The Beast

Jochum came outside.

'Where is it?'

'Come. I'll show you.'

Jochum went back inside his cell, then came out again wearing a pair of slippers. He closed the cell door behind him.

That sod never left the door open. No one ever caught as much as a glimpse inside his cell. Hilding led the way along the route he had just walked three hundred times, past the kitchen, the shower-room, the pool corner.

Fixed to the corridor wall was a fire-fighting contraption, a pipe made of red-painted metal attached to a black hose. The instructions for use ran into too many words to take in, especially with flames raging around you. Hilding looked around. No screws. He produced a toothbrush mug from the pocket of his shorts and unscrewed the stopper on the pipe.

'Try this. Plain fucking water, a loaf and some apples.' He filled the mug. The brew smelled bad; he almost retched. 'This stuff is rotgut. Tastes like shit! But what the fuck!' He swallowed the murky fluid. 'It kicks. Just don't fucking taste it!'

He filled the mug again and handed it to Jochum.

'It's been settling for almost four weeks. It's clearing. And must be ten per cent, easily.'

Jochum swallowed, gagged, held out the mug.

'Another one.'

They got through five mugs each. Warmth began to spread through their bodies, and calm; the alcohol was reaching their souls.

They used to brew in the bucket at the back of the cleaners' cupboard, but doing it in the emptied fire-gadget was better, it was a closed container and easier to get at. The loaf was for alcohol, and the fruit helped the taste a bit.

'Screw coming!'

Skåne had been on the alert this time, warning everyone. It was rare for them to turn up in the unit so suddenly. Hilding put the stopper in place and they wandered off; they met a screw on the way, he looked hard at them but didn't stop them.

Hilding and Jochum, nicely pissed now, went along to sit on the sofa, united for a while by booze; no one says no to a drink with a mate.

The TV news was still chewing over the Lund murder; the whole unit had followed the hunt and by now most people had had enough. The kid's dad had blown the head off the fucking nonce, showing the beasts what the score was. Hilding and Jochum took no notice of the flow of words and images, just sat back feeling relaxed.

'Where's that tinker mate of yours anyway? I haven't seen him for days.'

'Dickybird?'

'Yeah. The Diddler.'

Jochum grinned. Hilding grinned. Fucking good that, the Diddler.

'Holing up in his cell, he can't hack all that. The shit on the telly.'

'He can't stand the fucking telly?'

'It's like… I don't know. The stuff about the girl and the nonce. It spooks Dicky. Or something. Like, he knows he could've done Lund in himself. Before he scarpered.'

'So what? It's been done.'

'But the kid wouldn't have been… you know.'

'Happens.'

Hilding looked around, noted the screw on his way out and lowered his voice.

'Dicky has a daughter too. That's why.'

'And so?'

'He's got to think like that.'

'Why just him? Lots do. Don't you?'

'Sure. But his daughter lives near where it happened. Strängnäs. Well, Dicky thinks so, anyway.'

'Thinks? Doesn't he know?'

'Never even clapped eyes on her in his life.'

Jochum slid his hand across his shaved scalp, turned away from the TV for a moment to look at Hilding.

'I don't get this. It wasn't his kid who was done, right?'

'No. But it could've been. That matters for Dicky.'

'Give over.'

'That's how he thinks. He's got this photo of her. He had it blown up and put it up on the wall, it's like a fucking big poster.'

Jochum threw his head back and laughed, a drunk's wild laugh.

'The tink has fucking lost it, no question. There he is, head stuffed fit to burst with what might've happened but didn't and can't any more 'cause the nonce is a goner, he's been shot to bits. The guy is dreaming, must be in worse shape than I thought. He needs a shot of your brew, more than anyone.'

Hilding stiffened, scared again.

'Fuck's sake! Don't tell him!'

'What?'

'About us having a drink.'

'Scared of the Diddler, are you?'

'Just take it easy. Don't tell him.'

Jochum laughed again and gave Hilding the finger. Then he turned back to the set.

More reports about the nonce killing.

The prosecutor, a dead correct-looking bugger with a blond fringe; they had squeezed him up against a wall in the court stairwell and stuck a microphone in his face.

Just the type, a climber, no experience. He needed shaking up a bit.

Lars Ågestam did not quite grasp the full implications of it all until he had seen Fredrik Steffansson in the interrogation room.

At first the case had seemed a gift from the good fairy. Then the fairy shape-changed into an evil witch, the case came to involve a grieving parent and his just anger, and Ågestam had thrown up in the CPS office toilet from utter dread.

But once Steffansson was arrested, the prosecutor had ceased to be simply someone about to become a has-been, as far as his legal career went.

Now his situation was far worse.

Worse because of his constant fear, a fear that meant he could not cross the street without looking over his shoulder. A fear of death.

In court, he entered a plea that Steffansson should be kept in custody until his trial, on the basis that he was someone 'on sufficient grounds suspected of murder'. For the defence Kristina Björnsson, his opponent in the Axelsson case, argued that custody was not required, since her plea was that Steffansson had acted with 'reasonable force'. Expanding on this, she claimed that if freed, Steffansson would not represent any danger to the public, nor act so as to complicate the investigation, nor defect prior to the trial. Björnsson's conclusion was that her client should be ordered to report daily to the police in Eskilstuna.

Van Balvas, the sitting judge, took only a minute or two to decide that Fredrik Steffansson was indeed suspected of murder on sufficient grounds and should therefore remain in custody until tried. The date of the trial would be determined presently.

She rapped the desk with her gavel. Then all hell broke loose.

First, the crowd inside, near the front door. They wielded microphones and pushed him up against the wall of the stairwell.

Steffansson has become a popular hero.

Has he?

He saved the lives of two little girls.

So far, we have no proof of this.

Bernt Lund had their photos.

Steffansson is accused of having murdered somebody.

Lund knew the girls' names. He kept watch on their nursery school.

Allegedly, Steffansson has committed murder. If that is so, his act must be my chief concern.

In your opinion, should someone who has prevented the death of innocent citizens be rewarded by a long prison sentence?

No comment. Your question is out of order.

In your opinion, did Steffansson do the right thing?

Bringing about someone's death can never be the right thing.

Why?

If it is proven that we have a case of premeditated murder, there is no option in law.

Is that so?

Premeditated murder must be judged for what it is.

A lifetime prison sentence, then?

The most severe punishment available in law must be considered.

You would prefer that the two little girls had been violated and killed, would you?

What I'm saying is that there is no exemption for grieving dads who commit murder.