In fact, since the first reports of the crime, they had talked about this story whenever they'd met. All, that is, except Elisabeth. She fell silent every time, and when they asked her why, she said they were getting far too excited and far too angry and it was no good. They tried to persuade her, but when she still would have none of it, they carried on regardless. Getting excited was no crime, and if she wasn't interested, too bad.
Now it was all cosy and familiar.
Bengt poured the coffee, dark-roast, its scent filling the kitchen. There was real cream with it, and the buns of course, saved since yesterday to give them the dry, crispy crust that made them especially nice to dunk in coffee.
Then he pointed at the passport photo of Fredrik Steffansson that the papers had used since his arrest.
'That guy. I'd have done the same. Wouldn't have thought twice.'
Ove soaked a piece of bun in his mug.
'Me too. You know, if you've girls in the house that's it, you've to think like he did.'
Bengt examined the page in the paper closely.
'But I wouldn't have done it just because of what he said, you know, because he was thinking of other kids. I would've done it for me. To get my own back.'
He looked at the people round the table to gauge their reactions. Both Ove and Helena nodded. Elisabeth stuck her tongue out.
'Are you crazy? What's that for?'
'I'm fed up with you lot. All you ever do is jabber on and on, morning, noon and night. Flasher-Göran, paedophiles, always the same stuff. Every time we meet. Hate, hate, hate.'
'Bugger off then. You don't have to stay.'
'I mean, listen to you! It's just crap. Revenge for what? All Göran ever did was stand naked next to the flagpole. He didn't touch anyone. What's the harm in that?' Elisabeth breathed out in a sob, and after clearing her throat to steady her voice, her eyes were still shining with tears. 'I don't seem to know you any more. You sit in my kitchen pretending to care, but you're just spoiling for a fight. I've had enough! You're pathetic!'
Helena put her mug down and grasped Elisabeth's hand.
'Hey, Elisabeth. Calm down.'
Defiantly, Elisabeth pulled her hand away.
'Let her piss off if that's what she wants. She must like them, the paedophiles. Eh? Is that it?' Bengt raised his voice and turned to his wife. 'I've worked my whole life, slaved like a fucking dog. And the society I live in locks up someone who's saved children's lives! But I don't deserve any better. Is that how you see it?'
He turned to the window and spat. And heard a door open.
He knew just which door.
'Fuck's sake. That's him, that sodding pervert. He's going out.'
Flasher-Göran was locking his front door. Bengt looked round at Elisabeth.
'Pathetic? Wasn't that what you said?'
Then he stuck his head out through the window.
'You deaf or something?' he roared. 'I don't want to see you. Stay inside. Filthy swine!'
Göran looked towards the familiar voice, and continued walking down the gravel path to the gate. Bengt snapped his fingers, twice.
His Rottweiler came padding along obediently.
'Baxter. Come.'
The dog ran up to the window to stand by his master. Bengt grabbed its collar, held it, then let go with a sudden command.
'Baxter! Go! Get him!'
The big dog leapt out through the window, ran across the lawn and jumped the fence to the garden next door, barking loudly as it went. Göran heard it and realised what was happening. His heart started thumping with fear. He ran. The garden shed was the nearest safe place. His stomach was out of order, he couldn't control it, he shat himself, ran the last bit with faeces trickling down his legs, grabbed the door handle, got inside, pulled the door shut. The dog threw itself against the door, barking excitedly.
Bengt was watching from the window, Helena and Ove at his side. He was almost hysterical, applauding his dog and shouting to it.
'Good dog! Well done, Baxter! The peddo is where he belongs. Baxter! Watch!'
The dog stopped barking, sat down and fixed its eyes on the door handle.
Bengt, laughing now, clapped his hands for a little longer. Then he turned away from the window and caught the look in Elisabeth's eyes, saw how much she despised him. She shook her head slightly at him.
He suddenly realised that she was ugly, old and ugly, with her sneering face and flabby tits.
She could never make him want her, long for her again, not any more.
The cool release brought by the rain seemed a distant memory now. The heat was back. It was more obvious in the prison, where the high perimeter wall trapped the air over the flat expanse of the gravel yard. Hilding had gone out for a walk, wearing a pair of shorts and nothing on the bony upper half of his body. No one else was around. He was worried. Dickybird would soon discover it, he'd know who'd done it, and that it was his closest friend and ally would mean zilch. Hilding would be worked over. He expected it. If you nick from your mate you get hammered, simple as that. And he had nicked something important.
He had got Axelsson out of harm's way. The peddo had got the message, crawled off to the screws and licked arse. They saw his point right enough and tucked the fucking nonce away in seg wing. Sure enough, Dickybird had lost it when he heard; he figured the beast had been warned off, but couldn't be sure. Above all, he couldn't be sure who'd done it. He went berserk, screaming and kicking at the wall. Still, he had calmed down afterwards. He even agreed to a couple of games and magically got two tens of diamonds in one of the rounds.
Hilding scratched his sore and kept walking, from one pair of goal posts to the other. He counted each round. Sixty-seven so far. Thirty-three left.
He shouldn't have gone and smoked all the shit. But what the fuck, the Axelsson business had taken it out of him, he'd had it by then. He had earned just a small one, like a prize, kind of. Alone in the shower-room, he got the resin out and rolled himself one. It had been as fucking bloody marvellous as last time, his body felt all relaxed, he smoked another small one and then, somehow, the rest went the same way. It felt brilliant. But that night he suddenly realised that this time he was really asking for it. Afterwards he stayed awake, waiting for the morning and the beating that would come. Except it didn't.
Two days ago that was. Soon he'd attack. Hilding waited and scratched.
One more round. The hundredth.
Sweat was pouring off him. Maybe he should do another hundred. It was almost like getting high, this steady walking in the hot sun. His thoughts flowed slowly and easily. He decided to keep going until someone else came outside.
After one hundred and fifty-seven goes, the Russian turned up with a ball under his arm. Hilding went to take a cold shower; the water burned in his sore. Then he put on clean kit, pants, socks and shorts, and started walking in the corridor, driven by his anxiety. Three hundred times he passed the cells, reached the pool table and turned back. Everything was quiet, apart from the telly. It was on, as usual. The news was about the murder of the little girl and then about Lund. He forced himself to listen to distract himself from his growing fear.
He hadn't been in such a state for years, ever since he came under Dickybird's protection. But now he was the one who'd screwed up. He had to do something different, blow his mind. Must.
He knocked on the door to Jochum's cell, first once, then again when there was no reply. Jochum opened up. He had been asleep, it showed.
'What the fuck?'
'I'm Hilding.'
'So what? Beat it.'
'Just wondered if you were thirsty.'
He had made up his mind. He had to do it, anything to get rid of that piss-awful ache inside him. So it meant more stealing. It would help if Jochum came along. Dickybird had too much respect to mess with him.