The Beast (24 page)

    After
a stroppy porter had made Fredrik wait for the statutory ten minutes, Vincent
came down to meet him.

    Through
the glass window into the corridor Fredrik could see that his old friend hadn't
changed; he was tall and dark and kind, with a personal charisma that made him
the type of man that women smiled at. They had been to journalism college
together, often gone out for drinks in the evening, at which point Vincent would
eye up the most delicious bird around and announce that he had to have her. He
always got his way; he'd go up to her, chat and smile and laugh and touch her
arm and her shoulders and then they'd suddenly leave together. He was like
that; it was easy to become fond of him and impossible to tell him to go jump
even when he deserved it.

    Vincent
made the porter open up.

    'Fredrik,
what are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?'

    'Five
o'clock.'

    'Quarter
past, actually.'

    They
were walking along a corridor without an end in sight. Blue lino, chalk-white
walls.

    'I'd
thought I'd get in touch,' Vincent went on. 'Not as a journalist, of course.
But I was afraid to… disturb you. I couldn't think what I could say, without it
sounding… wrong.'

    'We
buried Marie yesterday.'

    Fredrik
realised that he wasn't making it any easier for his old friend, that he was
helpless in the face of something he would never grasp.

    'Listen,
you don't have to say anything. I know you've thought about it and I appreciate
that. But honestly, just give it a miss. It's not what I need now.'

    The
endless corridor became another corridor.

    'What
do you need then? You know I'm always happy to see you, whatever the reason,
but you're looking so fucking grim. And why just now, early in the morning the
day after Marie's funeral?'

    They
went upstairs, then past the big newsroom.

    'I
need your help with something. You can do it, I know. And it's the only help I
need now.'

    Vincent
led the way into a room with desks in three of its corners.

    'The
newsroom is no good. You'd hate it. We broadcast stuff about Lund and you and
Marie and policemen all day long. They'd get frantically interested to see you
walk in. This is better and nobody comes here before eight o'clock.'

    He
wandered off to get them both a mug of coffee.

    'Here.
Drink this, you look like you need it.'

    They
drank some coffee in silence; a minute or so passed while they avoided each
other's eyes.

    'Listen,
we've plenty of time. I've asked the other editor to take over my bit for a
while. She is terrific, much better than me. All the viewer will notice is a
clear programming improvement.'

    Fredrik
reached out to pull a cigarette from a packet on another desk.

    'All
right if I take a fag?'

    'I
thought you stopped smoking ages ago.'

    'I've
just started again.' He extracted a cigarette, no filter, a foreign brand that
he didn't recognise.

    For a
moment they sat in a white mist of smoke.

    'Vincent,
do you remember the last time you helped me out?'

    'Sure
do. You were worried about Agnes.'

    'I
thought she was shagging that bloody awful economist. I was wrong. But it was
thanks to you that I got to know what kind of bloke he was.'

    'So,
what next?' Vincent waved a little irritably at the tobacco-smelling cloud and
Fredrik stubbed his cigarette out in his coffee mug.

    'More
of the same, please.'

    'Same
what?'

    'Personal
data. Absolutely anything you can find.'

    'And
who am I supposed to check?'

    Fredrik
pulled out a note from the inside pocket of his jacket.

    '640517-0350.'

    'Really?
And who's that?'

    'It's
Bernt Lund's ID number.'

    They
had argued afterwards. Their voices rose, the arguments crossed each other, but
it was a confrontation in which compassion won out. Now they were close to an
agreement.

    'It's
not that I'm breaking the law, because strictly speaking I'm not. But I am
trampling on what I believed our friendship to be, breaking its rules.'

    'Not
at all.'

    'How
can you say that? If I help you find personal data on the man who killed your
child, then I'm doing the one thing for you that I shouldn't.'

    'Only
this. It's all I need.'

    'You're
on a slippery slope, very much so.'

    'Stop
debating issues, for Christ's sake. Just help me.'

    Vincent
stood for a moment, to signal what he'd prefer to do. Then he sat down again
and switched on the nearest computer.

    'Now
what?'

    'What?'

    'What's
the fucking data you want?'

    'I
want everything. Everything you can find.'

    Incoming
e-mails were stacking on the screen, on top of the morning schedules. Vincent
moved the lot, found the right dialogue box, keyed in a name and a password, and
the database homepage flickered into life. A list of links to other databases.
Company Register, Trade and Trade Associations Register, Swedish Business
Information Service, Automobile Register, Address Register, Property Register.

