The Beast (21 page)

    May
Rune stay with me?

    Of course.

    I
don't know…

    Please
try.

    I
mean, I don't know if I can do this.

    Try,
for the sake of the little girl.

    We
take a walk, every evening. If it doesn't rain too much.

    Here?

    Yes.

    Always
the same way?

    Often
a little different. The way. To make a change.

    What
about this way?

    It
was the first time, I think. Isn't that right, Rune?

    Let's
keep this between the two of us now. Just you and me.

    Well,
I didn't remember it from before.

    And why
did you walk just here?

    It
happened because we heard the helicopter.

    What
about the helicopter?

    I
didn't like it. Unpleasant, it was. And then that policeman with his dog. We
started to hurry and it seemed like a short cut.

    What
happened when you got here?

    Do
you have a paper tissue? Or a hanky?

    I'm
sorry. No.

    Forgive
me for bothering you.

    Please,
don't apologise.

    We
had been walking hand in hand. Then, by that fir tree, we let go.

    Why?

    It
was big, blocking our way. We had to walk round it, on opposite sides.

    What
happened next?

    I
thought it was a toadstool. A bright red thing. I kicked it, not hard.

    What
was it?

    A
shoe. I realised once I'd kicked it that it was a shoe.

    What
did you do?

    I
waited until Rune came along. I just knew something was wrong.

    How
do you mean that you just knew?

    Sometimes
you feel things. This time everything was upsetting. The helicopters, the
policeman and the dog. And then a shoe.

    Tell me
what you did. Exactly.

    I
took the shoe and showed it to Rune. I wanted him to see.

    And
then?

    Then
she was lying there.

    Where?

    On
the ground. Under the tree. And I could see that she was destroyed.

    Destroyed?

    That
she wasn't whole. I saw it and Rune did too. She had been destroyed.

    She
was lying on the ground, you say. Did you touch her?

    Why
should we? She was dead.

    I
have to ask you these things.

    I
can't cope any more now.

    Just
a few more questions.

    I can't.

    Did
you see anyone here?

    The
girl. She was lying there, looking at me. All destroyed.

    I
meant someone else. Someone except you and Rune?

    No.
We had seen that policeman. And his dog.

    No
one else?

    I
can't any more. Rune, tell him I can't.

    The
pathologist was looking in his plastic folder for a third sheet of paper, but
couldn't find it. He left the trolley to search for it on a shelf.

    'Here,'
he said. 'I've got something else for you that links this case with the past.'

    He
came back, pulled the cover into place and Sven could look again.

    'We
noted straight away that the soles of her feet were perfectly clean. The rest
of her body was torn and bloody and dirty. We investigated and found traces
of-'

    'Of
saliva? Am I right?'

    Errfors
nodded.

    'Yes,
you are. Saliva, just like last time.'

    Ewert
looked at her face. She wasn't there. Her body was, but she wasn't.

    'That's
Lund's idea of foreplay. Licking their feet. And their shoes.'

    'Not
this time.'

    'But
you just said…'

    'Not
foreplay, that is. He licked the soles of this girl's feet after death.'

    He
hadn't seen her for months. They had talked practically every day, but on the
phone and only about Marie, things like what time she got up that morning, what
she had for breakfast and what new words she had used. Had she played something
different, had she cried, laughed, lived? Every moment of her growth was stolen
from the parent Marie wasn't with and they compensated as best they could by
talking about her. Marie, and only Marie, brought them together without
bitterness or accusations or regret about love lost.

    Agnes'
beautiful face, he knew it, and he also knew what it looked like when she
cried; it swelled until her features blurred. He put his hand on her cheek; she
smiled, held him more tightly.

    A
policeman came to the door to let them in. It was one of the senior ones who
had come to The Dove, an older man with a slight limp.

    'How
do you do? I'm Detective Chief Inspector Ewert Grens. We met yesterday.'

    'Hello.
Fredrik Steffansson. I recognise you. This is Agnes Steffansson, Marie's
mother.'

    They
went down a flight of stairs and along a short hospital-type corridor. The
other policeman, the one who'd led the interrogations yesterday, was waiting in
a doorway, and behind him, a white-coated doctor with tired eyes.

    'Good
afternoon. We didn't get introduced yesterday. I'm Sven Sundkvist, Detective
Inspector. And this is Dr Ludvig Errfors from the Forensic Science Service. He
is responsible for Marie's autopsy. '

    Marie's
autopsy.

