. All, that is, except Elisabeth. She fell silent every time, and when they asked her why, she said they were getting far too excited and far too angry and it was no good. They tried to persuade her, but when she still would have none of it, they carried on regardless. Getting excited was no crime, and if she wasn't interested, too bad.

  Now it was all cosy and familiar.

  Bengt poured the coffee, dark-roast, its scent filling the kitchen. There was real cream with it, and the buns of course, saved since yesterday to give them the dry, crispy crust that made them especially nice to dunk in coffee.

  Then he pointed at the passport photo of Fredrik Steffansson that the papers had used since his arrest.

  'That guy. I'd have done the same. Wouldn't have thought twice.'

  Ove soaked a piece of bun in his mug.

  'Me too. You know, if you've girls in the house that's it, you've to think like he did.'

  Bengt examined the page in the paper closely.

  'But I wouldn't have done it just because of what he said, you know, because he was thinking of other kids. I would've done it for me. To get my own back.'

  He looked at the people round the table to gauge their reactions. Both Ove and Helena nodded. Elisabeth stuck her tongue out.

  'Are you crazy? What's that for?'

  'I'm fed up with you lot. All you ever do is jabber on and on, morning, noon and night. Flasher-Göran, paedophiles, always the same stuff. Every time we meet. Hate, hate, hate.'

  'Bugger off then. You don't have to stay.'

  'I mean, listen to you! It's just crap. Re
venge for what? All Göran ever did was stand naked next to the flagpole. He didn't touch anyone. What's the harm in that?' Elisabeth breathed out in a sob, and after clearing her throat to steady her voice, her eyes were still shining with tears. 'I don't seem to know you any more. You sit in my kitchen pretending to care, but you're just spoiling for a fight. I've had enough! You're pathetic!'

  Helena put her mug down and grasped Elisabeth's hand.

  'Hey, Elisabeth. Calm down.'

  Defiantly, Elisabeth pulled her hand away.

  'Let her piss off if that's what she wants. She must like them, the paedophiles. Eh? Is that it?' Bengt raised his voice and turned to his wife. 'I've worked my whole life, slaved like a fucking dog. And the society I live in locks up someone who's saved children's lives! But I don't deserve any better. Is that how you see it?'

  He turned to the window and spat. And heard a door open.

  He knew just which door.

  'Fuck's sake. That's him, that sodding pervert. He's going out.'

  Flasher-Göran was locking his front door. Bengt looked round at Elisabeth.

  'Pathetic? Wasn't that what you said?'

  Then he stuck his head out through the window.

  'You deaf or something?' he roared. 'I don't want to see you. Stay inside. Filthy swine!'

  Göran looked towards the familiar voice, and continued walking down the gravel path to the gate. Bengt snapped his fingers, twice.

  His Rottweiler came padding along obediently.

  'Baxter. Come.'

  The dog ran up to the window to stand by his master. Bengt grabbed its collar, held it, then let go with a sudden command.

  'Baxter! Go! Get him!'

  The big dog leapt out through the window, ran across the lawn and jumped the fence to the garden next door, barking loudly as it went. Göran heard it and realised what was happening. His heart started thumping with fear. He ran. The garden shed was the nearest safe place. His stomach was out of order, he couldn't control it, he shat himself, ran the last bit with faeces trickling down his legs, grabbed the door handle, got inside, pulled the door shut. The dog threw itself against the door, barking excitedly.

  Bengt was watching from the window, Helena and Ove at his side. He was almost hysterical, applauding his dog and shouting to it.

  'Good dog! Well done, Baxter! The peddo is where he belongs. Baxter! Watch!'

  The dog stopped barking, sat down and fixed its eyes on the door handle.

  Bengt, laughing now, clapped his hands for a little longer. Then he turned away from the window and caught the look in Elisabeth's eyes, saw how much she despised him. She shook her head slightly at him.

  He suddenly realised that she was ugly, old and ugly, with her sneering face and flabby tits.

  She could never make him want her, long for her again, not any more.

  * * *

  The cool release brought by the rain seemed a distant memory now. The heat was back. It was more obvious in the prison, where the high perimeter wall trapped the air over the flat expanse of the gravel yard. Hilding had gone out for a walk, wearing a pair of shorts and nothing on the bony upper half of his body. No one else was around. He was worried. Dickybird would soon discover it, he'd know who'd done it, and that it was his closest friend and ally would mean zilch. Hilding would be worked over. He expected it. If you nick from your mate you get hammered, simple as that. And he had nicked something important.