    'The
number. You had it, his ID number.'

    '640517-0350.'

    The
screen flickered. It was a hit.

    'Let's
go. You want to know where he has stayed?'

    The
morning sun had reached the glazed wall of the office. The still air grew warm.

    'Is
it OK to open the window? It's getting hard to breathe.'

    'Go
ahead.'

    Fredrik
rose and opened two of the windows wide. He hadn't realised how the
light-coloured suit had made him sweat. He breathed in deeply, once, twice.
Vincent's arm went up in the air.

    'Bernt
Asmodeus Lund. The last entry is a care-of address.'

    'And?'

    'Care
of Håkan Axelsson, Skeppar Street 12. Somewhere in Östermalm. But it's from
quite a few years ago; presumably Lund has been kept locked up since then.
Otherwise, nothing. Skeppar Street is the last on record.'

    Fredrik
stood behind Vincent now, his back still aching from sleeping jammed into the
car. The fresh air felt good, though.

    'What
about earlier addresses?'

    'There
are two. First, going back in time, Kung Street 3, in Enköping, and before
that, Nelson Lane, Piteå.'

    'Is
that all?'

    'Everything
that's recorded here. If you want older addresses still, you've got to contact
the tax office in Piteå.'

    'Fine,
that's enough for now. But there must be more facts. I want all the facts.'

    Fredrik
kept his place behind Vincent for nearly an hour, making notes on the flimsy
in-house stationery. He had found a pad on the desk with the packet of
cigarettes.

    Bernt
Lund had been registered as the owner of a property in Vetlanda, a block of
flats in a remarkably high taxation band at an address in the outskirts of the
small town.

    The
business transaction data included a long list of unpaid debts. His Inland Revenue
account was in the red and he had failed to pay his state education loans.
Several attempts to recover his assets had been made and failed.

    His
driving licence had been suspended.

    He
was a partner in two sleeping limited companies trading in trust holdings.

    He
had held four posts on sports clubs' steering committees.

    On
the whole, Lund's life outside was hard to follow, because he had moved around
a lot, always trailing financial complications. Now and then he had obviously
attempted to organise relationships with others. As Fredrik took notes, he
sought to understand what it was he needed, tried to read the reality he could
not reach.

    Vincent
turned and looked at his old friend.

    'I
wish you'd skip this.'

    Fredrik
didn't answer, just clenched his jaw tight and stared back.

    'Fine.
Glare away. It doesn't change what I think.'

    Vincent
rose, took the two mugs and wandered off to the machine in the corridor outside.
Fredrik looked at his disappearing back for a moment. Then he picked up one of
the two phones and dialled her number.

    'Hi.
It's me.'

    He
had woken her.

    'Fredrik?'

    'Yes.'

    'Not
now. I took a sleeping tablet, I'm still too weary.'

    'Just
one thing, a question. When we cleared your dad's flat there were two sacks
full of stuff. Where did they go?'

    '
What's
this about?
'

    'I
simply want
to know.
'

    'I
don't have them. The sacks were left in the attic, back in Strängnäs.'

    Vincent
came back carrying the refilled mugs. Fredrik put the receiver down.

    'Agnes
- it wasn't easy.'

    'How
is she?'

    'Terrible.'

    Vincent
nodded, handed Fredrik a mug, drank some coffee himself.

    'Let's
do whatever has to be done; it's hotting up out there. A plane has come down
near Moscow.'

    He
started searching the Trade Register, essentially listings of small and
medium-sized businesses. Again the ID number was the magic key opening all
locks to a stranger's life.

    'B.
Lund Taxis.'

    'What?'
Fredrik had heard, but asked anyway.

    'It's
a cab firm, registered as B. Lund Taxis. It hasn't been deregistered.'

    Fredrik
came over to read for himself.

    'Look.
It was set up in 1994.'

    Fredrik
laughed, just a short bark.

    'Now
what?'

    'Nothing.'

    'You're
laughing at fucking nothing, are you? Remember who I am?'

    'Absolutely
nothing.' Fredrik laughed again.

    'Come
off it. You turn up here, just twenty-four hours after you buried your
daughter, still wearing your funeral suit, and you stand around having a
giggle. At nothing. Excuse me for asking. And shut up.'

    'Calm
down.'

    'Calm
down? That's so fucking great. Fantastic. Now what do you want? Business data?'