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.