Ewert was holding up his diary at face level. He put his thumb as a marker at the two-centimetre mark, forcing them all to look.
'Control. That's all. They're like that, all of them. They enjoy rape, because when they do it they call the shots. Power and control. Though this one is extreme, he's actually just like the rest. His rows of stones and so forth are all about order, structure, being in charge.'
He lowered the diary, placed it at the end of the row of stones and swept the lot down on to the floor.
'But we know that. And we know he's a sadist. We know what power does to men like Lund. His cock goes hard, that's how it works. He controls someone, that person is powerless. Only he decides how to hurt them and how much. It's what gives him his kicks, makes him come in front of tied-up, broken nine-year-olds.'
He did his trick with the diary to the biros on the windowsill. One by one they hit the floor.
'Come to think of it, the pictures. The computer ones. Did he sort them too?'
Lennart fixed his gaze on the piled-up biros on the floor. No sign of order now. Then he met Ewert's eyes, looking surprised, as if the question was new to him.
'Sorted? How do you mean?'
'Well, how did he do it? I can't fucking remember. Faces, eyes, yes. How bloody abandoned they all looked. But not distances, how the images were related to each other.'
'I don't know. I should, maybe, but I don't. Didn't even think about it. But I will find out, if you think it's important.'
'Yes it is. It's important.' Lennart sat down on the bed. 'Tomorrow, will that do?' 'Not really.'
'OK, later. When we're done here. The file is in my room.'
They turned the cell inside out. They inspected every corner of what had been Bernt Lund's home for four years, touched everything, sniffed around.
There was no information to be had. He had not had a plan.
He had not known that he was going somewhere.
Fredrik opened the car door. He had driven far too fast, stayed in seventy on the Tosterö Bridge with its thirty- kilometre limit, but he had promised Marie they would be in school by one thirty so there was nothing else for it.
And it was good that she went to school, because Daddy was working today. Actually, it was a lie. It had been a lie yesterday. She went to nursery school because it was important for her to keep the place, and because having a daddy who worked was part of the scene. Even better, a daddy who worked hard at writing and needed to be alone when he was thinking complicated thoughts. He hadn't had even a single thought worth thinking for months, and he hadn't written a word for weeks. He was in the grip of writer's block and had no idea how to wrench free.
That was why Frans haunted him at night. That was why he could not make love to the beautiful, naked young woman lying close to him, instead constantly comparing her with someone who filled his thoughts but who didn't want him, with Agnes. For a long time working, writing, had kept memory and reflection at bay. And perhaps that was what he had always done, avoided emotion through work work work, his mind turning over like an engine racing. Only by moving forward could he be sure to leave the past behind.
Fredrik had pulled in right in front of the school and parked on a double yellow line despite having been caught once already. It was worth it, rather than driving about aimlessly, looking. He helped Marie out of her seat in the back. On the way up the path to the school door she skipped and jumped in front of him. It was a lovely warm day, what a remarkable summer it had been, and she looked so happy; she hopped on both feet, then her right foot, then both, then her left foot. Micaela and David and all the others were waiting inside, twenty-five children whose names he'd never learned. He should have.
Just outside the gate a man was sitting on the park bench; must be somebody's dad, because he'd surely seen that face before. He nodded at the man while he tried fruitlessly to match him with one of the little faces in the crowd inside the school.
Micaela was standing next to the coat-hangers in the hall. She kissed him, asked if he was properly awake now, and had he missed her? He said yes, he'd missed her. Had he? At night when he couldn't sleep and sought out her soft body, then he would've missed her if she hadn't been there; he needed her so much and felt less frightened when he could stay close to her and borrow her warmth. Daytime was different. Looking at her, he saw how young she was, too young and too lovely. He didn't deserve her. Surely her lover should match her youth and beauty? Or did he actually believe all that crap?
These were things he mulled over all the time. These and, deep inside, the beatings.
The first time he had sought her out was after the divorce. She greeted the children when he brought Marie to school, and she was there morning after morning. Then, one day, they walked together for a while, long enough for him to tell her about the pain and loss of separation. She listened. They took more walks together, he kept confessing and she kept listening. Then the day came when they went to his house and made love all afternoon, while Marie and David ran around playing on the other side of the closed bedroom door.
He helped Marie to change into her indoor shoes, white fabric slip-ons. He took off the red shoes with the shiny buckles and put them on her shelf. Her sign was an elephant. The others had chosen bright red fire engines and football stars and Disney figures, but she had wanted an elephant and that was that.
She grabbed his arm.
'Daddy, you mustn't go.'
'But… you wanted to come, didn't you? Micaela is here. And David.'
'Please stay. Please, nice kind Daddy.'
He held her in his arms, lifted her up.
'My little sweetheart. But… Daddy must work. You know that.'
Her eyes met his, her forehead wrinkled. Her whole face pleaded with him.
He sighed.
'Right you are, I will stay. But just a tiny little while.'
Marie stayed close to him while she gave her elephant a kiss and followed the contours of its body with her finger: its legs, along its back and all the way down its trunk. Fredrik made a what-can-I-do gesture to Micaela. This was how it had been ever since Marie had started at the nursery almost four years ago, after Agnes had moved away. Every time he had hoped that this would be the day he could leave easily, just say goodbye and go without having a bad conscience about it.
'And how long are you staying today?'
This was the only thing they really disagreed about. Micaela wanted him to go, to establish that even if he did, he would still be back in the afternoon to pick Marie up. Never mind a few tears, the crying would pass. He always
told her that since she didn't have children herself she couldn't possibly know what he felt like.
'Quarter of an hour. At most.'
Marie heard him and tightened her grip on his arm.
'Daddy must stay. Stay with me.'
Then David came along, running, his face covered in warpaint stripes in garish poster paints. He ran past Marie, but called to her to come along. She let go of Fredrik's arm and followed him.
Micaela smiled.
'Look how easy it is! It's the best I've seen. She's forgotten about you already.'
She stepped closer, very close.
'But I haven't.'
A light kiss on his cheek. Then she turned and went away too.
Fredrik was at a loss. He watched her go, then went into the play-room. Marie and David and three other kids were piled up together, painting each other's faces, shouting about Sioux Indians or something. He waved at Marie, she waved back. When he left, their war cries followed him to the door.
The sun hit his face. What about a coffee in the shade? After picking up a paper from the newsagent at the main square? But he made up his mind to go to his writer's den on Arnö Island, just, to sit there and wait. He'd start the computer, read his notes, probably write nothing but at least be prepared.