The Beast

'Aha. Yes.'

'You know, half the punters who end up in prison have committed one or more violent acts. Fucking idiots to a man, but still human beings. And victims as well; almost all of them have been abused one way or the other, usually by their parents. Even I can see where that might lead.'

'I know.'

'Book learning. You should be out there, seeing for yourself.'

Agestam leafed through his notebook.

'Steffansson freely admitted that he planned the murder over the course of four days. He had time to reconsider, but didn't. Not just judge and jury, he had to be the executioner as well.'

'Planned, yes. But plans fail. He couldn't be sure he'd find Lund.'

'When he did, he still had a choice. He could've alerted the police. Christ, your officers were on the spot. But that would've meant giving up the shooting he had been looking forward to.'

'Sure, sure, he has committed murder. No fucking question about it. But life? No way. Unlike you, I've seen real action, forty years of it, and that has meant sometimes standing by as worse nutters than Steffansson got off with lesser sentences than that. And I've watched hordes of fancy little prosecutors trying to pass themselves off as hard men.'

Agestam breathed in deeply and checked his notebook again. He was determined to keep his cool and ignore the man's clumsy sarcasm. Then it came to him that what was happening was exactly what he wanted. The sour old bugger was cross-examining him. This would work as a kind of pre-trial trial. He smiled, still turning the pages, but without taking in his notes. He could polish his arguments now, muster his evidence. Great, he liked it, just like an exam oral.

The pause, maybe his smile, had irritated Ewert.

'What's your fucking problem now? Can't find what to say next from your shitty little book? For your information, this is a case of murder with extenuating circumstances. If pleading life gives you a hard-on, go right ahead. But be ready to settle for eight or ten years. You and I are both part of this society, you'd better put that in your notes, because it's a society that failed to protect Marie Steffansson. And other kids.'

'I grasp the point you're making, of course. But does this failure by society justify the summary execution of a presumed sex killer? Consider the possibility that the victim was innocent, at least in this particular case. You know sod all about it, and – more to the point – Steffansson knows sod all about what the man he was shooting at was up to. Think again. Do you really think it is right to kill Lund because he is seen near the site of the crime? Is that the society you'd like to police? Where people take the law into their own hands, DIY executions and all? It will certainly make a change. The laws I learned about don't include anything about a death penalty. We are responsible, Grens. We must demonstrate that in our kind of society, anyone who acts like Steffansson will be locked up. For life. Grieving dad or not.'

Silence. Then the murmur of a Mediterranean-style ceiling fan stopped and the silence became so profound that for the first time Agestam actually noticed the fan's existence.

He looked at it and then at the elderly man behind the desk. His lined face spoke of a bitterness, a deep-seated fear, that drove both his withdrawal from other people and his aggression towards them. What was the cause? Why was Grens so ready to reject, so prone to swear and accuse and insult? DCI Grens was well known nationally. Already at university Lars had heard the stories about him, the policeman who walked alone, but was better at his job than most. Now, having met the man, he was no longer convinced.

All he saw was a pathetic old sod who had painted himself into a corner socially and had to put up with the consequences, isolated and angry.

I don't want to become like Grens, it's a grim state of mind, he thought, almost as grim as being totally solitary.

Ewert turned over the CD, a flimsy piece of plastic holding twenty-seven tracks. His fingers left greasy marks on the shiny surface.

'Is that it? Are you done?'

'I think so.'

'Fine. When you leave, take this with you. I haven't got the right kit for playing it.'

Agestam shook his head.

'It's a gift. It's yours now. If you have no use for it, throw it away.'

The elderly man put down the silent piece of plastic.

Today was the Wednesday of the second week since Lund's escape. Two guards had been badly beaten up.

A little girl had died. Her killer had died.

Her father was in custody awaiting trial. He would get prison for life if that poncy little prosecutor got his way.

Sometimes Grens didn't want to be around anymore. He almost longed for when it would all be over.

Dead bodies are worse in hot weather. Sven was reminded of the kind of nature films that he had come to detest. Overbearing voiceovers guide the viewers though sun-baked African landscapes, flies buzz round the microphone and, sooner or later, some kind of furry predator starts running after its prey, jumps and bites its throat, rips the flesh off its bones, gulping down anything edible until sated and ready to amble into the long grass to sleep, leaving the bloody, rotting carcass behind for the flies and the heat to consume it until nothing is left.

Every time he had to attend an autopsy such images haunted him with an inevitability he dreaded. In this place, barely a week ago, he and Ewert had observed the meaninglessly peaceful face of a little girl whose body had been ripped apart. He had not had to watch the damage done to her, he had been allowed to look away in an attempt not to face the lack of meaning all over again.

Perhaps that was why she had seemed so unreal. Far too young to die, still promising so much life. He couldn't help remembering her tiny feet, their sadistic cleanliness.

Ewert's concerned voice, without a trace of sarcasm, brought him back to the present.

'Hey, Sven. How are things?'

'This place gives me the creeps. I can't help it. Errfors seems a perfectly nice, normal bloke, so why did he pick this hellhole for his place of work? How does he stand it? Rooting around in cadavers. What kind of a life is that?'

They were walking through the central archive, past sliding metal shelving packed with files, folders, boxes. It was a vast catalogue of death. The dead had become lines on paper, arrayed in alphabetical order. Sven had been here once before, he and a young medic who had helped him in a search. He hoped he'd never have to do it again, these data searches made him think uneasily about interfering with graves.

Ludvig Errfors was waiting for them in the same autopsy room as before. He was in civvies, no sterile wraps, and as jolly and easy-going as ever.

'It's quite spooky, you know. I dealt with the victims in the Skarpholm case, then with the Steffansson girl, and here I am doing the PM on their killer.'

Ewert slapped the dead man's leg lightly.

'This monster was bound to end up here. But you feel sure he did it this time?'

'As I said last week, the MO was as good as identical with the Skarpholm case. Gross violation. I've been doing this job for longer than they advise anyone should, and I must say, I haven't seen anything like it. Not towards a child.'

'But you'll get your conclusive proof,' he went on, pointing at the body. 'In time for the trial we'll have checked the DNA in a semen sample and compared it with samples taken from the victims' bodies. You and the judges and so forth will get the data, in black and white.'

'The prosecutor lad is going for life. For Steffansson.' Ewert paused, looked at the surprised faces. 'Oh, yes. Trying to grow into his posh suit.'

Errfors pushed the trolley into the circle of strong light, then remembered about Sven.

'I believe you took it a bit badly last time,' he said with a kind smile. 'This body is rather mauled, so maybe you'd better look away for a moment.'

After registering a quick nod from Ewert, Sven turned away.