The Beast (35 page)

    
If
someone is suspected of breaking the law, it is my duty to prosecute that
person.

    
You're
a dead man if you go for that dad.

    
What
you just said is intimidation and against the law.

    
DIE!

    
Intimidation
is a punishable offence.

    
We'll
kill your family, one by one.

    He was
frightened. All this was for real. The menacing callers were mad, of course,
but also representative of a wider public hatred. And they meant what they
said. This was serious.

    He
went off in search of Ewert Grens.

    Their
last talk, when he had exposed his worries about the prosecution, should have
changed things, opened doors to a new understanding. Or so he had hoped. Not at
all; the old boy was just as difficult, just as unapproachable. In fact, he
received the news that Ågestam was scared by threats to himself and his family
with a broad grin. The young prosecutor was close to tears, he didn't want to
be, not here of all fucking places, but Grens pretended he hadn't noticed.
Instead he said that threats were par for the course, something a tough
prosecutor had to expect, and when there was something more concrete than
voices on the phone to report, he was welcome back.

    Lars
slammed the door behind him when he left.

    A
slow walk back through the hot, stale city air. He had been passing concentrated,
dark-yellow urine for days; he supposed it was because the heat and humidity
made him sweat so much. Stopping at a newsagent's for a bottle of mineral water
and a copy of the big morning paper, he saw that his picture was on the front
page, under the headline
Prosecutor insists: life for popular hero.

    Everyone
stared at him, even the tourists; he met droves of them, dripping with cameras
and camcorders and whatever.

    He
walked as fast as he could, quick march all the way to the CPS office.

    He
stepped into his room and the phone rang.

    He
just looked at it. It rang eight more times.

    He
focused on the police investigation documents, read and reread, until the
ringing stopped.

    Bengt
Söderlund went over the story about Baxter again, how the dog had been nailed
to the spot all day, all evening and through the night until the following
morning, when he obeyed his master's command to leave. They had heard all this
twice before, Elisabeth who didn't want to hear at all, Ove and Helena, who had
seen it from the beginning, Ola Gunnarsson and Klas Rilke, who laughed louder
every time. The same thing had happened in school, when someone had found out
something new about a teacher, maybe a smart nickname, and they kept having
hysterics about it all through upper school; or in the men's locker room at the
Tallbacka Sports Club, when they fixed boot-studs and put on embrocation for
aching muscles, going over and over the time the opponents' fat, useless goalie
had been kicked in the balls.

    This
evening they had spent some time playing the gaming machines in the bar and
then wandered off to sit at their usual table, before they lost too much of
their hard-earned money. Everyone had a beer, enjoyed being there and toasted
Baxter, who had made them laugh.

    They
were only halfway through the first pint; a warm- up, there was more to come,
at least another three or four.

    The
discussion would take off, alcohol stimulated the flow of words.

    Bengt
drank more slowly than usual. He had made up his mind during the week and
prepared himself properly by reading a lot of deadly dull law handbooks. He had
the evening all worked out in his head.

    He
raised his glass to his companions.

    'Drink
up, boys and girls. I've got something to say afterwards.'

    They
drank. Bengt signalled to the barman to bring another round, and then he began.

    'I've
been thinking. Drawn up a plan of action, you might say. We had better get some
law and order round here.'

    The
others moved closer, stopped drinking and sat still. Elisabeth clenched her jaw
and stared down at the tabletop. Her face was flushed.

    'Remember
last time we were here? Remember what Helena said?'

    He
smiled at Helena.

    'Right
at the end, before closing time, she stood up and asked us to listen. The
late-night news was all about the killing of the paedophile, the father who
shot that sex maniac. Afterwards Helena said something that stayed with me. She
said, that man is a hero. A hero of our time. He wasn't going to let a fucking
pervert get away with murder. He didn't hang about waiting for the police. They
had messed up before, so he took it in his own hands to act.'

    Helena
beamed.

    'I
meant what I said. That man is a hero. Good-looking, too.'

    She
pushed playfully at her Ove, smiled at him. Bengt nodded impatiently. He had
more on his mind.

    'The
trial will start soon. It will take five days and the sentence will come at
some point during the last couple of days. We'll be around when it is.'

    He
looked around triumphantly.

