The Beast (25 page)

    'That's
enough.'

    'Collaterals?
Registration numbers?'

    'Nothing
more. It's fine.'

    It
was raining.

    The
last three weeks had been dry, but now, suddenly, he felt drops hit his
forehead. He took shelter in the car and started the windscreen wipers, but after
a little while the shower was over. Getting out of town was easy this early on
a Saturday morning and he drove quickly across the Liljeholm Bridge and on
towards Strängnäs.

    He
had put his notes on the dashboard and kept stealing cautious glances at them
as he drove. A provincial block of flats. An address in the far north, then in
Enköping, which was near Strängnäs, then in central Stockholm. All that seemed
irrelevant. But B. Lund Taxis, that was something else, a company of several
years' standing.

    Stockholm's
dull outskirts made him want to listen to music, and he started rooting around
in the box under the driver's seat. He would put on Creedence and 'Proud Mary'.
He would sing aloud and forget that his grief was refusing to join in.

    When
he arrived in Strängnäs it was pouring with rain. The water was washing off a
dull membrane that had grown to cover buildings and people and all other
life-forms. Everyone seemed to feel released and joyous. Despite the downpour
he had seen no umbrellas anywhere in the town and no one running for shelter.
Now, after parking the car, he observed the man just in front of him and the
woman walking a bit further away, saw both slowing their pace and letting their
clothes get soaked through as they turned their smiling faces upwards. His own
wet suit came away from his body and he stepped out lightly, breathing in the
damp, oxygen-rich air. He walked slowly towards his house, wanting the rain to
wash away three weeks of heat and dust.

    When
he opened the front door, she was there, waiting for him in the hall, holding a
couple of masks, one with the grin of the Big Bad Wolf, the other one with a
Little Pig's snout. She called to him, Daddy! Come and play, hurry, please,
Daddy, eager as all five-year-olds are.

    He
went to the fridge, took a carton of orange juice and sat down on a kitchen
chair, drank three large glasses, listening to the silence of the house. It
seemed to demand something of him.

    He
moved the chair to get closer to the phone. Micaela would be back soon, so he
had to get on with it. Just two calls, that was all.

    First
the number. It was in the Yellow Pages; he recognised the big company logo from
calls he had made before. A woman answered.

    'Enköping
Taxis.'

    'Hello.
My name is Sven Sundkvist. Could you please put me through to your personnel
department?'

    'One
moment.'

    Fredrik
waited. A woman introduced herself as Liv Steen.

    'Good
afternoon. I am Sven Sundkvist, detective inspector with the Stockholm City Police,
violent crime squad.'

    'What
can I do for you?'

    'I'm
looking for information about one of the local firms you sometimes use. The
owner is a Mr Bernt Lund, ID 640517-0350. His company is called B. Lund Taxis.'

    'I
still don't quite understand what you want.'

    'I
need information quickly. Specifically, which routes did you have him booked
for?'

    'Look,
this was several years ago.'

    'Very
well. Could you just check any bookings to primary schools or day nurseries?'

    'I
see… well. Look, we usually don't provide this kind of information just for the
asking.'

    Fredrik
hesitated. This woman was doing the right thing. He was unused to lying and
didn't like it; it was so complicated to work out where the limit went and if
he had passed it.

    'Ms
Steen, this is a murder case.'

    'Is
that supposed to make a difference?'

    'It
has been covered in the media recently. A sex crime, the victim was a little
girl.'

    It
was very hard to say. He couldn't stand much more of this. The woman hesitated.

    'Detective
Inspector… Sundkvist, is that right?'

    'Yes.'

    'Is
it OK for me to phone you back?'

    'Of
course. If it makes you feel better.'

    A
long pause.

    'I
don't want to cause any trouble. I'll deal with it now.'

    'Thank
you.'

    He
heard her looking through files, heard the clicking sounds as metal
ring-bindings opened and snapped shut. His wet suit was sticking to him again
and he had started to sweat.

    'Sorry
to keep you waiting. Here we are. Eight bookings to day nurseries, four in
Strängnäs, and four in Enköping.'

