He stopped and stood still between Ewert, seated at his desk, and Sven, in the visitor's chair, continuing to talk and carefully including both of them, turning this way and that to show that they were both being addressed.
'It is problematic for small outfits in the taxi business to manage on occasional fares, from pick-ups and so on. Most of them like to have fixed runs on their books, we call them school runs. Fixed bookings pay less well but you can count on the income. Typically, actual school runs involve young children, who are ferried to nursery or primary school. If you've been in the trade for as long as Lund had, the odds are that you've got several runs of this kind. And, of course, it's especially likely with somebody as sick as he is. In other words, I suggest you trace his regular bookings record. My prediction is that you'll find some for little kids to be taken to places which he'll have got to know well. And fantasised about, and maybe wants to return to.'
Ågestam pulled a comb from a trouser pocket and tidied his short-back-and-sides. His appearance mattered, it was correct, white shirt and discreet tie, grey suit; he liked feeling proper, complete, prepared.
'Will you investigate this?'
Ewert stared ahead in silence, bursting with anger; he had to give vent to it or let it die a death. He had rarely been so provoked. This was his room, his music, his way of working. You either respected it or you could stay outside in the corridor with the rest of the goons. He couldn't fathom the origin of his accumulated rage, or why it had grown so overwhelming, but never mind, that's how he felt, and now when all that time had passed and he had aged in his job, he could just be himself, without having to explain why he was this way or that. True, some people used the word bitterness to describe his mindset. No matter, he wasn't interested in their fucking choice of words and had no urge to be liked by all and sundry. He knew who he was and had learned to put up with it.
He realised that the young prosecutor had pointed out something that should be one of their next tasks, but it went against the grain to admit it.
Sven reacted differently. He sat up straight and looked appreciative.
'This sounds like a good lead. It could well be just as you say, and if so, our catchment area, as it were, could be significantly reduced. We've gone all out on this case, tried to find time and resources, but we're short of both. That's a fact. If you turn out to be right, we'll gain time and we can focus on resource use. And it should bring us closer to him. I'll start checking this at once.'
He left. They heard his swift footsteps disappear down the corridor, but stayed were they were, without speaking. Ewert had no more energy left for shouting and Ågestam realised how drained he felt, and how tense he had been.
An interlude. Stillness, silence. Then Ågestam moved away from the centre of the room, walking past Ewert and over to the bookshelf. He started the tape recorder. 'Throw It Away', originally called 'Lucky Lips' in 1966.
I've heard what they say, you have been aroun'
Squiring pretty girls all about town
Scratchy. Too jolly. Desperate rhymes.
Ågestam went away and closed the door behind him.
It had stopped raining. The last drops were splashing on the ground when he came out on the front steps. The air was clear and easy to breathe. The clouds had thinned, letting the sun through, and soon it would be hot, dry, dusty again.
Fredrik crossed the street quickly, carrying the sack. He put it on the back seat of his car. He was preoccupied; inside his head he was talking to two small boys about death. David and Lukas had been sitting close to him on the hard brick floor, listening to him and understanding, but always throwing his answers back at him, batting new questions his way; at five and seven years of age they were grappling with their wonder about body and soul and the dark that no one can see.
Marie came back to him. He had thought of her every single moment since Tuesday; the image of her still, withdrawn face had blocked every attempt to see anything else. Now he actively tried to recall her as she had been before she died, the little being for whom he lived. What had she thought about death? They had never talked about death and dying, never had a reason to.
Had she understood?
Had she been frightened?
Had she closed her eyes? Fought?
Had she realised, in any sense, that death could happen, just like that, and death meant eternal solitude, inside a flower-decked white coffin underneath a freshly mowed lawn?
He set out to drive through the narrow streets of his hometown. There were four addresses on his list here, and four in Enköping. He was certain of being right. Lund would be sitting outside one of these schools, waiting, as he had done outside The Dove. Fredrik remembered the old policeman and what he had said when they met in the cemetery, how utterly convinced he had been that Lund would violate again and again, until someone stopped him.
First call, The Dove. It was on the list and Lund might as well have returned there as gone elsewhere, like an animal returning to a place where it has once fed. Fredrik had driven this route for almost four years now, and knew every house, every street sign. He hated it. The appearance of safe, contented habit held within it a suffocating grief. He was at home, but it would never be home again.
He parked a few hundred metres away. A Securitas van with truncheon-carrying guards had drawn up near the gate, and a little further away was a police patrol car with two uniformed officers. How strange to sit here again, as he had done six days earlier, when he had left his daughter at the school for a few short hours. Why? They had been so late that day. But Marie had nagged and he had felt guilty because he had stayed in bed all morning. If only he had said no and taken her hand to go for a walk, maybe into town to buy an ice-cream at the harbour, as they often did. If only he had told her that she mustn't go outside in the afternoon heat, but stay in with the other children.
He sat in the car for a little longer and then went into the woodland that began near the gate. He looked everywhere, checking all the surrounding area until he was convinced that Lund wasn't anywhere around, watching the school. Next he went on to The Wood, a nursery school a few kilometres away and closer to the centre of town, listening to the radio news as he drove. The top item was the aeroplane accident near Moscow, one hundred and sixteen fatalities probably due to a technical malfunction in a poorly maintained Russian plane.
After that, most of the time was spent on Marie and the murder hunt. There was an interview with the prosecutor who was leading the investigation, but he had nothing much to add. The older of the two policemen from the cemetery told the reporter rather loudly to get lost. The last part was an interview with a forensic psychiatrist, who had examined Lund several times in the past. He warned of what he called Lund's obsessional need to repeat his behaviours; the man was under constant internal pressure, which could only be relieved by acting out violent fantasies.
Fredrik pulled up near The Wood. Checked, and drove on to The Park and The Stream.
Everywhere, security guards and police cars.
Bernt Lund wasn't at any of these schools. Probably hadn't gone back to any of them.
Fredrik left Strängnäs on Road 55 to Enköping, driving quickly. Four addresses to go.
He glanced at the sack in the back seat.
He felt no hesitation.
Right was right.
At a stroke the treeless exercise yard became bearable. The rain had come sweeping in over Aspsås and for a few hours dozens of the half-naked inmates, wearing only the regulation blue shorts, ran up and down, roaring with joy at not having to narrow their eyes against harsh sunlight, cough in dust-laden air, sweat heavily even with the slightest move.