    'The
defence is pushing for something called "reasonable force", and so
are ordinary folk all over the country; they'll fucking riot if the court comes
out in favour of locking him up. I bet it won't take the risk. The set-up will
be the usual, only the judge has law training and the rest are magistrates, not
trained in the law so they won't stick to paragraphs. See what I'm saying? He
might well go free, and that's when we strike. Then it's our turn.'

    The
rest of the group round the pub table still didn't see the point, but figured
Bengt had checked things out, as he usually did.

    'Yeah?
If the girl's dad is let off, that's it. The moment we hear, we have a licence
to act, to deal with that perv once and for all. I, for one, won't put up with
having a paedophile around this place. Not as a neighbour, not any-
fucking-where in this community. We'll let him have it and then claim that we
acted with reasonable force.'

    The
overweight barman, ex-owner of one of the defunct grocer's shops, brought them
another round, carrying three glasses in each hand. They got stuck in, feeling
good, but then Elisabeth spoke up.

    'Bengt,
listen. You're going over the top.'

    'Christ,
we've been over this before. Go home if you don't like it.'

    'How
can you think it's right to kill someone just to solve a problem? That dad is
not a hero at all. He's setting a bad example.'

    Bengt
slammed his glass down on the table.

    'So
what does madam think he should've done then?'

    'Well…
talked to the man who did it.'

    'What?'

    'You
can always get somewhere by talking.'

    'Now
I've fucking heard it all!'

    Helena
turned to face Elisabeth, her eyes narrowing with dislike.

    'I
must say I don't understand you, Elisabeth. Do you have a problem with seeing
things the way they really are or what? Exactly what are you supposed to talk
about with a crazy sex killer who's just murdered your own child? Maybe his
tragic childhood? Maybe he had the wrong kind of toys? Lousy potty training?
You must tell us.'

    Ove
rose and put his hand on his wife's shoulder.

    'Fuck's
sake, what do you think he was there for, outside that school? Well, I can tell
you one thing, it wasn't the time and place for some kind of psycho session
about what-a- very-sad-upbringing-blah-blah.'

    Helena
had put her hand over Ove's and started to speak when her husband stopped to
draw breath.

    'You
can say the dad had no right to shoot that paedophile. But he would have been
even more wrong not to kill him. That's obvious to me, anyway. OK, life is
precious, I agree with that, but circumstances alter cases. If I'd been where
he was and had a gun I could handle, I would've done just the same. What is it
you don't understand about that, Elisabeth?'

    She
made up her mind as she left the restaurant. This was the end for her and
Bengt, she had given up on her husband for good.

    She
walked straight back home and told her daughter, the one child she was
responsible for, to pack just what she could carry. Then she filled two
suitcases with their clothes and put everything in the car; she had to take
that.

    The
summer evening was darkening, turning into night, when she left Tallbacka for
ever.

    The
cell was one hundred and seventy centimetres wide, two hundred and fifty
centimetres long, and contained a narrow bed, a small bedside table and a
washbasin handy for pissing at night and washing in the morning. He was wearing
a greyish, sagging suit, with the prison initials stamped on the sleeves and trouser-legs.
Full restrictions applied, which meant no newspapers, no TV or radio and no
visitors, except the chief interrogator, the prosecutor, the defence lawyer,
the prison chaplain and prison officers. Fresh air was permitted for one hour
daily; it amounted to a supervised stroll in a steel cage on the roof. Just now
the heat up there was suffocating and he had asked to be let off the last
half-hour every day so far.

    He
was lying on the bed. There was not a thought in his head. He had tried to eat and
given up after a few mouthfuls. It tasted like shit, all of it. The tray with
the plate and the glass of orange juice stood on the floor. He hadn't eaten
since Enköping. Anything he tried had come back up, as if his stomach wanted to
be left in peace.

    The
walls around him were grey, empty. His eyes had nothing to look at and nothing
to look away from. The harsh light from the fluorescent tube in the ceiling
somehow got behind his closed lids, coating his eyeballs with a bright membrane.

    The
observation panel on the door squeaked; someone was looking in at him.

    'Steffansson,
you wanted to see the chaplain, right?'

    Fredrik
met the staring eyes.

    'Call
me Fredrik. I don't like being a surname.'

    'OK, start
again. Fredrik, do you want to see the chaplain?'