  He had got Axelsson out of harm's way. The peddo had got the message, crawled off to the screws and licked arse. They saw his point right enough and tucked the fucking nonce away in seg wing. Sure enough, Dickybird had lost it when he heard; he figured the beast had been warned off, but couldn't be sure. Above all, he couldn't be sure who'd done it. He went berserk, screaming and kicking at the wall. Still, he had calmed down afterwards. He even agreed to a couple of games and magically got two tens of diamonds in one of the rounds.

  Hilding scratched his sore and kept walking, from one pair of goal posts to the other. He counted each round. Sixty-seven so far. Thirty-three left.

  He shouldn't have gone and smoked all the shit. But what the fuck, the Axelsson business had taken it out of him, he'd had it by then. He had earned just a small one, like a prize, kind of. Alone in the shower-room, he got the resin out and rolled himself one. It had been as fucking bloody marvellous as last time, his body felt all relaxed, he smoked another small one and then, somehow, the rest went the same way. It felt brilliant. But that night he suddenly realised that this time he was really asking for it. Afterwards he stayed awake, waiting for the morning and the beating that would come. Except it didn't.

  Two days ago that was. Soon he'd attack. Hilding waited and scratched.

  One more round. The hundredth.

  Sweat was pouring off him. Maybe he should do another hundred. It was almost like getting high, this steady walking in the hot sun. His thoughts flowed slowly and easily. He decided to keep going until someone else came outside.

  After one hundred and fifty-seven goes, the Russian turned up with a ball under his arm. Hilding went to take a cold shower; the water burned in his sore. Then he put on clean kit, pants, socks and shorts, and started walking in the corridor, driven by his anxiety. Three hundred times he passed the cells, reached the pool table and turned back. Everything was quiet, apart from the telly. It was on, as usual. The news was about the murder of the little girl and then about Lund. He forced himself to listen to distract himself from his growing fear.

  He hadn't been in such a state for years, ever since he came under Dickybird's protection. But now he was the one who'd screwed up. He had to do something different, blow his mind. Must.

  He knocked on the door to Jochum's cell, first once, then again when there was no reply. Jochum opened up. He had been asleep, it showed.

  'What the fuck?'

  'I'm Hilding.'

  'So what? Beat it.'

  'Just wondered if you were thirsty.'

  He had made up his mind. He had to do it, anything to get rid of that piss-awful ache inside him. So it meant more stealing. It would help if Jochum came along. Dickybird had too much respect to mess with him.

  Jochum came outside.

  'Where is it?'

  'Come. I'll show you.'

  Jochum went back inside his cell, then came out again wearing a pair of slippers. He closed the cell door behind him.

  That sod never left the door open. No one ever caught as much as a glimpse inside his cell. Hilding led the way along the route he had just walked three hundred times, past the kitchen, the shower-room, the pool corner.

  Fixed to the corridor wall was a fire-fighting contraption, a pipe made of red-painted metal attached to a black hose. The instructions for use ran into too many words to take in, especially with flames raging around you. Hilding looked around. No screws. He produced a toothbrush mug from the pocket of his shorts and unscrewed the stopper on the pipe.

  'Try this. Plain fucking water, a loaf and some apples.' He filled the mug. The brew smelled bad; he almost retched. 'This stuff is rotgut. Tastes like shit! But what the fuck!' He swallowed the murky fluid. 'It kicks. Just don't fucking taste it!'

  He filled the mug again and handed it to Jochum.

  'It's been settling for almost four weeks. It's clearing. And must be ten per cent, easily.'

  Jochum swallowed, gagged, held out the mug.

  'Another one.'

  They got through five mugs each. Warmth began to spread through their bodies, and calm; the alcohol was reaching their souls.

  They used to brew in the bucket at the back of the cleaners' cupboard, but doing it in the emptied fire-gadget was better, it was a closed container and easier to get at. The loaf was for alcohol, and the fruit helped the taste a bit.

  'Screw coming!'

  Skåne had been on the alert this time, warning everyone. It was rare for them to turn up in the unit so suddenly. Hilding put the stopper in place and they wandered off; they met a screw on the wa
y, he looked hard at them but didn't stop them.

  Hilding and Jochum, nicely pissed now, went along to sit on the sofa, united for a while by booze; no one says no to a drink with a mate.

  The TV news was still chewing over the Lund murder; the whole unit had followed the hunt and by now most people had had enough. The kid's dad had blown the head off the fucking nonce, showing the beasts what the score was. Hilding and Jochum took no notice of the flow of words and images, just sat back feeling relaxed.

  'Where's that tinker mate of yours anyway? I haven't seen him for days.'

  'Dickybird?'

  'Yeah. The Diddler.'