The Beast (38 page)

    You
will die soon, arselicker.

    The
early-morning light seemed to magnify the letters and make their blackness more
prominent. The writing was crude and had an awkward stiffness that made the
whole thing look unreal. Surely it would all fade and vanish, dribble off the
wall into sticky puddles among the roses in the border?

    Then
he passed his car, new a year ago. He had borrowed to cover the cost. It was
vandalised beyond all hope, wrecked like the cars he'd seen in the far-flung
suburbs of Latin American cities. It would be taken away. Would the intrusive words
go away?

    It
took him two hours to walk from the western suburbs to the city centre,
carrying his jacket over his shoulder and the briefcase in his hand. His black
shoes didn't fit him too well and pinched here and there, but he had time to
think, to try to understand.

    What
was all this about? He had wanted to be a prosecutor and that was what he did.
He had been looking for a big case, and that was what he'd got. End of story.
He wasn't up to it, he was too young, not mature enough. Not good enough.

    An
important brief meant getting lots of attention. Threats, as well as praise,
were a consequence of being in the spotlight. Sure, he knew that. He had seen
it affect older colleagues. Why did some vulgar graffiti scare him?

    He
knew, but couldn't tell why it should be so, that their lovemaking in the midst
of Marina's silence meant that he was alienated from who he had been. He had
lost a dream and would age abruptly as he carried this trial to its conclusion,
pushing for the maximum sentence. Afterwards? A desert. Nothing was
self-evident any more. But, seemingly, he was on his own.

    He
got to Scheele Street just after six o'clock. The Old Court was silent and
still. A couple of gulls were rifling through the bins. Thanks to a helpful nightwatchman
he had spent so many nights and early mornings here that in the end the
magistrates had relented and, uniquely, allowed him his own set of keys. The
young prosecutor had spent a significant part of his life in the old stone
building.

    He
climbed the massive staircase all the way to the secure courtroom, went to sit
in the place he occupied during the trial and opened his folder, spreading out
the documents first on the tabletop and then, when he ran out of room, on the
floor.

    He
had been working for forty-five minutes when the door opened.

    'Hey,
Ågestam.'

    The
rough voice was only too familiar. It was actually hateful. He kept his eyes on
his work.

    'Look,
your wife told me that I could find you here. I'm sorry, I think I woke her.'

    Grens
didn't ask if he was welcome. He limped inside. His shoes had hard leather
soles and his right footfall echoed round the room. Passing behind Ågestam, he
glanced quickly at the pile of papers and went to sit in the judge's seat.

    'That's
what I do. Start early, when it's quiet. No fucking idiots around to annoy me.'

    Ågestam
carried on as he was, checking points of law, memorising questions, arranging
observations.

    'Can't
you stop doing whatever it is when I'm talking to you?'

    Ågestam
turned, furious, facing the intruder.

    'Why
should I? You have no fucking time for me. It's mutual.'

    'That's
why I'm here.' Grens fiddled with the judge's gavel and cleared his throat.
'I've made… an error of judgement.'

    Ågestam
became still, in mid-movement, his eyes fixed on the older man, whose face was
strained as he searched for words.

    'When
I've made an error I admit it.'

    'Very
well.'

    'And
I was wrong this time. I should've taken your ramblings seriously.'

    The
large, worn courtroom was as silent as the quiet streets outside, this early
morning on a warm summer's day.

    'You
should've had police protection. You'll get it. We have a patrol car in place
outside your home already. There's a car downstairs as well. The officer is on
his way here to see you.'

    Ågestam
went to the window. Just then a policeman shut the door to his car and turned
to walk towards the front steps of the court building.

    The
young prosecutor sighed. He felt suddenly very tired, as if the sleep he had
missed that night was claiming him now.

    'It's
rather late in the day,' he said.

    'That's
a fact.'

    'Yes,
yes. Too true.'

    Grens
was still holding the gavel. He swung it, made a sharp noise that bounced off
the walls.

    He
had said what he had come to say, but still gave no sign of leaving and didn't
speak either. Ågestam felt tense. The crippled old bugger simply sat there.
What was he waiting for?

    'Are
you done? I'm here to work.'

    Grens
didn't answer, only smacked his lips irritatingly.

    'Is
that a signal? The all-clear?'

    'One
other thing. I've bought one of those CD players. I put it in my room, next to
the tape recorder. I can play that disc of yours now.'

    He
stayed there, sitting quietly in the judge's seat. Ågestam got on with his
work, trying to muster the arguments that would persuade the media-conscious
magistrates that a premeditated murder was simply that, and hence must be
judged accordingly, regardless of any other circumstances. He wrote, scribbled
out, reformulated. Grens, leaning back and staring at the ceiling, seemed half
asleep, only making his presence felt now and then by that maddening noise with
his lips.