    The
phrase was a howled obscenity. It cut to the quick, was hateful, final.

    The
last twenty-four hours ached inside them, hours of hell hope hell hope hell.
Yesterday, sometime after midday, Fredrik had said goodbye to the human being
that they both lived and breathed for. Now, in a sterile forensic mortuary,
they were to look at her destroyed body and admit it was hers. They clung to
each other.

    Sometimes
people cling to each other until they break.

    Summer
was at a standstill.

    The
stagnant air was too heavy to breathe, but Sven didn't notice.

    He
was crying.

    He
had concentrated on hanging on; soon it would be over, soon air, soon life,
soon soon soon, he mustn't break down now as the two people in front of him had
done, two parents who had held on tightly to each other as they stood by the
mortuary trolley, nodding confirmation when they were shown her face. The
father had kissed his little girl's cheek and the mother had leaned over the
child's body and collapsed, her head resting on the cover, then they had both
wailed, screams that were unlike anything he had ever heard; these two had died
in front of his eyes. He had tried to fix his gaze somewhere else, on the wall
somewhere; soon he'd get away from here, from the trolley and this whole fucking
awful place, soon he'd be running upstairs towards air that was not heavy with
death.

    They
had been clutching each other when they left.

    He
had been running, corridor, stairs, door, crying as if he would never stop.

    Ewert
left too. Walking past Sven, he patted the younger man's shoulder.

    'I'll
be in the car. Take your time, take all the time you need.'

    How
much time had passed? Ten minutes? Twenty? He had no idea. He had wept until he
felt empty, until no more tears came. He wept with them and for them, as if
they did not have enough room for the grief, as if their sadness had to be
shared out.

    When
he climbed into the car Ewert touched his cheek lightly.

    'I've
been sitting here listening to the piss-poor radio. News on every fucking
channel and they're pumping out stuff about Bernt Lund and the murder of Marie.
They've got what they needed, a summer murder, and from now on they'll be
snapping at our heels all day long.'

    Sven
had put his hands on the steering wheel. Now he gestured at it, then at Ewert.

    'What
about you driving?'

    'Nope.'

    'Only
just now, for a while. I don't feel up to it.'

    'I'll
wait until you're ready to start the engine. We're in no more hurry than that.'

    Sven
sat back. A minute or two passed. The radio changed from one pop hit that
sounded identical to all the rest of them, and started on another one just the
same.

    Sven
turned to look at the rear window shelf.

    'Do
you fancy some cake?'

    He
reached for his bags, first the birthday gateau, then the wine, and put the
would-be feast in his lap.

    'Princess
Gateau. Jonas said it was his favourite. Two roses on top, one for me and one
for him.'

    He
opened the box and sniffed tentatively.

    'Christ,
it's off. Twenty-four hours in this heat. It's far gone.'

    Ewert
shuddered at the sudden wave of rancid smell, made a disgusted face and pushed
the whole carton as far away as possible. Then he started fiddling with the
radio dial. The mantra was the same, in newscast after newscast.

    Little
Girl Murdered. Escaped Sex Killer. Bernt Lund. Aspsås Prison. Police Hunt. The
Grief. The Fear.

    'I
can't bear listening to this shit any more. Can't stand having it shoved down
my throat. Turn it off, please, Ewert.'

    Sven
checked the label on one of the bottles, nodded and unscrewed the top.

    'I
reckon I need some.'

    He
swallowed a mouthful. Another one. And another.

    'Ewert,
listen. Yesterday was my fortieth birthday. Celebration time. So I drive to
Strängnäs to interview an elderly lady who's found the body of a murdered
little girl under a tree. Then, as a follow-up, I come here to look at the girl
and to be told that she's got semen in her anus and a sharp object jammed into
her vagina. I watch her parents go to pieces as they see their daughter for the
last time. Now I can't get my mind round this. Not any of it. I want to go
home.'

    'Time
to get going.'

    Ewert
took the bottle, then reached out for the top. Sven handed it to him and he
screwed it on.

    'Sven,
you're not the only one. We all feel it. Frustration, alienation. But what's
the point of that? We've got to get him. That's what we're meant to do. Get
him, before he strikes again.'

    Sven
started the engine and reversed gingerly out of the parking lot. The forensic
building was next to Karolinska, the main Stockholm hospital, and everyone had
parked capital- city-style, cramming the cars as tightly as they would go.