The Beast (31 page)

    Bengt
had called round, asking everyone to meet up in the pub that night. He was
furious and alarmed and ready to chuck any notion of compromise. Elisabeth
didn't want to join them, they were too worked up for her taste, but Ola
Gunnarsson did, and so did Klas Rilke and Ove Sandell and Helena, his wife.
Bengt had known these people since their schooldays. The men had all played football
for Tallbacka FC, season after season, and got drunk together at parties in the
community hall. They were really children, who had stayed on to try out
adulthood.

    They
had talked about that freak Göran many times.

    In
every process there is a stage where either it is halted, or it starts on a
new, more or less unstoppable course. That was where they were at with their
local pervert. The future was waiting for their decision.

    Bengt
bought his mates a pint of Special each and double portions of peanuts. He was
eager to share what occupied his mind, the way Flasher-Göran had been lurking
outside the shop and the girls sitting so close and how he had felt and what he
had done. Then he paused, looked around and drank deeply. White flecks of foam
covered his lips.

    He
unfolded a piece of paper he had brought and showed it to the others.

    'Look!
I got his sentence from the magistrates' court today. I've had it with that
bastard, that's for sure. I was so fucking furious. After I'd given him a piece
of my mind I got into the car and headed for town. Drove like a bloody maniac.
I got there just when they were shutting up shop. Christ, the time it took;
they rooted around in their files and whatever. No computerised records in this
day and age, would you believe it?'

    Everyone
leaned forward to see, trying to read the text, upside-down if necessary.

    'Look
at it! Here it is, in black and white. Swinging his dick in front of the kids.
Fuck's sake, there's nothing between him and the beast that got shot in
Enköping.'

    Bengt
let his packet of cigarettes do the round, lit one himself.

    'Ove,
remember? Your little sisters were among the kids, you know.'

    He
fixed his eyes on Ove Sandell, knowing that he felt the same way.

    'That's
right. He showed off his cock, right in front of them. Filthy. If I'd been
there I would've killed him. Blasted him there and then. No problem.'

    They
drank to that. A group of boys came in, the lads from outside the shop, the
mock-wankers. The gang drifted over to the gaming machines, hung around
watching the players, applauded when anyone won anything. One or two tried it
on, went to the counter to order a beer. No go. Nobody even tried to get change
for the machines, that line cut no ice. The limit was eighteen for drink and
gambling, and that was that, even in Tallbacka.

    Helena,
Ove's wife, was impatient. She knocked on the tabletop to catch their attention
and then looked at each one of them, in the end addressing her husband.

    'Ove,
we've got girls of our own now.'

    'So
we do.'

    'So
is it their turn soon?'

    'They
should've cut his balls off back then, after the sentence.'

    Bengt
nodded, then rose and pointed in the direction of his house.

    'I
don't get it, there are two thousand decent people in this place. Who's my
neighbour? A filthy paedophile! What can I do? Will someone kindly tell me what
I'm meant to do!'

    The
gang of wankers were getting fed up with peering over the shoulders of the
gamers. Instead they got hold of the remote control and switched the telly on.
The sound was too loud and Bengt waved irritably at them until the volume was
low enough.

    'You
don't answer. What am I supposed to do? Fuck's sake, we can't keep someone like
that here. No way.'

    Helena
suddenly shouted, so loudly that her voice cracked.

    'Away
with him. He's got to go. Ove! Do you hear me?'

    Bengt
chewed a handful of peanuts. Slowly swallowed.

    'Right.
We must get him out of here. If he won't, we'll shove. What I'm saying is, if he
isn't gone in two weeks' time I'll do him in.'

    Another
round, Bengt paid again and kept the receipt. He was going to write it off
against the firm's expenses. Meals, he called it.

    They
started drinking from the large cool glasses, but were stopped short when Ove
suddenly wolf-whistled. The piercing sound cleaved through the smoke-laden air.
Instant silence. Ove pointed at the telly and shouted in the direction of the
boy with the remote.

    'Hey,
turn it up!'

    'Fucking
make up your mind.'

    'We
want to hear this. Turn up the telly or I'll clock you one.'

    The
camera had been following Fredrik Steffansson, being escorted slowly along one
of the corridors in the Kronoberg remand prison. He had pulled his jacket over
his head.

    'It's
that father, the one who shot the paedophile. Killed the beast.'

    Stillness
had fallen over the pub, as most people stared at the screen. Fredrik
Steffansson waved dismissively at the camera, shook his head and then stepped
outside the image. A woman came along, then stood in front of him. The camera
moved to close-up and a microphone materialised in front of her mouth. It was
Kristina Björnsson, the defence lawyer.