    By
half past eight, voices from outside reached them. People were shouting, loudly
enough for the sound to get through the double windowpanes.

    They
both went over to have a look and opened a window, letting in a gust of warm,
gentle air. The open place in front of the court was no longer empty. They both
started counting; roughly two hundred people had come along. They were facing
the main entrance. The crowd was in perpetual motion; it looked like a
collection of charged particles with waves of movement going through it,
pulsating as people advanced towards the entrance and were pushed back by a
line of policemen carrying plastic shields.

    People
were shouting and waving placards. It was a loud demonstration against the
judicial process that was about to start up again in half an hour's time. These
people wanted to show their anger and scorn against a society that couldn't
protect them and yet was prepared to convict a lone citizen who had tried to
act in their defence.

    Grens
and Ågestam exchanged a glance, and Grens shook his head.

    'What
do they think they're doing? As if that bloody racket would make a difference.
They're off their fucking heads. Our boys won't let them in, threatening
behaviour or not.'

    A
stone flew through the air and hit a policeman at the end of the line. Ågestam shuddered
instinctively, suddenly reminded of his house and his car, and of Marina, who
perhaps was awake by now. She would see the patrol car, it would surely comfort
her. He met Grens' eyes again and felt he had to explain.

    'They're
scared, nothing more or less. Scared of sex offenders to the point of blind
hatred. If a father kills one of them, he'll naturally become a popular hero.
He was the one who did what they'd like to but don't dare to do.'

    Grens
snorted.

    'You
know what? I've got no time for mobs. All my life I've gone for them, broken
them up. But not all mobs are the same. That man was a hero, they didn't make
him one. He did what we couldn't. He eliminated a public menace.'

    Reinforcements
were arriving. The dozen police in front of the court were backed up by another
twelve, arriving in two mini-buses. The buses came to a sudden halt when two of
the demonstrators walked towards them and the men in full riot gear rushed out
to join their colleagues. The wall of men and shields grew more solid.

    Slowly
the crowd calmed down. It stayed watchful, but the shouting grew less strident
and the anger less obvious.

    Ågestam
closed the window and the room was silent again. He had barely been able to
stop himself from jabbing Grens with his elbow. There was something overbearing
in the man's tone of voice, something that irritated him like hell. Why was he
always like that? Instead he started to review aloud the arguments he would
soon use to the court.

    'I
don't understand this, Grens. How do you mean, a hero who has eliminated a
menace?'

    'Steffansson
made people feel safer.'

    'He's
a murderer. Lund was a murderer. Two of a kind. The people down there seem to
think he shouldn't be tried at all. Are we meant to regard personal courage as
a mitigating circumstance? I don't think so.'

    'I
can only repeat that his action meant protection. Nobody else had given them
that.'

    It
seemed all ordinary people agreed that he had screwed up the case. He ought to
think like them.

    He did.
And he did not.

    'And
I repeat that no one has a right to kill, no one. You don't know me, Grens, and
so you can't work out if, really, at heart, I don't agree that blowing the head
off a sex maniac is a good idea. As it is, I'll insist that anything short of a
lengthy spell in the jug would be a mistake. Society must not send out signals
saying anything other than
when you kill, you must pay.'

    Ågestam
went away to order his papers, to clear the floor and the desktop. Grens
lingered by the window, watching as the crowd began to disperse. Then he went
on to his usual seat at the back of the room, from where he had watched the
trial since day one.

    The
door opened and a porter entered. After him, the journalists streamed in,
followed by the members of public who had managed to be at the head of the
queue and got past the strict security checkpoint.

    The
trial of Fredrik Steffansson was on its fifth and last day.

    Bengt
Söderlund woke early. Two weeks of holiday left. The days were precious now. He
had only slept for a few hours every night during the previous week. Only when
he kept busy did he have a chance to forget that Elisabeth and the girl had
gone and that he didn't even know where they were. At first he had hardly been
off the phone, trying her parents and friends and mates from her old job, but
no one had seen her. Once that was clear, he didn't bother with telling them
why he asked. He wouldn't have any of these buggers laughing at him, no way.

    They
had agreed to meet at half past nine. He snapped his fingers and Baxter came
running to his side. Only a few minutes to go, so he checked at the
sitting-room window and there they were, Ove and Helena, Ola and Klas.

    They
said hello, shook hands, that's how they'd been greeting each other since they
were quite young. That's how you did it in Tallbacka.

    His
garden shed was large and easily seen from Flasher-Göran's windows, so he would
see them go inside, and wonder what they were up to. He could stick his
wondering up his arse. In the shed Bengt had lined up, end to end, his two
tried and trusted sawing-horses, made of long, sturdy planks supported by
angled legs. Ove and Klas brought a large plastic sack each, filled with empty
glass bottles, in total forty, about half of them for wine, three quarters of a
litre capacity, and half for mineral water, 33cc capacity.