    'And
the addresses, please.'

    She
turned more pages in her files, then read them out to him.

    He
recognised all four in Strängnäs; one of them was The Dove. Lund knew it well
after driving there for almost a year. After escaping he had returned to a
familiar place, where he knew how the children came and went, where the exits
and entrances were.

    Fredrik
thanked Liv Steen for her help. Now his second call.

    'Agnes,
it's me again.'

    'I
don't feel any better now.'

    'I
know. Don't worry. Just one thing. The key to that attic. Do you know where it
is?'

    'There
is no key because there's no lock. I never bothered.

    Somehow
it was Dad's things and had nothing to do with me.'

    'Good.
Thanks.'

    He
wanted the call to end there, now that he knew all he needed to know.

    'Why
do you ask?'

    'He
had some things of Marie's. Things she made at school and gave him. I want to
take care of them.'

    'Why?'

    'I just
do. Must I argue the case for everything?'

    He
was thirsty and drank most of a second carton of juice. Then he wrote a note,
just a few lines to explain he'd be away for a while but would come back home
as soon as he could. He stuck it on the fridge with a magnet shaped like a
ladybird.

    It
was still raining, but less hard.

    He
walked across the street to the block of flats opposite and took the lift to
the attic floor.

    He
got up from the seat.

    It
was hard, made from thick wooden planks covered in graffiti. He had been
sitting there all morning, for four hours by now, and he felt uncomfortable,
stiff all over.

    He
had watched the little sluts come and go, knew how they moved, what they looked
like when they chatted. Good-looking whores, like that other one; they didn't
have any tits to speak about, but long, slender legs and knowing eyes that had
seen cock before.

    He
liked the two blondes best. Always happy, they were. He knew their names, they
spoke so loudly, and he had a few photos. He had looked so long at their images
that he felt he knew the girls well.

    They
were quite grown up, in a way.

    Both
were the kind of whore who knows what she wants. When their parents brought
them to school, they hardly waved goodbye. He had often thought of little
bitches like that, who felt they were in charge, thought of what he would say
to them and what he would do to them.

    He
felt lonely now. Having watched and waited for so long, it was time they got
together, the three of them. The parents would be late, their sort always were.

    He
checked the time. Five past eleven. Almost six hours to go.

    In the afternoon.
Like with the other one.

    Whores
like to be outside in the afternoon. It had been too hot earlier, but now after
the rain they would be out in the grounds for a long time, that's what they
liked to do. It would be crowded, what with all the kids around, and the local
fuzz wouldn't notice a thing. He knew just what he would do.

    It
was dark. Fredrik had been in the attic only once before, when he and Agnes had
come here to store what little was worth keeping from Birger's flat. Agnes'
father had simply stopped living, between one breath and the next, apparently
having made an instant change-over from being alive to being dead. They had
found him naked in bed, propped up to read a magazine,
Boating News,
which he was still holding; the reading lamp was lit and on the bedside table
his diary lay open at the day's date, with a completed note about the midday
temperature and extent of rainfall, as well as recording his trip to the corner
grocer's to hand in his pools coupon at the tobacco counter and then get
something for his supper. Below this entry he had added a few lines about
feeling oddly tired and the beginnings of a headache, for no reason he could
think of, and that he had taken a couple of aspirin.

    Fredrik
had never got to know him. Birger had been hard to reach, a big, burly,
aggressive man, who was so completely unlike his daughter in every way that it
was just about impossible to believe them to be related at all.

    He
went into the storage pen that belonged to Birger's old flat. Vaguely familiar
things were stacked against the walls, boxes of clothes, a standard lamp, two
armchairs, four fishing rods, a bicycle trailer. Getting ready to squeeze
between the chairs, he heard the attic door open and held still in
mid-movement.

    He
listened and waited in the murky light. At least two of them; they were
whispering.

    Then
a high young voice, a boy's.

    'Hello-oo!'

    Silence,
then more whispering.

    'Hello
there, we're all coming in! Lots of us.'

    He
recognised the voice, smiled, and was just about to call out when the other
one, so far silent, spoke up, sounding a little older and tougher.