    'You're
quite right. My client does not deny the actual event. He did shoot Bernt Lund.
It was a deliberate killing, planned several days ahead.'

    The
camera panned in even closer. A reporter tried to get a question in, but she
raised her voice and continued.

    'This
was not murder, however, but something quite different. It was reasonable
force, used in extreme circumstances.'

    Bengt
was amazed and delighted. He slapped the table.

    'Did
you hear that!'

    As he
looked around, the others nodded slowly. They followed every camera-move
keenly, took in every new argument by Steffansson's lawyer.

    'It
was only a matter of time before Bernt Lund would attempt another crime. We are
all agreed that this is the case, after studying his personality profile. My
client is convinced that by taking Lund's life he saved the life of at least
one child.'

    'Too
fucking true!'

    Ove
smiled, leaned over to plant a kiss on his wife's cheek.

    The
eager reporter tried again, the question that she hadn't been allowed to put
earlier.

    'How
does your client feel?'

    'As
well as can be expected in the circumstances. I don't need to remind you that
he has lost his little daughter in the most distressing way possible. Also, as
a citizen, he is deeply disappointed that society failed to protect not only
his child, but also other potential victims. Instead he himself is locked up
and will stand trial. He is taking the consequences of ineffective law
enforcement.'

    Helena
stroked her husband's cheek. Then she took his hand and pulled him up, as she
rose from the table.

    'He
did the right thing.'

    She
lifted her glass in a toast, turning first to Bengt, then to Ola and Klas and,
finally, to her husband.

    'Do
you know what he is, that Fredrik Steffansson? Do you? He's a hero, a real
old-fashioned hero. Here's a toast to Fredrik Steffansson!'

    They
all followed her lead, silently raised their glasses and emptied them.

    They
stayed in the pub for longer than they usually would. Jointly they arrived at a
decision, not the means of bringing it about, but that it would happen. They had
passed the critical stage and the process would continue.

    It
was their Tallbacka, their community, the very stuff of how they lived day
after day.

    Lars
Ågestam was bewildered, even though there weren't that many people about, but
then he never had been any good at big stores. Six floors, escalators, free
offers and tastings, rumbling messages over the loudspeaker system, credit card
machines, queuing numbers. All the time, the pressure to buy buy buy. The
queuing customers were daunting, too many; someone smelled strongly of sweat,
someone's kids made a noise, some people acted as lost as he felt, a woman
dropped the clothes she had picked to try on, a bloke kept searching for
something in sportswear, and everything everything everything had been
transported from elsewhere to end up here, neatly packaged and priced.

    Simply
being inside this living hell floored him, but he couldn't think of another
place to go. He never bought music, mainly because he had no time to listen,
except to the car radio. The music department fazed him completely, shelf after
shelf of recordings by alleged celebrities he'd never heard of. He spotted a
young woman at an information counter. She was probably very pretty, though it
was hard to tell behind the make-up and a hair-do that covered her eyes.

    'Siw
Malmqvist, have you got anything by her?'

    She
smiled. Was it a friendly smile or a sneer? How do young women smile?

    'I
think so, somewhere in the Swedish section. I'll have a look.'

    She
stepped outside her enclosure and waved to him to follow. He watched her back
and blushed. Her clothes were, well… revealing.

    She
held out a CD. The cover photo showed a woman, young back then, long ago.

    'Siw's
Classics.
Will this do?'

    Surely
this was the right thing. He said he'd take it.

    By
now she was smiling very broadly. He blushed again, but felt cross. Was she
laughing at him?

    'What's
the joke?'

    'Oh,
nothing.'

    'I get
the impression you're finding this funny.'

    'Not
at all.'

    'Yes
you do.'

    'It's
just that you don't look right. I mean, like the type of person who buys Siw's
songs.'

    Now
he was smiling too.

    'What
do they look like then? Older than me?'

    'I…
yeah, not such… a suit.'

    'What?'

    'Like,
cooler.'

    Safely
outside in the street, he bought an ice-cream and decided to walk to Kung
Island, then past the Crime Prosecution Service building, his place of work,
and on to Scheele Street and the Violent Crime Squad offices.

    He
felt quite tense, hung back a little and then almost forgot to knock. The
familiar irritable voice.

    Ewert
Grens was sitting behind his desk, but had swung the chair sideways and was
leaning forward with his elbows resting on his thighs. His glaring eyes told
his visitor to get lost, he wasn't welcome. No one was.

    'I've
got something for you. Here.' Lars put the CD down on the desk. 'I'm sorry I
was so rude about the music last time.'

    Grens
said nothing.

    'I
hope you haven't got all the songs in this collection.'