Sundkvist was on a roll. He sat turned towards Fredrik. His face so close, his breath was almost palpable.
'I used to believe I was doing something useful. Even good. The right thing. And maybe I have, on the whole. But this is different. You'll understand, of course you do. I'm ashamed that I'm sitting here, pretending to guard you so we can take you off to an institution and lock you up. It's a bloody miscarriage of justice! I don't swear, not normally, but this… Steffansson, it's a fucking disaster.'
Ah, he was being sympathetic. Fredrik didn't give a fig for sympathy.
Sundkvist leaned forward, grabbing Fredrik's damp shirt.
'Lund sat right here, not long ago. Now it's you, on a straightforward murder charge. And I'm on duty. But
Steffansson, regardless, I want you to know I'm sorry. Truly sorry.'
Grens had been silent throughout all this, but now he cleared his throat.
'Sven, look. You've said enough.'
'Enough?'
'Quite enough.'
The transport continued in silence. It was still raining and the wipers beat regularly, sloshing the water away from the windscreen.
The small convoy left the dual carriageway via a roundabout, passed a couple of garages and then went on to a smaller road through a built-up area. Here they saw the first rows of demonstrators. They formed an unbroken chain, kilometre after kilometre. Some sang, some had brought placards, some shouted in unison when the transport drove past.
Fredrik felt as ill at ease as he had outside Kronoberg. More people who made use of his name and his fate, unknown people who had nothing to do with him. What right did they have? What they did they did for themselves and not for him. It was their outlet, for their fears and their hatred.
The crowds grew the closer they came to Aspsas and especially along the last bit, a gravelled road leading up to the prison gate. Fredrik kept looking down at his lap. The waiting demonstrators were calmer than last time and the atmosphere was less threatening and less aggressive. Even so, he could not bear to look at them. A strong aversion filled him, as if he detested them all.
The van had to stop before it reached the big gate. It simply could not get any closer. Grens estimated quickly that the crowd was a couple of thousand strong. The demonstrators simply stood there, blocking the way.
Grens took charge.
'Sit still. Wait. This isn't like last time. They're here to make a point. Don't provoke them. We'll shift them soon enough.'
Fredrik kept looking away. He felt tired and wanted to go to sleep. Get away from the people out there, leave the van and put on the shapeless prison kit. Lie down on a narrow prison bed and stare at the ceiling in his cell, its light fitting. Let the hours pass, one at a time.
They were surrounded by demonstrators, who didn't sing or shout, just stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a solid human wall. Twenty minutes later, the riot squad arrived, sixty policemen carrying sidearms and shields. But since the crowd stayed passive and unthreatening, the police set about shifting the inert bodies methodically, heaving them aside one by one. Everyone stayed put where he or she had been placed. When a large enough gap had been created, the van inched forward. Straight-backed, the demonstrators watched as the bus finally reached the prison gate and drove inside the walled compound.
Fredrik was marched to the reception entrance, with Sundkvist and Grens holding him by the arms. They handed him over to the guard, nodded briefly and walked away. They had completed their task. From now on the prison system was responsible for Fredrik's care.
Fredrik saw them go, his last link with the world outside.
Two prison officers took him into the reception for registration. He undressed in front of them and, after donning rubber gloves, they felt around his mouth and parted his buttocks to probe his anal canal. His clothes were packed in plastic bags and he was handed his droopy suit, told to dress and then wait in a small, cell-like room with a barred window. They told him that he would have to stay there until someone came to fetch him. Then they locked the door.
He had changed, become a prisoner, one of them inside.
He had been sitting on the hard chair in the locked cell for an hour. Sometimes he watched between the bars as the rain splashed into the puddles on the lawn and streamed down the tall wall.
He had tried to think about Marie, but she wouldn't materialise in his thoughts. She had become elusive, her face blurred and her voice somehow inaudible; he couldn't hear her.
A knock on the door. Keys rattling. The door opened and another prison officer stepped inside. He seemed familiar. Fredrik felt that he knew him, that he had at least seen him somewhere.
Then the officer made for the door again.
'Sorry,' he said. 'I was looking for someone else.'
Fredrik was ransacking his mind. Who was this?
'Hello. What did you want?'
The officer turned round.
'Nothing. I said so. A mistake.'
'I recognise you. Can you think of any reason why I should?'
The man hesitated. He had tried to cope with his sense of guilt for months and now it got its claws into him again.
'My name is Lennart Oscarsson. I'm in charge of one of the units here. For the pervs, as they say. One of the two units housing sex offenders.'
Of course, the TV interviews. Fredrik had placed him now.
'It was your fault.'
'Lund was my responsibility. I authorised his transport and he escaped.'
'It was your fault, all of it.'
Lennart looked at his accuser. Not much time had passed since Lund's escape and since this father had lost his daughter. Back then Lennart had already been burdened with guilt, because by trying to love two people and betraying them both, he had cheated on Karin and failed to acknowledge his feelings for Nils. The whole thing had become utterly unbearable. When Lund did a runner, and then when his little victim was found in a wood, coping with the guilt was no longer possible. All these people haunted his dreams at night and perched on his shoulder in the daytime. For a while he had simply gone into hiding, staying in bed all the time.
'I've spoken about you often, with a colleague of mine, someone I trust. Well, now he's my partner as well. I take everything he says seriously, we agree on this anyway, and it's something you should know. When Lund was here, we did everything possible to treat him, to cure him, if you like. We tried every kind of therapeutic intervention in the book.'
He half turned to go, but stayed in the doorway. His forehead glistened with sweat, which made his fringe damp.
'I'm sorry,' he went on. 'I could not regret more what happened.'
'It was your fault.'
Oscarsson held out his hand.
'I'm sorry. And I wish you well.'
Fredrik looked at the hand in front of him.
'You can put that somewhere else. I will never shake hands with you.'
His words landed like a blow. Oscarsson sagged, his breathing became laboured and he kept looking at Fredrik in mute appeal. His hand stayed extended. It was trembling.
Fredrik looked away.
Oscarsson waited for a while, gave in, put his hand briefly on Fredrik's shoulder and then left the cell, locking the door behind him.
By early afternoon the tapping sound of drops on the pane ceased abruptly. It had been the only sound in the cell for what felt like hours, and after several days of nonstop rain the silence seemed odd, empty. Peering out, Fredrik saw that the cloud cover was breaking up.
